Summary:  Ezra Grady, is dead; but that doesn’t mean the Cartwrights’ troubles are over. Ezra Grady’s silent partner-in-crime has yet another scheme in mind.  (Warning:  Referenced mistreatment of a child.)

Rating:   T  (22,190 words)

In Absentia Series:

In Absentia
Restitution
All Through the Night
Significance
Homesick

Restitution

Chapter 1

“Feet off the furniture, Joseph.”

Adam looked up from the ledger just in time to watch Joe drop his sock-clad feet to the floor while flashing their father an ingratiating smile and murmuring a sheepish,“Sorry, Pa.”

Ben’s frown was immediately replaced with a fond look of approval. Hoss caught Adam’s eye, and they shared a smirk.  Of course, Joe sincerely craved their father’s approval. However, in the week since they had returned from Sacramento, Ben had yet to catch on to what the brothers had known for years: Little Joe had long ago figured out how to have his cake and eat it, too.

It wasn’t the first time the boy had received that particular correction. Keeping feet off the furniture was a new house rule.  It wasn’t any secret Adam preferred neat, orderly surroundings. However, during the seven years spent raising two rambunctious brothers, he’d figured out that some battles were just not worth fighting.  In fact, even he had occasionally mistaken the coffee table for an ottoman and confused the sitting room with the dining room. Too many meals had been eaten balancing a plate on a lap in front of the fire rather than eating at the dining table.  Without the civilizing influences of Ben, Marie, and Grandfather Stoddard, their daily routines had valued casual practicality over formality.

I have a feeling that’s going to be a hard habit for Joe to break.

“Supper ready,” Hop Sing announced.

A quick glance around the rooms revealed subtle reminders of Hop Sing’s recent inclusion in their family.  The floors were waxed to a soft shine, windows scrubbed to sparkling clarity, and stored furniture brought forth and arranged handsomely.  Flowers decorated the dining table, and a bowl of apples on the coffee table kept the boys out of Hop Sing’s kitchen.  In all these efforts, conducted while Ben recuperated from his recent hardships, Little Joe had been Hop Sing’s devoted helper, trailing after the man, peppering him with questions and talking non-stop about the Ponderosa, his brothers, and ranch life in general.

“Now,” Hop Sing urged. “Cold food not good.”

Hoss leapt from the blue velvet chair in eager anticipation. The dining table was set with Marie’s china and cut glass tumblers laid upon a snowy white tablecloth. Enticing aromas wafted from platters filled with pork roast and a variety of side dishes.

As they all took their seats, Adam cleared his throat quietly and looked pointedly at Joe’s napkin. His kid brother blushed and hurriedly placed the napkin in his lap. Ben waited patiently for complete silence and offered the blessing. The prayer had barely subsided before Hoss was reaching for the food. Ben interrupted the onslaught by reminding the younger boys to pass one dish at a time around the table. It seemed to take every ounce of willpower Hoss and Joe possessed to fill their plates politely and wait for everyone to be served.

Adam didn’t have the heart to chide them. The years Ben had been missing had been lean times. They’d managed, but it had been a rare treat to have plenty of anything. If he’d had to guess, Adam would have said that Hoss had suffered the most and complained the least.  At eighteen, Adam’s middle brother was just at the age when a young man was always hungry. Until this week, Adam had rarely seen him reach for a second helping.  Watching Hoss dig into a plate heaped with delicious, nourishing food, Adam sighed in approval and relief.

“Little Joe, take a bit more potatoes and meat, son. There’s plenty here,” Ben coaxed his youngest son.

Good luck with that, Pa.

Joe’s picky eating had been the bane of his brothers’ existence for years. The kid would as soon go without food altogether if he was served something he didn’t like. Even when offered his favorite meal, Joe seemed to fill up quickly. Adam reflected ruefully that Joe’s lack of appetite might have had something to do with the quality of the meals prepared by his brothers over the years, or perhaps Joe had been as aware of their circumstances as Hoss. Regardless of the reason, Joe could charitably be described as scrawny as well as short for his age. Every time Adam caught Ben fretting over Joe’s appearance, he felt a bit guilty for not having taken better care of the kid.

Thankfully, it looked like the days of hoarding beans and bacon were finally over. When Roy Coffee had arrived back in Virginia City with Ezra Grady’s buggy, the sheriff hadn’t been shy about spreading the news of Cartwright’s miraculous return—from there the tale had spread across the territory like a summer wildfire. Although Ben had yet to visit Virginia City, the attitudes about the Cartwright family had definitely changed. When Adam had taken Hop Sing into town to buy supplies, every friend, acquaintance, and casual observer found some reason to approach and ask to hear the story.  Storeowners who had until recently demanded cash up front now extended generous credit terms. Widows and unmarried ladies of a certain age inquired into his father’s health and circumstances with such cold calculation that Adam wondered if he’d ever trust women.

Sitting together on the porch after supper listening to Ben describe the constellations twinkling against an inky autumn sky and watching his father stroke a loving hand through Little Joe’s hair was all he’d hoped and prayed for, but never really allowed himself to believe possible. Adam took a deep breath of the chilly night air and leaned comfortably against the side of the house. A man who hadn’t gone through what the Cartwrights had endured might have only noticed the scent of pine trees and chimney smoke. Adam knew better. For the first time in a long time, the air was full of promise.

XXXXXXXXXX

The sound of his own harsh breathing finally awakened him. Joe peered frantically around the pitch dark bedroom.  He tried telling himself it was just a dream, but it sure felt real. His heart just about pounded itself out of his chest.  Swiping a sleeve across his sweaty forehead, he tried to push the panic aside.  He should just get up and see for himself that everything was all right.  That would be the smart thing to do, but his body wouldn’t cooperate.

As much as he wanted to reassure himself that his pa and brothers were there, he was scared to death what looking might prove—that everyone was gone, and he was alone. Being alone was the worst thing that could happen.  Alone meant people were gone and never came back.  And if he left his room and couldn’t find anyone, that meant it had finally, really happened, and he didn’t think he could stand knowing it was really, actually true.

He curled into himself as tears coursed down his cheeks. Even as he tried to choke back all sound, he heard the whimpers escaping the back of his throat. It was getting harder to breathe, and he was starting to feel a little sick to his stomach, and wasn’t that just great to be sick with no one there to help him . . .

He had his eyes squeezed shut, so when a hand brushed the back of his head, he jumped a little in alarm.

“Buddy?  Joe?  Come on, now . . . you’re all right.  Listen up . . . breathe with me.  Keep it slow.”

Warm, familiar hands stroked the sweaty hair off his forehead and rubbed his shoulder soothingly.  Joe focused on the sound of his brother’s voice and matched his breathing to Adam’s example.

When he was able to open his eyes, he found Adam kneeling at the side of his bed.

“I’m okay now,” Joe whispered.  “Thanks.” He struggled to sit up and hung his legs over the side of the bed.  Adam backed off to pour him a glass of water from the pitcher.

“I’m sorry,” Joe whispered. “Did I wake anyone else?”

When Adam shook his head, Joe relaxed a little. The thought of disturbing his father’s sleep, especially with something as babyish as a nightmare, was awful. What would Pa think of a twelve-year-old who woke up sobbing from some stupid dream?

“Same dream?”  Adam asked.

His brother took the water glass from him and put it on the side table.  Joe shifted back onto the bed and allowed Adam to straighten the tangled blankets.

“Yeah,” Joe sighed as he rolled over to face Adam. “I’m all alone, and I don’t know where everyone is, and I want to look for you, but I can’t move . . . I can’t even yell for help.” A familiar tightness gripped his chest again from just remembering the dream, and his heart pounded so hard he figured even Adam could hear it.

Adam knew the signs. Without making a big fuss about it, Adam went around to the other side of the bed and stretched out on top of the quilt next to him. Joe grabbed his brother’s arm and forced himself to breathe slow and even—just the way Adam had taught him over the years.

“Why?” Joe asked, “Why do I keep having this dream?  Pa is home, and everything is the way it should be.”

It took Adam a moment to answer him.  Joe waited patiently; he really wanted to figure out how to make this stuff stop.

“Maybe, part of you can’t believe Pa’s home, and we’re all together again. Maybe that’s what feels like a dream, and you don’t trust it yet.”

“Maybe,” Joe said.  It did seem kind of strange—but, in a good way—to have Pa and Hop Sing with them.

“Can you sleep now?  We’ve got a big day ahead of us.”  At Joe’s nod, Adam got up and started for the door.

“Look, why don’t you . . . I don’t know, decide . . . that next time you find yourself in the dream, you’re going to holler and fight and not give up until you find us.  What do you think?”

“Maybe.”

Adam murmured a “good night” and left, closing the bedroom door softly behind him. Joe scooted down further into his quilts. He was pretty sure he could go back to sleep. Usually, the dream didn’t come to him twice in the same night. He wondered about Adam’s advice. It sounded good, but Joe wasn’t at all sure a fellow could do anything helpful when he found himself caught inside a nightmare.

XXXXXXXX

A snifter of brandy, a fine cigar and a hearty meal at one of Carson City’s finer restaurants primed Henry’s mood for a peaceful, private evening after a strenuous day’s work on the behalf of others.  Finding his salary lender’s associate, Grant, cooling his heels on the porch was more than disappointing; it was downright alarming.

Although he would have dearly loved to send the man on his way, Henry lacked the courage.  He was no match for Grant, and they both knew it. The lender’s pet ruffian had arrived unannounced (but not totally unexpected) and shouldered his way into the Lindstrom residence.  Smirking at Henry, the lout had run a hand through blond hair slick with pomade before casually locking the door behind them. After checking the house to ensure they were alone, he’d strolled into Henry’s library and helped himself to a generous portion of good brandy from the crystal decanter.

“I’ll bet you know why I’m here,” Grant said.

“I don’t have the money,” Henry replied. There was no use dancing around the subject.  Deflection irritated Grant, and Henry would prefer to avoid unpleasantness if possible.

Grant regarded him without comment.  Abruptly, the man swept his arm across the sideboard sending the crystal decanter set crashing to the floor, soiling the fine rug with brandy and glass.  Henry jumped at the sudden violence, unable to smother a small sound of frightened protest.

“You don’t have the money?  Looks to me like you have everything money can buy.”

“What I mean,” Henry drew a silk handkerchief from his vest pocket and dabbed his perspiring face, “is that I do not have the cash available. Certainly, your employer . . . Mr. Forrest is welcome to  . . .” Horace made a sweeping gesture indicating his home and all its furnishings.

“Mr. Forrest,” Grant edged close—far too close for Henry’s comfort, “isn’t interested in elegant gewgaws.  Mr. Forrest isn’t interested in the services you provided Grady.  The only thing Mr. Forrest is interested in is cash. Henry, how are you going to get Mr. Forrest his cash?” Grant emphasized his words by flicking the point of a rather terrifying knife against Henry’s neck.

How indeed?  Henry didn’t have a clue how to proceed. Grady had always taken care of these issues.  Grady would have paid Forrest and prevented this intrusion.  While it would be incorrect to say that Henry missed Grady; he certainly missed the benefits of their long association.  In exchange for paying his debts and protecting him from unsavory characters such as Forrest and his thugs, Henry had provided Grady with valuable information and covert influence.  Their partnership had enriched Grady and ensured Henry’s access to the luxuries he craved.

This is all Grady’s fault . . .

Even in his terror, Henry raged at his deceased associate. Grady had been more than stupid; he’d been delusional.  Now, all this trouble was laid at Henry’s doorstep because of one kid and something that had happened over seven years ago . . .

Henry was careful to keep his distance from Grady in public. It wouldn’t do for honest citizens to notice their relationship. Sitting in a comfortable rocker situated in the shade of the hotel veranda, Henry had caught Grady’s eye as soon as the man stepped out of the mercantile. Grady responded with a barely perceptible nod, and the message was passed. They would meet later at the usual location.

Nearly under Grady’s feet, a small child played in the dust in front of the store heedless of the wagons, horses, and crowd.  No doubt, the boy had been deposited there by a parent intent on completing errands.  The kid had his hands in the dirt, sifting the grainy soil through his fingers and making a perfect mess of his overalls.

Grady stepped into the street, intending to maneuver around the child. Perhaps distracted from his play by the man’s shadow, the little fellow tilted his face up to Grady. The man paused and studied the little urchin. Even from his vantage point at the hotel, Henry could plainly see the mop of dark curls, wide green eyes and angelic features. At the time, he had been amused at the tableau. Grady didn’t care for children. He didn’t care for anyone other than himself.

A ruckus from a nearby saloon boiled over into the street. A drunken miner pulled out the pistol tucked in his britches and shot wildly into the air. No harm was intended. But the horse hitched to a wagon being loaded with supplies wasn’t accustomed to gunfire and started a ruckus of its own. The wagon rocked hard with the horse’s motion overturning the barrels stacked carelessly on the tail gate. Two barrels rolled to the edge of the wagon toward the little fellow. The collective gasp of fear from bystanders close enough to observe but too far away to help was followed by a loud whoop of relief when Ezra Grady snatched the child out of harm’s way.

This was too good to miss! Henry left his chair and approached the crowd surrounding Grady and the little boy. Grady was practically glowing from the attention and compliments paid by folks who would have ordinarily crossed the street to avoid him. He smiled at the little guy in his arms, chucking him under the chin and praising him for being a brave little tyke. Henry had to concur; the child was completely composed as if being miraculously saved from grievous injury was a normal part of his day.

Henry turned at the sound of running footsteps pounding up behind him. A dark-haired teenager closely followed by a good-sized blonde boy pushed through the crowd. The child in Grady’s arms bestowed a sunny smile on the newcomers.

“Thank you, Mr. Grady! We’re in your debt.”

 Henry recognized the teenager as Ben Cartwright’s eldest son.

“Don’t mention it, boy. Anyone would have done the same,” Grady pompously announced to the approval of the crowd.

“Well, I’ll take him now, sir,” replied Adam. “Come here, Little Joe. We need to find Pa.” Lifting the child from Grady’s arms, his older brother checked him thoroughly and whispered something that might have been a scolding into the kid’s ear. Setting Little Joe on his feet, Adam took him firmly by the hand, and the trio headed toward the bank. 

“Good-bye, Little Joe,” Grady called. The child responded with a cheery wave of his hand.

The crowd dispersed, leaving Grady and Henry to themselves. Grady’s eyes tracked the boys as they met their father outside the bank.

“Have you ever seen a boy like that before, Henry?” Grady murmured, never taking his eyes off Little Joe. “There’s a boy who reflects well on a man. People admire and respect the man who has a boy like that.” 

Grady craved public approval like a cat craved warm milk; he just wasn’t willing to do what was necessary to earn that approval. Henry pretended to agree.

“It’s a waste of opportunity to allow a fine boy to play in the dirt where just anything could happen to him,” Grady mused. 

Henry shrugged; he was no more interested in children than Grady . . .

Grant’s snarl broke through Henry’s musing, “I’m not sure I have your attention. Let me be perfectly clear. My job is to make sure you come up with Mr. Forrest’s money, every penny you borrowed, plus a little interest for the trouble you’ve caused.”

Swallowing with difficulty, Henry walked unsteadily to his desk.  He had little cash. Forrest knew better than to accept his bank draft.  What could he do?  What did he have to trade or promise?

Think, Henry!

As soon as he noticed the telegram from Virginia City announcing the startling news of Ben Cartwright’s return, Henry realized he had his solution.

“Mr. Grant,” Henry pleaded, “I believe I know a way out of this difficulty. If you would be kind enough to provide me with assistance in pursuing a lucrative opportunity, your employer will have his money.”

Grant’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he allowed Henry to explain his idea and agreed to render the requested assistance.  Left alone to attend to the necessary details, Henry pondered his narrow escape.  He even dredged up a bit of grudging respect for his old associate. If Grady had taught him anything over the long years of their association, he had taught him to never squander an opportunity.

Chapter 2

Hoss had been ready to go for an hour. He’d eaten his breakfast, toted in firewood, hitched up the wagon, and saddled Adam’s horse as well as his own. Tapping his foot impatiently, he watched his little brother and father fuss over how much breakfast was enough breakfast. Hop Sing ended the argument by whisking away Joe’s plate and shooing both father and son away from the table. He couldn’t even count on Adam. Ignoring the ruckus in the dining room as well as Hoss’s impatient glares, Adam kept on puttering around at Pa’s desk.

If folks don’t get a move on pretty darn soon, they just might find themselves scooped up and tossed into that dadburn wagon. 

It took every bit of another thirty minutes to get them all out of the house and into the wagon.  And wouldn’t you know it, little brother had to holler for them to stop when they’d barely moved an inch just so he could run back into the house for the fancy knife Pa had given him. Hoss was never one for spanking, but Joe deserved a swat for that trick.

Finally, finally they were on the road. Joe was bouncing on the seat next to Pa talkin’ about showing his knife to friends at school, and Pa meeting his teacher, and gettin’ their stuff from the boarding house and so on until Hoss was sure his ears were gonna start bleedin’ from the racket his little brother made.

When Hoss rode ahead of the wagon—just to get away from the noise (and maybe hurry’em up a mite), he caught Adam grinning at him. Fine, maybe he was actin’ a little ornery; Joe was just a kid after all, but this was a big day!

As far as Hoss was concerned, this day had been a long time coming. He just knew that like flowers budding beneath the final snow melt, the Ponderosa would bloom and grow again under his father’s guidance.  In a few more hours after they saw the judge, the Ponderosa would be back in Pa’s hands.  They could pick up where they left off seven years ago.

XXXXXXXXXX

Grant shrugged deeper into his coat in defense against the chilly air. He preferred to see dawn at the tail end of a good time—not at the beginning of a long day cleaning up someone else’s mess. The kid who took care of the horse and shay had the little buggy hitched to Henry’s blooded mare within a few minutes.  Climbing up, Grant settled back into the plush upholstery and ran his hand over the soft leather of the double-seat rig.  It looked like it was nothing but the best for Henry.

He had to give it to the guy.  He was a real master at keeping his hands clean. Of course, if old Henry didn’t watch himself, he’d take those clean hands to an early grave. Grant chuckled at his own joke and slapped the reins, encouraging the little mare to ease out of the yard and down the road toward Virginia City.

No point in getting riled up over an early morning chore. Drive a few hours down the road, take care of business, and head back. With any luck, he’d be back with Henry’s security by mid-afternoon.

XXXXXXXXXX

Ben barely restrained a flinch at the shout of recognition from another old acquaintance. Doyle McNab thundered up to him and threw a bruising arm around Ben’s shoulder.

He returned Doyle’s embrace and assured the man that “yes, it’s really me!” Ben remembered to laugh and joke about how much McNab’s son had grown since they had last seen each other. He supposed that Doyle hadn’t meant any harm by the remark, but it hit him in a vulnerable place nonetheless, reminding him how much his own son had grown in that time. Was it ungracious to want Doyle to leave him alone and move along? Ben had hoped for a few quiet words with Joseph before school started, but it appeared the moment had passed. Since he was reunited with his sons, he was astonished at how protective he felt about them, especially Joseph.

Finally, Doyle remarked that it was time for their boys to get inside the school house, and time for the men to get on with their own work. Ben breathed a silent hallelujah all the while thanking him for his good wishes and promising to come by for dinner with the McNab family sometime very soon.

Ben waved at Joseph as the boy disappeared into the schoolhouse with his friends. The boy had excitedly introduced him to his teachers and friends. He had no doubt that Joe would regale everyone with tales of Sacramento and his newly returned pa. Hopefully, his son would manage to pay at least a little attention to the teacher.

Already the attention he’d received in the short time they’d been in town felt overwhelming.  Ben’s stress increased with the approach of every man or woman who’d grabbed his hand in greeting or caught his eye in open curiosity. For the last seven years, survival had frequently depended on being suspicious of his surroundings. Although he’d never lost his compassion or humanity, it had been a very long time since he had allowed himself to be casually vulnerable to his fellow man. The habits honed over seven years had kept him alive, and he couldn’t just shut off those instincts.

As Doyle said, it was time to move along. Ben and his older sons were expected at Hiram Wood’s office before court convened. There were various documents and bank records that needed reviewing.  Yet, he found himself reluctant to leave the school yard. Inexplicably, his instincts were screaming at him to stick close, to not let Joseph out of his sight.

It was just foolishness on his part. Ben gave himself a mental command to concentrate and followed Adam and Hoss toward their lawyer’s office. Nevertheless, he was still so distracted that he nearly walked into the side of a little rig fancy enough for a judge hitched across the street from the school house. Chuckling at his clumsiness, Ben smiled up at the owner of the rig. The slick-haired dandy nodded a polite greeting, but the fellow’s cold stare didn’t quell Ben’s uneasiness a bit.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Adam found himself watching the clock rather than paying strict attention to the court proceedings. Judge Lindstrom had apparently decided to deal with all of the small fines, petty crimes, and property disputes in the territory before attending to the restoration of the Cartwright holdings. Adam wouldn’t be surprised to find the judge was deliberately delaying the case for its dramatic appeal. The court room was packed with spectators; everyone had made it plain they wanted to see Ben Cartwright and hear the story of his miraculous return.

Adam shifted a bit in the hard chair and rolled his tense shoulders. Lindstrom had always been tediously devoted to courtroom ritual and generally long-winded in his commentaries. Even so, today was exceptional. Documents were read and re-read thoroughly. Witnesses were questioned to within an inch of their lives. Judgments rendered overflowed with verbal flourishes. In short, Lindstrom behaved as if time had no meaning despite the judge’s frequent peeks at his pocket watch.

Adam couldn’t detect any impatience from his father. Ben remained quiet throughout the lengthy proceedings. Adam had always remembered his father as a patient man, but he supposed Ben’s ordeal had added a layer of stoic endurance.

When Roy Coffee, in his role as bailiff, announced their case, Adam heard his father sigh in relief.  He rose to his feet alongside his father and brother.  As a family, they approached the judge.  There were just a few minor obstacles remaining before they could finally put this ordeal behind them.

XXXXXXXXXX

Not for the first time, Abigail Jones wondered why she had chosen to be a teacher. Of course, the job provided necessary income as well as a break from her mother’s constant supervision. That said, the first months of her teaching career had been such a test of her patience and energy even her mother’s muddleheaded matchmaking schemes appeared inviting.

She shut the door after the final child rushed inside the schoolhouse.  Smoothing her skirts, she scanned the crowd of noisy students busily removing coats and chatting up neighbors.  A few touches to small shoulders and reminders for silence were enough to organize the youngest children. The older boys were more challenging, and almost all of them were clustered around Little Joe Cartwright’s desk. She heard his excited chatter above the din of questions and comments from his audience. As much as she understood Joe’s excitement, order had to be maintained.

Straightening her shoulders and steeling her gaze, she approached the group. Abigail had been cultivating her air of authority since the beginning of the school year, and it looked as if the crop was finally bearing fruit. She was able to stare most of the boys into self-conscious silence, and everyone seated themselves without argument. She hovered over Little Joe’s shoulder, curious to see the object drawing their attention.  Aware of her scrutiny, Joe turned in his seat and offered up an exquisitely carved knife along with his most charming smile.

“My pa gave it to me for my birthday,” he said. “Pa said it was carved by an Indian way up north just for me. My pa walked for miles and miles to come home to us.” Joe’s eyes were shining, and Abigail found his repeated use of “my pa” touching. Well, he was certainly entitled to his excitement.

“Put it away for now,” she directed. “Would you like to tell everyone about it after lunch?” Joe blushed with pleasure and nodded enthusiastically. Patting him on the shoulder, she headed for her desk.

Abigail had barely begun the morning lesson when the door scraped open revealing a finely-dressed man reeking of hair oil and menace.

XXXXXXXXXX

The courtroom sat enthralled while Ben Cartwright testified as to the circumstances of his disappearance seven years earlier. Telling the story was more difficult than he’d anticipated. The first few moments were a series of stops and starts, coupled with long silences and finally a request for a glass of water. After a time, Ben found a rhythm. Distancing himself, as if he were merely reading a newspaper account, helped him focus. He related how he’d been assaulted in Sacramento and sold to a crimp.  He told of his forced service aboard a merchant ship and his escape from the Sandwich Islands only to find himself trapped in a sea of ice for years. Finally, he described the confrontation with Higdon in Sacramento, his reunion with his family, and meeting Ezra Grady in Purdy Canyon.

When Ben’s voice faded into silence, it was replaced with a collective sigh of satisfaction from his audience although Judge Lindstrom appeared remarkably unmoved by the account.

Ben waited patiently for the next question. The silence stretched as the judge scanned a note delivered during Ben’s testimony. Finally, the judge commented.

“You were a sailor once.”

That hadn’t been what Ben had expected to hear. “Yes, I believe it is common knowledge.”

The judge tapped his pencil against the desktop. “Why did you go to sea?”

“I suppose for the adventure. I wanted to see the world,” Ben replied cautiously. The judge’s manner concerned him—danger lurked, but Ben couldn’t see its hiding place. “I was a young man with no family responsibilities.” Judge Lindstrom nodded sagely.

“At the time of your departure, you were suffering greatly from the recent demise of your wife, Marie—were you not?”

Departure???   

“My wife died a few months before I was taken.” Ben wouldn’t allow any other insinuation to stand. “Of course, I grieved then as I still do. However, I was not suffering greatly.”

“Of course,” the judge smirked. However, he quickly lost his smirk in the face of Ben’s obvious anger.  Out of the corner of his eye, Ben noticed Hiram’s “simmer down” gestures. Huffing in aggravation, Ben complied with his lawyer’s wishes.

Lindstrom cleared his throat. “In the matter of restoration of personal and real property and other financial instruments, there is no question regarding the gentleman’s identity and ownership of said items.  All accounts held in trust will be immediately returned to Mr. Cartwright’s control.”

The judge added his signature—Henry P. Lindstrom—affixed his seal, and handed the order to Hiram Wood.

Ben could see his sons nearly vibrating with relief and excitement.  He was certain their celebration was premature.  Something else was coming.

The judge turned his attention to a stack of documents before him, flipping through the pages before finding what he sought.

“The final order of business is Mr. Cartwright’s petition to restore his parental rights over the youngest son, Joseph Francis Cartwright. I have a letter submitted by Adam Cartwright from the child’s guardian, Abel Stoddard, who was so designated by this court seven years ago on the occasion of the father’s disappearance.  The letter reads in part, ‘Adam, now that your father has returned, let him know I am delighted to relinquish my custodial rights over Little Joe. . .”

The judge paused a moment to withdraw a silky handkerchief from his suit coat to dab at his face. “This simplifies matters.”

XXXXXXXXX

The stranger advanced confidently into the room, his eyes searching the children’s faces. Recognition flickered, and he strode quickly toward Joe Cartwright. Abigail tossed her lesson book down and hurried to insinuate herself between them.

“May I help you?” Abigail was suddenly more afraid than she’d ever been in her life. She glanced down at Little Joe, frozen in his chair. I’m responsible for him, for all of them.  She met the stranger’s gaze squarely even though her stomach churned as he grinned at her audacity.

“Well, young lady,” the stranger placed his hand firmly on Joe’s shoulder. “While I appreciate your offer, I don’t require any help.  Joseph will be leaving with me.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Lindstrom peered briefly at Ben before dropping his eyes back to his paperwork. The judge made another dab at his perspiring brow before continuing.

“Many of us here remember the circumstances . . . and consequences . . . of Mr. Cartwright’s departure.  We have seen the suffering endured by those left behind—the privations, the burden of grief.  We witnessed the oldest son forced to forgo education to care for his siblings.  We witnessed the middle son grow to manhood without the guidance of his father  . . .”

Ben glanced at his sons. Hoss’s face was red with outrage. Adam’s glare was so heated Ben wondered the judge didn’t burst into flames.

“ . . . the most regrettable consequence of a most unforgiveable act has been the suffering endured by the youngest, most vulnerable member of the family.  It is in witness to this suffering, I am compelled to act.”

Judge Lindstrom paused and gestured for Hiram Wood to approach. He handed the lawyer a document.

“Abandoning one’s family is despicable behavior. In light of the long separation from family, and the fantastic—and as most people would agree—unbelievable, string of events offered as explanation of his absence, the court finds itself in a most unpleasant position.”

XXXXXXXXXX

“Caleb, go find the sheriff, please.” Abigail was vaguely pleased to hear her voice trembled only slightly.

“Caleb,” the stranger interrupted before the boy could react, “There’s no need to go to that trouble.”

The boy hesitated and looked to Abigail for guidance.

“Go,” she said firmly and dared the stranger to contradict her. Caleb eased over to the door, never taking his eyes off the man. The door banged shut after him. Abigail watched the youngster sprint past the window. The man shrugged and tightened his grip on Joe’s shoulder eliciting a soft hiss of pain.

“There’s no reason to be concerned,” the man said, “I have the legal right to take Joseph with me.”  Reaching into his suit coat, he withdrew a sheet of fine vellum ornamented with an official seal and handed it to Abigail.

“There must be some mistake, Mr. Grant,” Abigail insisted. She scanned the court order, recognizing the signature and seal. “Mr. Ben Cartwright was here this morning.  And Joseph’s brother has always had responsibility for him.”

“What does it say?” Joe asked.  Abigail had avoided looking at him, fearing she would lose her composure altogether.  Seeing Joe’s terrified face, she couldn’t find the words to answer him.

“It says, kid, that I’m your guardian now,” the man let go of Joe’s shoulder to grab him under the chin.  He turned the boy’s face up to his own, “and your guardian says you’re leaving.”

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you,” Joe promised. That was good enough for Abigail.

“The sheriff will sort this out when he gets here.” She thrust the document back at the man.

Instead of taking the document from her, he closed a large first around her hand, trapping the paper in her grasp.  Squeezing her knuckles together, he stroked his thumb in small circles over her wrist in perverted mockery of a lover’s caress.  As the pressure became more intense, Abigail bit her lip to keep from crying out.

He leaned in close and whispered, “I’m not waiting for the sheriff.”

Tears welled up in her eyes from pain and helpless frustration.

“You’re hurting her,” Joe accused, his face flushed with temper. No! Joseph, don’t fight him!

“I’m not . . .” she began until a hard squeeze stole her breath.  A change to the angle of his grip nearly made her knees buckle.

“Stop it!  I’ll go with you,” Joe shouted. He grabbed the coat thrown carelessly over his chair and pulled it on quickly. “Leave her alone.”

The man eyed him up and down. “Smart kid. Are you goin’ to give me any trouble?”

Joe shook his head and reached for his satchel.

“Leave it,” the man growled, “Stand right there.” Joe stood stock still, fists clenched.

Slowly releasing the painful pressure on her hand, the ruffian drew it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“It’s been a pleasure, miss.”

He dropped her hand, grinning at her revulsion. He grabbed Joe by the arm tugging him through the door.  The slam echoed through a room silent except for the sobs of the smaller children.

Abigail ran to the window to watch Joe pushed into a fancy double seat rig.  The stranger slapped the reins, and the rig disappeared down the Carson City road.

XXXXXXXXX

Hiram Wood read the court order.  Ben was staring intently at him, clearly hoping for some explanation.

“Judge, with all due respect, may we discuss this order?” Hiram asked with as much courtesy as he could summon. Somehow, he wasn’t surprised at the judge’s negative response. Regardless, he couldn’t allow this to happen without objection.

“Perhaps, the oldest brother could be named guardian in the interim?”

“I think not. The eldest brother is clearly under the father’s influence.”

The judge continued dabbing at the perspiration shining on his brow. Seeing further argument was coming, Lindstrom held up his hand to forestall any more questions.  Instead, he directed his next words to the shocked audience.

“In his letter, Abel Stoddard has clearly relinquished his custodial rights in deference to the returning father. That would ordinarily represent a sound judgment. However in this case, the care and protection of the child is called into question in light of the father’s apparent lack of commitment to familial responsibility. Therefore, the court orders the child be placed immediately under the temporary protection of an individual I have so designated in this order.  A hearing to decide permanent custody will be held in three days. Court is adjourned.”

Lindstrom rapped his gavel and gathered up his paperwork in preparation for a quick exit.

Outraged shouts echoed through the room. Over the considerable din, Hiram heard Hoss pleading for someone to help him understand what had just happened. Roy moved through the crowd, hushing the loudest voices and herding the onlookers to the door.

Hiram watched Ben shake himself loose of the clamor and head toward the judge.  Hoping to keep a bad situation from getting worse, Hiram caught Ben’s arm, momentarily restraining him.

“I’m going to talk to him,” Ben said. “Come along if you like.”

Hiram released his arm, and they managed to catch Judge Lindstrom before he slipped out through the back exit.  Ben stepped up so close to the judge the man probably feared for his shoe shine.

“Judge Lindstrom, what just happened here?” Ben demanded. Hiram considered that an excellent question, but he wasn’t counting on a straight answer.

“I believe I made myself perfectly clear,” the judge said. “You may plead your case in three days.”

Ben wasn’t giving up. “Henry, you know me. You’ve known me for years.  Just tell me. Why?”

Henry briefly considered his answer. The simple truth might do.

“Restitution is expected.” Ben and his lawyer were obviously baffled. He took advantage of their confusion to push past the pair and leave the building.

Ben turned expectantly back to Hiram. The lawyer had finally collected and organized his thoughts, and his stomach churned in sympathy for the distraught father.

“Ben, please tell me that Little Joe is on the Ponderosa.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Abigail spent considerable time soothing the children before sending them all home. Clearly, no one would be capable of concentrating on lessons.  Once the classroom was empty, emotion and pain nearly overwhelmed her. Sinking into one of the student chairs, she contemplated her hand, bruised and already swelling.

What will Mother say? 

The vision of the histrionics awaiting her forced out a very unladylike snort. Pressing her healthy hand across her lips, Abigail smothered the inappropriate giggles that erupted. When the giggles melted into tears, she knew she had to get hold of herself.  It wouldn’t do for the sheriff and the Cartwright family to see her like this.

XXXXXXXXXX

In their haste to get to Little Joe, the Cartwrights nearly ran over the youngster who had been waiting anxiously outside the courtroom trying to get the sheriff’s attention. Their progress was spurred on by the desperate hope that somehow they wouldn’t be too late.

Unfortunately, the silent, barren school yard told its own story. They found only the teacher waiting for them.  Joe’s satchel was still on his desk—the prized knife tucked safely inside. The “guardian” and Joe were long gone.

“What are we gonna do, Pa?”  Hoss’s eyes blazed.

“We’re going to find your little brother,” Ben promised.  “And we’re going to bring him home.”

 

 

Chapter 3

“Ben, I know how you feel,” Roy said.

He believed he really did know, mostly. During the last seven years, Roy had gotten mighty close to those boys, and he had a special soft spot for Little Joe. It hurt him to think of the boy carted off by some stranger without even an explanation. More than that, it scared him to hear how the man had intimidated Miss Jones.

Something about Ben’s expression suggested he didn’t believe Roy had so much as a clue as to how he felt. Well, so be it. Roy still had a job to do. He threw up his hands to stop Ben and his boys from charging right out of that schoolhouse.

“You can’t go and get him,” Roy stated flatly. Before Ben could do more than sputter in rage, Hiram jumped in to help.

“Joe is, for the moment, legally in the custody of this man. Ben, if you and the boys were to take him back, the judge could have you jailed for kidnapping.”

That bit of information uncorked the bottle. Hoss sent up a hue and cry about the injustice of it all while Adam pounded one of the desks so hard Roy feared the young man would break his hand.  Poor Miss Jones started sobbing out right.

“Can we go to the judge about what happened here? What that man did to Miss Jones?” Ben asked.

Hiram considered the suggestion.

“Miss Jones,” the attorney asked. “Did the man threaten you or raise a hand to you or Little Joe?”

“No, not exactly, but I can’t emphasize enough how very frightening he was,” Abigail responded, “and . . .  he squeezed my hand so forcefully. . .” Abigail wiped her eyes. “Somehow, saying it out loud makes me sound rather foolish, doesn’t it?”

“You ain’t bein’ a bit foolish,” Hoss comforted the teacher.

Hiram decided to plunge on. “A circuit judge is given a great deal of discretion—but even so, I think he overstepped his authority. However, that doesn’t help us much at the moment. We would have to ask a territorial official to overturn the court order. It could take weeks to get someone to consider the case at all, much less intervene in naming a different guardian. I hate to say it, Ben, but it would probably be best to concentrate on the hearing already scheduled.”

“So, we just leave our little brother with this yahoo?” Hoss growled. Roy had never heard the young man sound so fierce.

“Yes,” Hiram answered, “until the hearing.”

Hoss and Adam exchanged glances. Roy had been around the Cartwright boys for years and had a fair idea what they were planning.

Hoss turned to Ben.

“If you don’t mind, Pa,” he said, just as calm and casual as if they’d been discussing checking the herd, “I need some time to think about all this. I’m gonna take me a little ride.”

Grabbing his arm, Roy tried to get Hoss to look him in the eye. “Hoss, don’t you do anything rash, son.”  The boy shook loose from his grasp.

“Pa?  I won’t be too late.” When Ben nodded, Hoss turned on his heel and stalked out of the building.

Everyone turned to Hiram. If the lawyer had the solution to this puzzle, Roy sure wished he’d tell them now.

“We have to present a sound case for restoration of parental rights,” Hiram mused. “I wish I understood the judge’s concerns. What would he accept as evidence?”

“I’ll just have to ask him, won’t I?” Ben replied.

XXXXXXXXXX

Grant leaned back into the plush chair, toeing his boots off before propping his feet on the ottoman. He had a bottle of good whiskey in his hand, and a hot supper was on its way.  He was entitled to enjoy everything in Henry’s house for enduring this ridiculous day.

Lord, he hated kids. He especially loathed the mouthy brat cooling his heels in the attic room. The two of them had barely left the school yard before the boy began demanding to know what was happening. A little smack in the mouth had taught him a lesson about talking out of turn.

When Grant pulled off the road to let the mare breathe, the kid had bounded over the side of the rig and made a dash for the tree line. It didn’t take much effort to snag him, but the kid had fought like a demon—yelling, kicking, and flinging whatever brush and gravel he could grab at Grant. With his suit soiled and patience shredded, Grant had removed his belt and tanned the kid into sobbing submission.

He grinned at the memory; the kid hadn’t fought him a bit on the way back to the rig, just dragged his feet and sniffed back tears. Grant figured he’d made his point by the way the boy twisted and shifted around painfully on that fancy leather bench. He’d let the little snot know there’d be plenty of hurt coming if he tried any more tricks.

That boy must not be good and smart.

The kid made a second attempt when the buggy slowed to make the final turn into town.  Clearly, he was hardheaded and ornery, but Grant expected a little better judgment than jumping out of a moving rig. He didn’t even have to chase the kid this time, just hauled him out of the bush he’d landed in and tossed him back into the buggy. If the boy looked worse for wear, it was his own damn fault. If he was hungry and thirsty by the time they’d arrived, that was his own damn fault, too. Grant had never believed in spoiling kids, and he didn’t see any reason to reward the brat who’d tried his patience all day long. If the kid was civil, he could eat in the morning.

“Your meal is ready.”

The voice behind him jerked him out of his thoughts. Henry’s good whiskey was doing a fine job of taking the edge off the day, and he hadn’t heard the housekeeper come up behind him. The plain woman, a little older than Henry and always buttoned up in a severe black dress, customarily served all of his meals with a side dish of disdain.

Even so . . .  Grant supposed all women were the same under certain circumstances.  After supper, maybe he’d be ready for a little entertainment.

XXXXXXXXXX

Hoss had always been told he was a good tracker; but he sure never figured on using the talent to find a stolen brother.

He hadn’t been lying to Pa when he’d promised not to be gone long. Without any supplies, he couldn’t really do much more than he was doing right now-takin’ a little ride and checkin’ out the landscape.

Miss Jones had seen the rig start down the Carson City road. Hoss headed out the same way following the actual buggy tracks until he’d lost the signs on the busy road. Too many vehicles and horses traveled this way to tell one set of tracks from another.  It didn’t matter. That fancy little rig wasn’t made for anything but a decent road; Hoss couldn’t see the dude trying to cut across open country or use any narrow trails. So he muttered a little prayer and hoped he’d find something that could tell him where that varmint was headed with Little Joe.

He spotted his first clues about an hour out of town. Shallow ruts were cut into soft soil at the side of the road. Small boot prints, running hard from the looks of them, headed toward a copse of trees.  Larger prints met up with the small and collided into signs of a heckuva scuffle.  Grass torn up and scattered, rocks had been thrown. Hoss had always admired Joe’s ingenuity. Little brother had known they’d be looking for him, and the boy had found a way to paint a nice clear picture for his family.

As relieved as he felt knowing he was on the right track, Hoss couldn’t ignore the other signs Joe had left—traces of blood (Skinned knees? Torn up hands? Worse?) remained around a good-sized spot of flattened grass and churned-up dirt. Guess it wasn’t bad enough for the fella to take Little Joe; he had to hurt the boy as well. Hoss pushed the anger down so as to focus on the task at hand. Find the trail; follow the trail.

From there it was easy enough to pick out the rig’s tracks. Things got more difficult when Hoss came to the junction. The amount of traffic made it difficult to pick out the little rig’s signs. He didn’t want to have to guess which road to follow—one direction took him to Carson City, the other way led to Dayton. Choose wrong, and at the least, valuable time was lost.

He let his horse meander around a bit, taking a breather as he pondered the problem. He was on top of Joe’s second clue almost before he recognized it, a flattened bush that on closer inspection revealed strands of dark hair caught in the branches.

The kid had grit. Hoss didn’t want to think about what Joe had gone through to make sure his brothers knew where to come looking for him.

Carson City. The dandy in his elegant little rig had gone on to Carson City, and Hoss was willing to bet they weren’t just passing through. As much as Hoss wanted to push ahead now that he was certain where Joe was, he knew he couldn’t. He was goin’ to have to leave Little Joe with that lout for just a bit longer. He and Adam had some planning to do.

Hang on, little brother, we’re coming.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Rozelle was taking a big chance coming up here with Grant still in the house.  After years of forced association with the brute, she understood his intentions all too well. At supper, she’d served his meal quickly, carefully keeping her distance all the while. Grant had freely partaken of Henry’s finest liquor.  When his behavior shifted from peevish demands to leers and grabs, she’d left the main floor and barricaded herself inside her bedroom. He’d finally given up shouting through the door at her. After several hours of peace, she’d tiptoed to the top of the stairs where she spied him down below passed out on the parlor settee. Bundling the quilts against her chest, she scampered up the attic stairs.

She unlocked the door with a barely discernible click. Holding her breath, she eased it open and peered inside the little room. Despite the dim light streaming through the small window, she could see him plainly. Wrapped tightly in the thin blanket, the boy lay shivering in an exhausted sleep.

Her bare feet cramped painfully from contact with the icy floor.  She’d warned Grant the room wasn’t suitable for a child. There was no fireplace, not even a brazier. Predictably, he’d been unconcerned. He’d merely pushed the boy inside and pushed her out of the room. Once in the hallway, he’d locked the door and pocketed her key. The idiot hadn’t considered the possibility of more than one key.

No time to waste. Grant could wake at any moment. Rozelle hurried to the cot, dropping the quilts to the floor before retrieving them one at a time to tuck around the boy.  He hardly stirred as she worked, but she sensed that he was comforted.

She studied his features. Dark curls framed a sweet face. Somehow, the boy reminded of her of Henry as a child. Although Henry hadn’t been nearly so handsome, Rozelle’s little brother had once been as vulnerable and innocent as this youngster.  She sighed.  No one could describe him in those terms any longer.

Silent as a mouse, she slipped away, locking the door behind her.  Listening closely to the snores emanating from downstairs, she stole back to her room.

XXXXXXXXXX

Henry savored the last morsel of his evening meal. Allowing the waiter to take his plate, he requested writing materials from the man while he contemplated the note from Ben Cartwright requesting a meeting.  Should he see Ben right away? Henry decided against it.  Better to make the poor fool fret away a sleepless night. Taking the offered pen in hand, he invited Ben to meet him in his room in the morning.  Sealing his response in the provided envelope, the judge directed it be delivered to Ben Cartwright post haste.

By a strange fluke, it was in this very hotel room two weeks previously that Henry had seen Ezra Grady for the last time.  Henry could still picture the old sinner, sprawled in the upholstered chair smoking an expensive cigar.

“I’m counting on you, Henry,” Ezra told him.  “Don’t let me down like you did the first time.”

Henry sighed, “As I told you then, it was impossible to make the child your ward when the grandfather was available.” Grady professed to be an intelligent man; however, he’d no inkling what trouble such a ruling would have caused Henry.

“Since the grandfather is thousands of miles away, and the brothers are dead, I know you can find your way clear to make the right decision.”

“I don’t foresee any difficulty,” Henry agreed. He cleared his throat. “Ezra, I believe I will require a bit of assistance regarding a loan from Mr. Forrest . . .”

“I’ll handle it when I return with Little Joe,” Ezra assured him. “Henry, things are about to change. Once I have my ward living with me, I don’t intend to spend all my time cleaning up your messes.  Little Joe is going to need my time and attention, and I intend to take good care of the lad.”

“Very nice of you considering you’re the reason he is without family,” Henry snickered. The laughter died in Henry’s throat at the sight of Ezra’s fury.

“Don’t you say that again! You watch your mouth, and I’d better never catch you mocking him or treating him poorly. From now on, Little Joe is my boy, and I take care of what’s mine!”  Grady left, slamming the door with enough force to rattle the tea cups.

Well, that particular dream hadn’t really worked out for Ezra, had it?  Strange that such an ordinary youngster should excite similar emotions in men as different from each other as Grady and Cartwright.  Henry supposed he could count his blessings that such was the case.

All in all, the plan was proceeding admirably. This whole messy business would soon be over and done with.  Henry decided he was entitled to a snifter of brandy after such a stressful day.

XXXXXXXXXX

Joe woke suddenly, arms and legs doing battle with the thick quilts covering him. It was the same old nightmare. He fought to control his breathing. Eyes closed, he reminded himself it was all just a dream.  As the panic slowly subsided, he reached for the covers he’d thrown aside. The room was so cold. The fire must have gone out, but if he wrapped up, he could probably go back to sleep. . .

It came back to him in a rush—being taken out of school; trying to escape, or at least leave a trail for Hoss to find; and getting the worst tanning he’d ever had in his life. He’d been shoved into this little room with nothing to eat or drink and left there without a word. None of it made any sense.  Where was he?  Where were his pa and brothers?

This was just like his nightmare. Eyes wide in the dark, his trembling had nothing to do with the cold room.  Little Joe was crying hard; why shouldn’t he? No one was around to hear him. His family was gone, and here he was stuck inside this darn nightmare. He’d only just gotten Pa back and losing him again was heartbreaking. All of it made him cry even harder, but after a little while, a slow burn at the doggone unfairness of the situation dried those tears right up.

What had Adam said about his nightmares? His brother had told him that he needed to fight and not give up trying to get back to his family. It made Joe feel better to remember that advice. Pretty soon, he wasn’t crying at all; he was smiling.

Just you wait, Mr. Grant. You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.

Chapter 4

Abigail’s head throbbed. She’d been up too late the previous night discussing the Cartwrights’ troubles with her mother. How she’d dreaded going home and having to explain the day’s events! She hadn’t given her mother any credit for common sense. In fact, she’d been pleasantly surprised and relieved by her mother’s reaction. Rather than indulging in a storm of tears, Margaret Jones had been calm as well as efficient in taking care of Abigail’s hand.  Naturally, she’d been horrified by the event, but she’d given Abigail sound advice on how to deal with its aftermath. Frankly, Abigail felt a little ashamed for ever doubting the woman.

Her mother’s advice sent Abigail searching for the judge. He hadn’t been at the hotel, and she wasn’t sure where else to look. When she spotted him leaving the telegraph office, her stomach flipped nervously.  Lifting her skirts a bit, she scurried across the dusty street.

The judge hadn’t seen her coming, and he jumped a bit when she touched his arm. A telegram, clutched in a white-knuckled grip, was hastily shoved into his pocket.

“Judge,” Abigail began, “Could I just speak with you for a moment? About Little Joe Cartwright?”

The little speech she’d carefully prepared and rehearsed the previous night vanished at the sight of his face—the normally pale complexion flushed dark and wide blue eyes narrowed. He waited for her to continue, tapping his foot impatiently. She felt ten kinds of a fool standing there wasting the important man’s time.

She tried again. “I just wanted to say that I’ve gotten to know Little Joe and his brothers.  Adam and Hoss take wonderful care of him, and he is so very strongly attached to them. I can’t imagine how he’s dealing with the separation. I know you have questions about his father. I confess I don’t know Mr. Ben Cartwright very well, but I feel certain he couldn’t have such fine sons if he weren’t a good man himself.”

The judge’s huff of impatience told Abigail she was running out of time. Taking a deep breath, she plunged on.

“And, I’m sure you’re not aware—you couldn’t know—but the new guardian, Mr. Grant, is harsh, frightening  . . . perhaps, even abusive.” Strangely, the judge barely reacted to her description.

“Given that Mr. Grant seems unaccustomed to children, and given that Joseph must be very upset by all of this . . . Mother and I hope you will allow us to care for the boy until the hearing.” Abigail produced her most ingratiating smile and waited respectfully for his response.

Judge Lindstrom briefly shut his eyes before casting his gaze upward, apparently praying for patience in the face of idiocy.

“Miss Jones, none of this is your concern.” Stepping away, the judge turned on his heel and marched back to his hotel leaving her in humiliated silence to watch him elbow his way through a small group at the entrance.  He disappeared before she could let him know his telegram had fluttered to the ground.

She rescued the scrap of paper and considered her options. She could find the judge and return his property. She could take it inside and allow the desk clerk to handle the matter. Or she could throw the judge’s telegram into the nearest horse trough. It was a sad commentary on her lack of Christian forgiveness that she was strongly inclined to the horse trough option. It was even a stronger commentary on her general sinfulness that she was first inclined to read the telegram before tossing it into the dirty water. The good angel whispering into one ear advised her to hand the telegram to the desk clerk that very instant.  Sadly, the bad angel muttering in the other ear made the strongest impression.

Abigail scanned the telegram furtively; after all, what would she say if the judge appeared?  It took a moment before she understood the message.  A second reading inspired misgivings. The final perusal solidified her suspicions.

A quick glance around reassured her that the judge hadn’t realized what he’d lost. Chewing her lip thoughtfully, she wavered caught between competing responsibilities. The memory of Little Joe agreeing to leave with that vile man in order to spare her pain made the decision easier.

School would have to wait.  Abigail needed to find the Cartwrights.

XXXXXXXXXX

Blasted, interfering women!

Henry had been looking forward to concluding a profitable agreement with Ben Cartwright after breakfast. Grant would deliver the money to Forrest; Cartwright’s brat would be returned.  Of course, availing himself of Forrest’s financial services in the future was out of the question; the man was clearly unstable.

Really, everything had been going so well until Rozelle’s ridiculous telegram had ruined his mood. Sighing, he splashed a spot of whiskey into his coffee cup. Sipping the much enhanced brew, he mulled over his mistakes. He had spoiled his sister by allowing her to live with him, share his luxurious home, and entertain her tedious friends. His lack of a firm hand had led Rozelle to believe she had the right to question him. Well, no longer! He would make it clear to his sister who was head of the household, or the woman would find herself on the street.  The image of his sister’s tears and remorse were so pleasant, Henry nearly missed hearing the knock at the door.  Rising, he brushed down his vest and jacket before inviting the caller to enter.

Ben Cartwright stepped inside, hat in hand. It was still a bit of a shock to see the man; the nearly white hair took some getting used to. Cartwright must have suffered a difficult ordeal.  A pity—apparently some men had no capacity for adversity.

Without invitation, Cartwright seated himself at the table set for breakfast and stared pointedly at the bottle of spirits nestled among the serving dishes. Embarrassed, Henry removed the bottle, fumbling a bit with the damp glass before placing it on the sideboard.  Withdrawing his silk handkerchief, he wiped the moisture from his fingertips before settling into his own chair.

Drawing a deep breath, Henry leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and affected a thoughtful gaze.  Over the years, he’d discovered most people were intimidated by his air of judicial authority.  Cartwright, who had yet to say a word, did not seem to be among their number.

The silence lingered.  Henry cleared his throat.

“You asked to meet with me,” Henry said. Maddeningly, he heard his voice shake.

The rancher turned his hat in his hand, smoothing the brim between his fingers.  He placed the hat on the table and gave the judge his full attention.

“Judge, I’m hoping you might clarify your issue with me.”

Henry sipped his coffee before responding. “I wonder if your sons have found the time to mention the difficulties your departure initiated, especially for poor Joseph.”

There, Henry saw it. A flash of pain in the expressive dark eyes. Cartwright had always been a ridiculously doting father; this would be simple. Henry continued. “It has been the talk of the town for years. The boy can’t bear to be parted from his family. Separation makes Joseph seriously ill.  So sad.” Henry tsked sympathetically. Shooting a glance at Ben convinced him to abbreviate his intended speech.

“A gesture of remorse, perhaps, would indicate your recognition of the gravity of your behavior.  It would facilitate a brisk settlement of this matter.”

Ben studied him before answering, “Say what you mean.”

Henry found his throat a bit dry at this moment of truth. “Twenty thousand dollars, donated to a fund that I administer for widows and orphans, would be a sufficient gesture.” Hearing the growled response, he hurried on, his words tumbling out. “You have the cash available, Ben. You would still have your land and your boys as well as a small reserve. I’m hardly being unreasonable.”

Voice thick with sarcasm, Ben repeated, “You are hardly being unreasonable at all. How do you figure on explaining this donation, Henry?”

“Restitution, Ben, for wrongs perpetrated against your boys . . .”

Cartwright interrupted. Rising from his chair, he advanced on Henry and gripped the armrests, effectively pinning Henry into his seat.

“Believe me, Henry. I am always mindful of the wrongs perpetrated against my boys. I don’t know what you remember about me; but I assure you, I don’t take kindly to kidnapping and extortion.”

“Extortion, Ben?  Kidnapping? Don’t be absurd. I acted completely within my authority. If you care to take your baseless accusations to the sheriff or territorial officials, be my guest!  It will be the word of a respected judge against the desperate fabrications of an errant father. Meanwhile, your boy remains in the hands of a man who, it has been said, is unaccustomed to dealing with children.”

Ben released his grip on Henry’s chair. He drew himself up to his considerable height and towered over him.  Henry somehow managed to remain steady and upright in his chair. However, he couldn’t quite continue to look Ben in the eyes.

“Henry, you would be wise to return Joseph immediately,” Ben stated.

For just a moment, Henry was sorely tempted to take that advice and call off the entire plan.  However, the memory of Grant waiting for the money convinced him to stay in the game.

“Just settle with me, Ben. Then, we can put this whole nasty business behind us.”

Cartwright stepped back and retrieved his hat from the table.  Eyes cold with disgust, he faced Henry. “Judge, you’ve made a serious mistake.”

Ben turned on his heel and stalked to the door.  He paused with his hand on the knob when Henry spoke.

“You know where to find me when you’re ready to make your donation.”

The slam echoed through the hotel corridor.

It had all been a bit much for Henry.  This sort of stress was bad for his nerves.  It took a few minutes with his head down at the level of his knees before he felt some measure of calm restored.   The conversation hadn’t gone quite as predicted after all.  But, as his head cleared, Henry formulated a new plan.

It seemed a little more pressure was in order. He’d send a telegram to Grant suggesting a course of action. Ben would cooperate in the end; Henry was certain. When Cartwright brought him the money, the judge would simply disappear. Twenty thousand dollars would be a nice stake back east where he still had friends. Rozelle could keep the house; he’d be happy to never see her again. Grant had the boy. Forrest could take the youngster in lieu of the debt. If Cartwright never saw the kid again . . . well, he should have taken the deal as soon as it was offered.

XXXXXXXXXX

Wrapped in quilts and worry, Joe tracked the sound of Grant’s footsteps. The sounds drifted upward through the floorboards along with the scent of breakfast. When he heard Grant stop in front of the door, Little Joe shrugged out of the quilts and stood. Swiping a sleeve across his runny nose, he was concentrating on breathing slow and easy to keep calm when the door opened. He forced himself not to squirm under Grant’s mocking stare.

“Think you can act like you have a lick of sense?” Grant asked.

Joe thought about the question. He was hungry, thirsty, and had to use the outhouse like nobody’s business.  Might be a good idea to save the shenanigans for later.  He nodded and followed Grant.

The guy was reasonably civil (aside from standing a few feet away while Joe used the chamber pot—the jackass), and something about that just felt all wrong. Grant then led Joe into some fancy front room on the ground floor. An impressive desk took up a lot of space in a room already crowded with furniture including a red settee reminding Joe of the piece in his own home and a small table set for breakfast.  The lady he’d briefly seen the night before was hovering around the table, pouring milk into a glass and piling a plate with flapjacks.

“You hungry, kid?” Grant asked.

Grant strolled over and helped himself to a biscuit. Watching the guy stuff the buttered roll into his mouth and chew noisily made Joe’s stomach twist a little. He shrugged nonchalantly so as to let Grant know he didn’t need any favors. It didn’t help that his stomach chose that moment to gurgle noisily.

“I could eat,” Joe said.

“Well, boy, that’s fine. Eat anything you want. If you behave yourself, you can stay down here and keep Miss Rozelle company,” Grant smiled.

“I just need you to do something for me first.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Apparently everyone in town had heard about the prior day’s court proceedings. Townspeople who’d greeted him heartily the day before hurried past this morning avoiding eye contact. Ben shrugged off the insults; his reputation mattered far less than Little Joe’s safety. The short walk to Mrs. Carruthers’ boarding house helped cool him off a bit.  By the time he found Adam and Hoss in the front parlor, he was already considering options. To his surprise, the young schoolteacher was also present and in earnest conversation with his boys.  All three turned to him expectantly.

“Well, what did he say, Pa?” Hoss demanded. Ben hesitated to speak in front of Miss Jones, but Adam nodded slightly, and Ben gave in.

“The judge requested a donation of twenty thousand dollars to settle the matter,” Ben said. Not one member of his audience seemed surprised—which surprised Ben, just a little.

“This is making more sense all the time,” Hoss muttered.  At Ben’s quizzical glance, Adam stepped in to explain.

“Miss Jones attempted to intercede on our behalf this morning.  Their conversation was unpleasant.”

Adam glanced at Miss Jones who rolled her eyes a bit at his polite description. “As he left, the judge dropped a telegram Miss Abigail has been kind enough to bring to us.” Ben noticed Miss Abigail blush just a little. “For which we are very grateful.” Adam smiled and touched her hand, which had the effect of deepening her blush considerably. He handed the telegram to his father.

“Grant has appeared with a boy. Stop. What is happening?  Stop. Rozelle.” Ben read the telegram aloud.  “Who is Rozelle?”

Miss Jones spoke for the first time. “Rozelle Lindstrom is the judge’s sister. They live together in Carson City.  Miss Rozelle is my mother’s dearest friend. I’ve been in their home many times. She adores her brother, but she doesn’t always approve of his behavior.”

“His behavior?” Ben asked

“They live lavishly, and the judge spends freely without regard to necessity or decorum.  Mother and I always assumed they had a substantial inheritance. I’m sorry to say, Mr. Cartwright, the judge is not a kind man. Moreover, I’ve known him to sacrifice honesty to convenience,” Miss Jones finished.

“The good news, Pa,” Adam interjected, “is that now we know precisely where Little Joe is.  Miss Abigail has even sketched the house for us showing all the windows, doors, and outbuildings.”

“So, come dark, Adam and I can fetch him out of there slick as a whistle,” Hoss suggested.

If the young people expected Ben to argue that the law had to be considered, they were mistaken.  Ben Cartwright had always been a law-abiding man; but he wasn’t a fool to the notion. His morning meeting had revealed this particular judge’s true nature. No one callous enough to wrest a child from his family and demand money for the child’s return could be trusted. If the judge was hiding behind the law to commit a grave injustice, the law could look after itself.

“Let me think.” Ben dropped into an overstuffed parlor chair to mull over the implications of this new information.

“Too bad you had that business to attend to in Sacramento all those years ago,” Hoss said.

Ben was only half-listening, still turning over varying options and consequences in his mind.

“What was that, son?”

“Why’d you have to go to Sacramento all those years ago, anyway? You never did tell us,” Hoss asked.

Ben cast his mind back. He hadn’t given the purpose of the trip much thought in years.

“I didn’t have business in Sacramento; I was returning through Sacramento from Monterey,” he replied.  Ben paused, mouth slightly open, stunned by a realization.  Could it be? Partners?  All those years ago?   Ben stepped quickly to the table and scribbled a note.

“Adam,” commanded Ben, “Go see Roy, and ask him to allow you to look through Ezra Grady’s papers.  Say nothing to him about your plans for tonight. I’m hoping you’ll find something we can use.”  Adam nodded.

“Hoss, get what you need for tonight, and let Hop Sing know what’s been happening. Give him this note. We’ll all meet back here for an early supper.” Hoss murmured a “yes, sir” and rested a comforting hand on his father’s back before heading out the door.

“I’ll help Adam look through Mr. Grady’s papers,” Miss Jones offered. “Mother is in charge at school today, and two people looking will allow a search to proceed more quickly.”

Ben offered her a smile with his thanks.  As Adam escorted Miss Jones outside, he paused to speak quietly with his father.

“What will you be doing, Pa?”

Ben turned to his oldest. “Hiram and I have some talking to do about the hearing tomorrow morning.  Judge Lindstrom may know the law, but he doesn’t know the Cartwrights.”

XXXXXXXXXX

A firm hand on his back guided Little Joe into the chair behind the ornate desk. Paper, pen, and ink were laid out. Grant pulled a sheet of paper from the stack and shoved a pen into Joe’s right hand.

“Here’s your chance to write your daddy a little note,” Grant said.

Joe sat still for a minute. He still didn’t have a clue why he was here anyway. Did this yahoo want him to write his own ransom note? Wouldn’t hurt to stall a bit.

“I’d like something to eat first,” he said as politely as a fellow could speak to a jackass.

It sure looked like Grant was grinding his teeth. Good. Served him right.

“Note to Daddy, first. Then, breakfast.” Grant bent over the back of his chair, his hand holding Joe’s wrist. His brothers were always telling Joe to watch his mouth. Honestly, it was times like this when Joe just didn’t see the point.

“I ain’t that hungry,” Joe said. He heard the lady squeak fearfully at his sass.

He knew Grant’s well of patience wasn’t very deep, but he was danged if he’d give in without a fight.  Grant grabbed hold of Joe’s hand so hard it felt like the bones would split straight through the skin and then forced Joe to dip the pen in the ink well. Grant’s hand might as well have been the one holding the pen for the way he used Joe’s to push the pen to the page.

“Write this, brat. ‘Dear Daddy, I miss you so much. I don’t know how much longer I can hang on. . .”

Grant was guiding Joe’s right hand in big, sloppy loops across the page. The galoot was so focused on the letter, he didn’t even see Joe snake his left hand across the desk to grab the ink well. He also didn’t see the ink coming until it splashed across his eyes and decorated his face.

Joe took advantage of the man’s surprise to push back hard, bouncing the chair into Grant’s midsection.  Scrambling out of the chair, Joe figured he had a few seconds to climb over the desk and hightail it out the door.  He almost made it, too.  But, Grant’s reflexes were pretty good, and Joe found himself dragged back across the wide desktop, kicking and yelling for help. Papers, pen, and the blotter were thrown to the floor. The elegant desk lamp tipped over, and its painted globe broke in large shards in the confusion. The lady was screaming at Grant to stop; and before Joe realized it, he was back in that darn chair.

Joe sat still, breathing hard.  All of a sudden, he wasn’t feeling so good. It would help if the lady would stop yelling. It took awhile before he understood what she was hollering about.

“He’s bleeding badly, Grant! He needs a doctor,” she shouted.

Dang, I’m bleeding? The lady was wrapping a towel around Joe’s right arm and squeezing.  He wished she wouldn’t press so hard; it hurt like the dickens. Maybe it wasn’t too bad a cut. Grant didn’t seem worried. He wandered over to the mess on the floor and sorted through the pile of paper until he plucked out the sheet he wanted—now smeared with blood.

It made Joe’s stomach a little sick to see blood on the letter, and he started to kind of ooze right out of the chair onto the floor. The lady tied that towel way too tight around his arm before catching him around the waist to help him over to the settee.

“He needs a doctor. Whatever is going on, he’s no good to you dead.” The lady put his feet up on the settee and tucked an afghan around him. That was nice of her; he was starting to feel cold again.

“I’ll make you a deal, Rozelle,” Grant sounded amused.  “I’ll let you fetch a doctor, and you take this letter to your brother in Virginia City.”

Joe watched her glare back at Grant. This lady sure was brave. He hated to cause her trouble. He was pretty sure he’d be okay.  She didn’t have to go all the way to Virginia City because of him.

“I’m fine,” Joe whispered.  She looked at him then, and Joe saw she was about to cry.

“It’s a deal,” she told Grant.

Chapter 5

Paul Martin paused at the doorway of the judge’s elegant parlor. The usually dignified Miss Lindstrom had run to his office and frantically insisted he accompany her back to the judge’s home on the behalf of a badly injured child.  However, he’d assumed the lady was exaggerating the urgency of the situation.

He hadn’t been in the territory long enough to have been invited to the judge’s home, but this sort of domestic chaos was a surprise. The floor was a trash heap of writing paraphernalia, and the desk itself was knocked askew from its customary position. The desk lamp was overturned, its globe in messy pieces across the inlaid top.  Lamp oil pooled and dripped over the edge staining the Oriental carpet below.  He could certainly imagine that someone had been injured here.

“Doctor, please!” Miss Lindstrom was plucking at his sleeve, directing his attention to the settee.  He hadn’t noticed the boy until that moment. As soon as he saw the white-faced, bloodied youngster, he forgot the mess completely.

Kneeling beside the settee, he smoothed his hand over the clammy forehead.  At his touch, the boy’s eyes fluttered open—glassy and unfocused. Miss Lindstrom was biting her knuckles to preserve her calm.

“All right, young man,” Paul spoke softly, and the child turned his face to look at him. “It looks like you’ve had a bit of trouble.”

A small nod.  Sighing, the boy’s eyes started to drift shut.

“I need you to stay awake for me,” Paul said. He probed at the bloody cloth wrapped around the boy’s upper arm.  A deep cut was hidden beneath the linen; fortunately, the bleeding had slowed. He needed to roll the boy a bit to get a good look at the wound.  But shifting him even slightly provoked pained whimpers.  A good look at the boy’s lower back showed him the reason.

“Miss Lindstrom, would you please bring me a basin and water?” The lady leapt to take care of his request.

“What’s your name?” The doctor carefully removed the soiled towel and dropped it to the floor.  He had to lean close to hear the response.

“Joe, I promise you’ll be feeling better soon.”

Paul was gratified to find a small table holding a basin and water placed beside him. He gestured for Miss Lindstrom to bring his bag while he made quick work of removing the boy’s sleeve.

“Hold his hand, Miss Lindstrom, talk to him,” Paul instructed. She murmured soothingly as the doctor stitched up the gash and dressed the wound.  Finished, he rocked back on his heels to survey his patient. The cut would heal well; Paul was certain. Children were resilient, and this particular child was tough.  Even so, a little sip of laudanum would help him rest. He watched Miss Lindstrom fuss over the boy, tuck him into the blanket, and stroke his forehead.

A small sound behind him announced a newcomer.  Paul rose and faced a large man, hair slicked back with pomade, face freshly scrubbed.

“He all right?” the man asked.  A natural question but asked in tones of indifference rather than concern.

“He’s lost a lot of blood for someone his size,” Paul said.  “What happened?  Are you his father?”

“The judge made me his temporary guardian. The kid had to be taken from his daddy,” the man drawled.

“Are you saying . . . the welts on him are from his father?”  Paul was dumbfounded.  Something about this “guardian” was unsettling. If asked to guess, Paul would have pegged this surly man as responsible for Joe’s injury.

“Poor little soul,” the man continued, “Touched in the head now.  The boy’s prone to fits and tantrums.  Well, you see what he did before we could stop him.”

“I see,” Paul said, but he was not sure that he did.  The child appeared lucid and reasonable rather than ‘touched in his head.’  “Let him rest, and feed him up. I’ll be back later to check on him.”

The man was shaking his head as he walked Paul to the front door, “Don’t bother, doc. Joseph here gets upset by strangers. I’ll take good care of him.”

The door was closed in Paul’s face before he could say another word. He wasn’t sure what to do, but he was sure he didn’t want to leave Joe with that man. Poor little soul, indeed.

XXXXXXXXXX

Henry was surrounded by imbeciles—no one would disagree. He’d expected trust and cooperation, and what had he received?  Criticism and condemnation. Frankly, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with Rozelle’s misplaced loyalties. If she was more concerned for Ben Cartwright’s son than for her own brother, then she was of no further use to Henry. He’d taken the letter she’d delivered on Grant’s behalf and sent her back to Carson City.  Good riddance.

Grant should have realized such a letter would be useless. Another imbecile! Henry expected a poignant little note that would move Cartwright to comply quickly with his demand. The blood-smeared page he’d received communicated a level of violence Henry feared would move Cartwright directly toward the sheriff.  He would rather not be asked to explain why the guardian he’d selected might send such a letter.

Where was Cartwright?  Even without further pressure, he’d expected the man to give in. Henry had made it easy for Ben to approach him. He’d stayed at the hotel, eaten in the restaurant, and walked about town. For all of his trouble, he’d received not even a glimpse of the so-called affectionate father.  As the day drew to a close with no sign of the rancher, he’d found himself drinking rather deeply of the fine brandy in his room. He paced from window to doorway, watching and listening for the man to appear.  Despite the numbing effect of the brandy, Henry finally realized with terrified certainty that Cartwright intended to force his hand. Pushing his intoxicated wits to the limit, he could see no other option possible—he had to go forward with the plan. With Grant ready to exact Forrest’s penalty, he just had no choice. Henry drew a shaking breath, raising a glass to his absent rival.

This is on your head, Ben Cartwright.  You shouldn’t gamble with something you can’t afford to lose.         

XXXXXXXXXX

Rozelle leaned wearily against the porch railing. As agreed, she’d caught the stage to deliver that monstrous letter to her brother. In repayment of her trouble, she’d been the target of Henry’s biting, hateful language for several hideous minutes. He’d insulted her intelligence and mocked her feelings.  He’d even questioned her loyalty! In times past, she’d rationalized his cruelty. After all, he was an important man and couldn’t be expected to dwell on such trivial matters as her feelings.

This was different. All the wounds inflicted over the years finally merged to reveal an injury so devastating Rozelle could barely stand upright. Henry did not care about her. He felt no love, concern, or emotion aside from irritation. Admitting that fact was the hardest thing she’d ever faced, and she wasn’t sure she’d survive understanding.

She stood there clutching the porch post far too long.  No one stopped to offer assistance or inquire as to her welfare.  Every passerby simply . . . passed her by.  It hardly mattered.  She deserved no better.  She’d devoted her life to a man completely unworthy of her love.

When she felt the gentle touch, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Through tear-filled eyes, she recognized her best friend, Margaret. A squeeze around her shoulders and a small tug at her hand started her on a stumbling journey down the sidewalk.

Margaret cooed sympathy into her ear, and Rozelle soaked up the words like desert sands swallow water. By the time they reached the Jones house, her friend had heard the worst of it. And Margaret promised it would be all right. Rozelle lacked the strength to argue.

XXXXXXXXX

“Above all, be safe,” Ben reminded his sons.

Rescue had become even more urgent given the information from the judge’s sister. Joe was seriously hurt, and his brothers were desperate to get him away from Grant. Ben wasn’t altogether happy with the plan concocted, but they’d run out of time and options. Despite having talked over the details repeatedly, Ben couldn’t suppress reminding them again as they saddled up.

“Get him out of that house, quietly,” Ben emphasized. “No violence! Turn yourselves in to the Carson City sheriff.  He mustn’t give Joe back to that man. Convince the sheriff to keep Joe with him in the jail. One of you stay with your brother. ”

“Don’t worry none, Pa,” Hoss squeezed his father’s hand, “Adam and me got this part handled.”

Ben swallowed hard. “Tell Joe, I’m sorry.  Let him know I wanted to come for him . . .”

“We’ll let him know,” Hoss told him. “You gotta stay here and make sure the judge doesn’t get away with what he’s done.”

Adam concurred. “Abigail said she’d come by Hiram’s office later with dinner for you.”  Brow furrowed in concern, he added, “Try to rest, Pa.”

Ben muttered an agreement merely to keep the peace. Touching their hats in a final salute, the pair spurred their horses and cantered down the street.

“Godspeed,” Ben whispered as his boys disappeared into the night.

Chapter 6

A glimmer of light filtered through the dark water pointing the way up. Joe must have dived deep this time because it was taking an awful long time to reach the top. His arms and legs felt so heavy he thought maybe he’d had enough swimming, and they’d better call it a day and head on home. Finally, his head broke the surface of the lake. He’d opened his eyes.

He was definitely not at the lake. It took several long minutes before he remembered where he was. He scanned the room sleepily; just holding his eyes open was a chore. Not much light coming through the window—was it nighttime already?  Must be true, a lamp on a nearby table was lit and turned low. The fancy room was a big mess. Paper was strewn across the floor. The little dining table and chair were still in place, but all the food was gone. Too bad. Joe’s stomach was as empty as it had ever been in his life.  Worse, his throat was dry and raw. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been given any water.  Guess he was gonna have to find some water for himself.

Pushing himself up on his elbows was a big mistake. He’d forgotten that he’d hurt his arm, but now the wound almost throbbed out loud. He eased back against the cushions and waited for the room to stop spinning.  When he felt a little stronger, he used his good arm to grab the back of the settee and hauled himself up to sit. And he realized he wasn’t alone.

Petrified, he hardly dared breathe. Grant was a few feet away, slumped in an armchair, chin against his chest, snoring.  Joe watched him warily. Was he asleep? Passed out drunk?  Joe was betting on drunk based on the bottle by the guy’s feet.  Testing the waters, he shifted a little on the settee.  Nothin’.  Grant didn’t stir.

Joe eased his feet to the floor and stood. Luckily, he’d kept a hand on the settee, or the trip would have been over before it started. Breathing through the pain, he practiced standing up for a while.  When he felt like he had the hang of it again, he thought he’d try walking. Shuffling across the plush carpet, keeping his bad arm hugged to his side and his good arm out for balance, he managed to make it most of the way across the room before he had to stop and rest.  Miraculously, Grant didn’t wake up.  Joe breathed a little prayer of thanks and a great big prayer for help.

He slipped quietly out of the room and headed for the front door. Fumbling with the latch, he was certain the racket would have Grant on him any second. The door squeaked a little as it opened, but not too loudly, and Joe was outside.

Okay.  Now what? His only plan had been to get out. He hadn’t thought ahead about where he should go.  He held onto the iron fence trying to get his bearings. Would any of the neighbors help him, or would they just give him back to Grant?  Joe wasn’t in the mood to gamble.  Down at the end of the street, he saw a sign board that gave him hope swinging in the breeze.  Could he make it?  He had to try.

XXXXXXXXXX

The boy had been on Paul Martin’s mind all day—a little buzzing distraction while he attended to the minor illnesses and injuries trooping through his clinic. He couldn’t quite get the event out of his mind. Odd, how this abused boy and his guardian were lodged in the judge’s home. Miss Lindstrom had barely spoken to the boy’s guardian, despite the man’s apparent familiarity with her brother’s home.

Paul had meant to check on the youngster regardless of the guardian’s wishes. However, he’d gotten busy, and the day was gone before he knew it. He could go now, he supposed.  But his supper was long overdue, and the stew delivered from Grime’s café smelled too tempting to resist. Puttering around his small kitchen, laying out his meal, and starting a pot of coffee calmed him. Napkin in his lap, he’d just picked up his spoon when he heard someone rap at the door.

Naturally, the minute I sit down . . .   Sighing at the interruption, he abandoned the meal and headed to the door. Because he was a bit out of sorts, he tugged harder than necessary at the knob and opened the door abruptly spilling the boy he’d just been thinking of into a pathetic little heap on his parlor floor.  The so-called guardian was nowhere in sight.

Gathering the youngster up, Paul carried him into the clinic. He quickly examined him—low fever, pulse a bit fast as would be expected with the blood loss, minimal swelling on the arm. Joe came around quickly and gulped the water offered. The kid looked so grateful it made Paul’s heart ache.

“Don’t give me back, please, don’t give me back to him,” Joe begged.

“Hush, lie back and rest.” Paul said, “Are you hungry?”

They shared the stew while Joe shared his story. The sympathetic ache Paul had felt for Joe’s plight shifted to outrage at the mistreatment the boy described. Paul agreed; returning Joe to that scoundrel was out of the question.  Better to get the sheriff involved. His patient did not agree, arguing the sheriff might feel required to give him back to Mr. Grant. Nothing said to the contrary would change the boy’s mind.

“What would you have me do?” asked Paul. If this boy was a handful when sick, he could imagine the energy it must take to supervise a healthy Joe.

Perhaps that was the question Joe had been waiting to hear.

“Doc, would you please take me home?”

XXXXXXXXXX

Grant was through playing with that boy. When he’d opened his eyes to discover the kid wasn’t on the settee anymore, he’d wasted precious time looking through the house. Then he’d wasted a bit more time taking out his aggravation on some of Henry’s elegant gewgaws. If Henry managed to get out of this trouble with Forrest (which was looking more unlikely all the time), he’d find his home had been redecorated in his absence.

Strapping on his gun belt, Grant vowed that as soon as he caught up with the little brat, the kid would be hog-tied over a saddle while they rode out of town. Then he’d find a particularly brutal ranch, mine, or saloon and chuck the kid for a few dollars. That is, if he didn’t chuck him over a cliff first.

XXXXXXXXXX

Despite making very good time, it took far too long to reach Carson City.  Adam’s nerves were stretched tighter than his guitar strings by the time they encountered the edge of town. The very idea of riding in with his eighteen-year-old brother to snatch Joe out of some outlaw’s clutches was so fantastic Adam was having a hard time getting his mind around it.  Nothing in the last seven years had prepared him for the night’s enterprise. Aware of how vulnerable his brothers would be if something happened to him, Adam had always been careful to avoid trouble when possible, not chase after it. Given the circumstances, he knew they didn’t have a choice; and he was determined to do whatever it took to rescue his brother.  Still, a small part of him worried he wouldn’t be up to doing what might be necessary.

He and Hoss took a little time to reacquaint themselves with Carson City. They needed to get a feel for the place, and Adam wanted to scout the quickest route to the sheriff’s office. Lamplight filtered through the shuttered windows of the jail. Good. Hopefully, they’d arrive there with Joe soon. He didn’t want to have to hunt for help. Tethering the horses nearby, they set out on foot.

The judge’s house wasn’t very far from the jail. They skulked down the back alley, walking as softly as possible while clinging to the shadows.  Miss Abigail’s directions were impeccable; they found the address with no trouble. Her sketch of the house reassured them they were at the right spot.  A peek into the carriage house revealed a contented mare in a stall and the fancy little rig clean and ready for its next outing.

Hoss covered the east side of the house, while Adam checked out the west. No sign of life inside, and not a sound emanated from the windows he was careful to stay beneath. Worrisome.  If Joe was awake, Adam couldn’t imagine him quiet.  As rehearsed, the brothers met at the back door. Inserting the key Miss Rozelle had given them, they crept into the gloomy kitchen. Peeking first around every doorway, they moved slowly through the house, stopping frequently to listen for any indication they’d been detected.

With every room they checked, Adam’s anxiety increased. Violence scarred most of the house: tables were turned over, books and papers scattered, trinkets and baubles shattered and crushed. There was no sign of their missing brother.  Finally, they reached the front parlor where Miss Rozelle said she’d left Joe.

The boy had been there all right. His sleeve, stained with blood, lay on the floor next to the settee.  Convinced they were alone in the house, Adam released an exasperated sigh.

“He’s never where you expect him to be,” he said.

Hoss’s eyes opened wide. “You think he got away?”

“I think so. And it made Grant mad enough to wreck the house,” Adam continued, “Look here, the fire’s still burning, and there’s a bottle of whiskey open.  I don’t think Joe’s been gone too long.”

“That’s good, ain’t it?”

“It’s good if we can find him before Grant does,” Adam agreed.

“Where would he go? To the sheriff, ya think?” Hoss nervously kicked at the piles of documents scattered across the floor.

“I hope so. Even if Joe didn’t go there, I think it would be a good idea to talk to the sheriff,” Adam said.  They retreated through the back door, pausing in the alley to plan.

“You go see about the sheriff.  I’ll take a look around the neighborhood,” Adam said.

XXXXXXX

Finally, Paul managed to convince Joe that a journey to Virginia City in the middle of the night was neither practical nor sensible. The boy needed rest and proper care, and Paul intended to see he got it.  Of course, there was another reason against venturing out into the night.  Although he hadn’t voiced his concerns, Paul was certain that Grant must be hunting for Joe. It was only a matter of time before the ruffian arrived. Paul was a doctor, not a gunfighter. How could he protect this child?

“I want to move you upstairs, Joe,” Paul announced. “You’ll be more comfortable.” And out of sight.

When Joe agreed without further argument, Paul was both pleased and a bit worried. Placing a hand on the boy’s forehead, he was reassured the fever hadn’t increased. The dark circles under Joe’s eyes told the story; the kid was exhausted and in pain.

Wrapping a gentle arm around Joe’s waist, Paul helped him to his feet.  They had just begun a slow journey to the stairs when Paul heard a telltale whisper of sound behind them.  He closed his eyes briefly in frustration.  Keeping his arm around Joe’s now trembling shoulders, they turned to face the intruder.

Grant stood just inside the open front door.  His satin vest was rumpled, his slick hair was mussed, and he stunk of strong drink.  None of that diminished the impression of looming violence he carried as obviously as the gun strapped to his side. Smirking at Paul, the man winked meaningfully at Joe.

“Looks like you found something of mine, Doc.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Adam listened as Hoss’s footsteps faded down the alley and into the distance. Wiping a tired hand across his face, he considered the situation. Where should he begin looking?  It made sense that Joe would have escaped out the front door. Adam cautiously flanked the judge’s home keeping an eye on the side yards of neighboring houses. He stopped at the edge of the front garden and gave the landscape and street a critical eye. Joe had done a good job earlier of leaving a trail for his family to follow. That wouldn’t have been the case this evening; Joe would do his best to elude Grant.

As expected, he found no obvious indication of the direction his little brother had taken. Joe was injured and scared. If he hadn’t tried to find the sheriff, what would he have done? Bang on neighbors’ doors to plead for help?  Somehow, Adam doubted it. Would he try to get as far away as possible and then hide?  That sounded more likely. It occurred to Adam that he had two problems:  find Little Joe and avoid Grant.

The street was deserted. Light filtered through the windows of nearby homes. Now and then, Adam could just make out the ordinary sounds of the occupants within—muffled conversations and the clatter of dishes.

Nothing seemed out of place.  If Joe had found sanctuary or hidden himself, wouldn’t there be a ruckus?  Perhaps dogs barking?  Doors banging?   Agitated chatter? Adam scanned further down the street.  Light poured through an open front door. That looked as good a place to start as any. He hurried toward the house becoming more excited when he saw the doctor’s sign swinging in the front yard.  At the very least, he could speak to the man about Joe’s injuries.

XXXXXXXXXXX

The terrified look on the kid’s face was priceless. It was almost worth the trouble Grant had just been put through to finally see the boy cowed. Grant stepped further into the room, blinking against the lamplight and the whiskey-driven headache pounding behind his eyes. The doctor, sheltering the kid under his arm, was putting on a brave front. Didn’t matter, a puny, soft-hearted doctor wouldn’t be any trouble to handle.

“Sorry if you had to go to any trouble, Doc,” Grant drawled. “It’s like I told you earlier, this boy’s touched in the head. I’ll take him now.” The doctor’s arm tightened around Joe’s shoulders.

“I believe this is a matter for the sheriff,” Paul replied. He eased himself in front of the kid.

Grant shook his head before spitting on the doctor’s nice polished floor. He brushed his hand over the pistol belted at his waist. Both the doctor and the boy flinched at the gesture.

“Gunfire will bring the sheriff . . .”

Grant stopped the doctor before he finished his sentence. “I don’t need to shoot you to take care of you, doc. Shove the kid over, and we’ll be on our way.”

A glimpse of color and movement was reflected in a stately mirror decorating the wall. A newcomer was at Grant’s back. He looked over his shoulder at the dark-haired young man, pale-faced but steady, just inside the door. He heard the kid moan, “Adam.”

“Move away from them,” Adam commanded.

In response, Grant wheeled slowly to face Adam directly, hand hovering above his pistol.

“None of your concern, son,” he drawled.

“My brother is my concern,” Adam replied. “You can’t have him.”

Grant considered his adversary. He figured the young man to be in his early twenties-no more than that.  Plain clothes, cheap gun—there was nothing special about this fellow.  It was clear he had guts, but in Grant’s opinion that didn’t count for much in these situations. Grant had faced off against plenty of men in his day, and he was willing to bet this brother hadn’t faced off against even one man.

He looked young Cartwright over, head to toe. He’d give him credit for standing his ground, but you could tell a lot about a man from his eyes. Adam Cartwright’s heart was shining in his eyes: Grant saw brotherly love coupled to the kind of fear that could drop a man to the ground alongside enough anger to hold him up straight. There was something else in those eyes, and when Grant recognized it he knew he had the other man licked.

“Boy,” Grant voice oozed condescension. “I’m guessing you ain’t never fired that gun in anger. You don’t have a clue what it takes to kill a man, to shoot him down and watch him bleed away his life in front of you. It’s harder than you’d think, or so I’ve been told.” He saw a muscle jump in Cartwright’s throat. Grant smirked; he was hitting the mark all right.

“You’re an innocent. You got a heart full of compassion. It’s written all over you.” Cartwright watched him keenly, not bothering to answer or get riled up. Interesting. The fellow had the potential to become a dangerous man. Too bad for Cartwright he’d never have a chance to realize that potential.

“I’ll bet you still believe in the goodness of your fellow man,” Grant continued. “I don’t have that problem.”

Even with a half-bottle of whiskey coursing through his veins, Grant was fast with a gun. He drew and fired before Cartwright had a chance to blink. When he saw Cartwright stagger, he knew he’d hit his target.

So much noise! A loud crack surprised Grant and made him stumble and fall on his knees. The kid began bawling his head off, and the doctor was shouting for help. Surprisingly, they hurried around him not even bothering to glance his way. Stupid on their parts. Didn’t they know he was in charge?

“Shut up!” Grant cried. Why weren’t they listening? He swayed and tried to clear his head of the booze so he could grab the kid up and head out of town. Somehow that little motion put him flat on the floor. He closed his eyes to think . . . and when he opened them again, all he could see were swirling lights dancing in the center of a gathering dark. At least, it was getting quieter. He could hardly hear the ruckus at all . . .

XXXXXXXXXX

It all happened so fast. One moment the wretch was taunting Adam; and the next moment, Adam felt a white hot streak of pain blaze through the fleshy part of his upper arm. The bullet went clean through, burying itself in the door behind him. The shock of the attack staggered him more than the pain of the injury, and through the haze of gun smoke Adam saw Grant grin in bleary-eyed triumph. Anger overrode shock, and Adam’s answering bullet struck the brute in the chest, its exit from Grant’s back breaking a mirror behind the man with a loud crack. The man fell first to his knees before slumping to the floor bleeding his life away in front of them.

Joe hurled himself at Adam, sobbing into his shirt before Grant stopped twitching. Over the blood roaring in his ears, Adam heard the doctor step outside onto the porch, shouting for his neighbors to find the sheriff. It was getting hard to stand up with Joe pressed against him and the doctor poking at the wound in his arm. When Hoss and the Carson City sheriff burst inside, Adam was pretty sure he’d never been so happy to see his brother in his life.

It took a while for everyone to simmer down. There were stories to tell, injuries to tend, and brothers to embrace. Joe was desperate to understand why. However, the doctor insisted details could wait for morning and maneuvered their youngest brother into an upstairs bedroom.

He really needed some fresh air and a few minutes to himself. Leaving Hoss to stay with Joe, Adam took refuge on the Doc’s front porch. Resting his wounded arm on the edge of the chair, Adam closed his eyes and did his best to think of nothing. Soon, he felt his middle brother’s familiar hand on his shoulder.

“How you feelin’?” Hoss asked softly.

“I’m not quite sure,” Adam answered.

Hoss knew he wasn’t referring to his injury. “You feelin’ sorry you had to kill that yahoo?”

“Not really,” said Adam. “He shot first, and who knows what he would have done to Joe and Doc Martin.”

“So, what’s eatin’ at you?”

Adam sighed. “I had to protect Joe. If you’d only seen the kid’s face when I stepped through the door! I was furious at that outlaw  . . . but I was also afraid, Hoss! I was afraid for Joe and Doc. I was afraid Grant was going to kill me. Even drunk, he was fast. Thankfully, he was a bit too drunk to shoot straight.”

“Bein’ afraid ain’t nothin’ to be ashamed of, brother. You ain’t no gunfighter . . .”

“I’m not ashamed. I don’t want to become a gunfighter, either. But, I don’t ever want to feel that way again—so vulnerable, so out of my depth. He saw something in me that made him think he could take me down and tear our family apart. I can’t let that happen again.”

He fell silent, and Hoss allowed the silence to stretch until Adam was ready to speak again.

“How’s Joe?”

Hoss chuckled. “Doin’ fine, I’d say. Arguin’ with the doc about goin’ home.  Keeps sayin’ he wants Pa.”

“He’s not the only one,” Adam muttered.

“I know you do, big brother. I do, too. I’m gonna head back to Virginia City soon. You and Joe follow when you feel up to it. This commotion ain’t quite over yet.”

Chapter 7

Henry felt a bit foolish, peering at his own courtroom through a crack in the door. Still, he needed to know what he was about to face. From the looks of things, it seemed the good citizens of Virginia City lacked for entertainment. The noisy courtroom was packed; every seat was taken, and men stood leaning against the wall. It wasn’t difficult to spot the one man of interest.

Ben Cartwright moved confidently through the crowd. Smartly dressed in a tan jacket overlaying a starched white shirt, the rancher shook hands and responded warmly to the many overtures he received.  Apparently the man’s native charm had overcome any doubts his neighbors might have harbored from the initial hearing.  Henry could barely restrain a sneer; Cartwright should enjoy his popularity while it lasted.

He would never have believed Cartwright would be so cold-hearted, loving money above his own flesh and blood!  Everything should have already been over and done with—the boy could have been home and all this unpleasantness behind them. Instead, Cartwright felt compelled to maintain his obstinacy despite its effect on the poor lad. If the rancher only knew Grant, he wouldn’t be so nonchalant. Henry could even spare a bit of pity for Little Joe. How dreadful to have such a father!

Of course from his own perspective, it was bit worrisome. Given the man’s lack of deep affection for the boy, would Cartwright finally submit to paying? Henry had worried over the matter most of the night.  Despite intermittent bouts of panic, he trusted capitulation was inevitable. To maintain both his reputation in the community and the necessary support of his grown sons, Ben Cartwright would have to pay for the return of his youngest.

Henry smoothed the sleeves of his rumpled suit coat. If Rozelle had been any sort of sister, she would have brought him fresh clothes on the previous day.  No matter, the trappings of judicial authority would be sufficient for the day’s work.

Steeling himself in anticipation of his upcoming ordeal, he fumbled a bit with the doorknob.  At his appearance, Sheriff Coffee’s voice rang out through the room ordering everyone to rise for the Honorable Henry P. Lindstrom.  The clamor subsided as he took his seat with customary dignity. Ben Cartwright slid into the seat next to his lawyer, Hiram Wood, all the while glaring at Henry. Stacks of papers and a quantity of ledgers adorned the table before the pair. The rancher’s middle son, seated behind his father, gave him an encouraging touch to his shoulder.

“The matter before the court today concerns a petition for restoring Joseph Francis Cartwright to his father’s custody,” announced Henry.

Turning his attention to the opposing advocate’s table, Henry sent a stern look at the young lawyer designated an hour previously to respond to Cartwright’s petition. Lamont Turner had been reading law under Henry’s supervision for nearly a year.  The young man was affable, presentable, eager to please, and hopelessly naïve, making him perfect for the morning’s proceedings. Protests regarding lack of preparation were brushed aside. Henry required the semblance of neutrality and fairness rather than the substance.  If Turner performed as Henry hoped, the judge envisioned a productive relationship.

Opening statements were brief and predictable. Thankfully, Turner kept his remarks to the areas of concern Henry had suggested: Cartwright’s abandonment of his family and the resulting harm to the youngest son. The chap had a good voice. He presented the case well enough, all things considered.

By the time Cartwright’s attorney stood to make their case, Henry was itching with impatience. Wood could say what he liked. The outcome wasn’t in doubt. Henry would turn down the petition thereby forcing Cartwright to approach him later with twenty thousand dollars to convince the judge to reverse his decision.

Wood’s first witness was Ben Cartwright. The man took the chair as if he hadn’t already lost everything.

“Mr. Cartwright, a few days ago, you recounted the story of your abduction seven years ago . . .”

“Objection, your Honor!  The issue concerns Mr. Cartwright’s fitness as a parent, not his penchant for adventures.”  Henry was pleased; Turner did have a talent for this after all.

“Sustained. Mr. Wood, please get to the point. There is no need to rehash the tale.”

“Yes, judge.  If you could bear with me, please,” Wood was perfectly calm and respectful.  When Henry gestured for him to continue, the lawyer returned his attention to the witness.

“It was your earlier testimony that Nat Higdon was employed by Ezra Grady to get rid of you seven years ago in order to take control of your assets through your sons. In fact, Ezra Grady made a dying confession to that plot a few weeks ago.”

When Ben agreed with his lawyer’s summary, Wood lifted a document from the table and offered it to the judge.

“Sir, I have here a telegram from Sheriff McCray attesting to the confession.”

Henry grudgingly agreed to place the telegram in evidence while indicating to Wood to move the questioning along.

“Mr. Cartwright, why were you in Sacramento seven years ago?”

“I had journeyed to Monterey on the advice of a person I then considered trustworthy. That person sent me a note indicating that an heir to a particular Spanish grant had surfaced. If that were true, my title to a significant portion of the Ponderosa was in jeopardy.”

“What did you discover in Monterrey?”

“No one I spoke to had heard anything of the sort. My trip had been for nothing. I was passing through Sacramento on the way home when I was attacked by Nat Higdon.” Ben’s deep voice echoed through the silent courtroom.  Perspiration tickled Henry’s forehead, and he brought forth his silk handkerchief to dab away the moisture.

“Mr. Cartwright, why didn’t you mention this before?” Wood probed.

“I had forgotten about the purpose of the trip until very recently when my son, Hoss, questioned me about it. Yesterday, I asked my friend, Hop Sing, to search through my belongings at home in hopes of finding the note.”

During Cartwright’s remarks, Wood strolled back to the table before removing a single page from the stack.  Henry held his breath as the lawyer scanned the document in his hands.

“I see. The person who sent this letter was someone you knew. Someone you trusted? Someone many people trusted?”

“I had no reason to doubt him,’” Cartwright replied.

Ben’s mention of a note from a trustworthy source was causing Henry a bit of stomach distress. Why wasn’t Turner objecting to this line of questioning?

Surprisingly, Wood indicated he was finished questioning his witness. Henry released the breath he’d been choking on. When Turner declined to question Cartwright further, stating that he saw no relevance in the information, Henry was nearly limp in relief.

His relief was short lived. When Wood called Miss Jones to the stand, she regarded the judge with such loathing he was taken aback. What had he ever done to make Abigail Jones despise him?

“Miss Jones, what did you do yesterday?” Wood asked.

“Adam Cartwright and I went through Mr. Ezra Grady’s ledgers and business documents,” she replied.

“What did you find?”

“Mr. Grady maintained a substantial record of his business dealings. There were numerous letters detailing his relationships, receipts for monies paid to him, and ledger entries with copious notes attached . . .”

“Objection, your Honor!  Mr. Grady is dead. How is this correspondence relevant to the question of Mr. Cartwright’s abandonment of his family?” Turner interrupted.

Before Henry could gather his wits to reply, Wood prodded Miss Jones to continue.

“Did you find any mention of Mr. Cartwright’s trustworthy friend in these records?”

“We found numerous mentions of this person, including Mr. Grady’s payment of debts on this person’s behalf to a Mr. Edgar Forrest as well as payments made directly to this individual in return for questionable services rendered to Mr. Grady himself.  Ezra Grady kept very good records.”

“Your Honor!” Turner shouted over the increasing noise in the courtroom. “I fail to see a connection.”

“Please step down, Miss Jones,” Henry directed.  Wood did not object to the dismissal of his witness, but merely helped her to his seat.

He was a fool. How had he failed to realize that Grady would have kept records? This certainly explained the stacks of documents on the petitioner’s table. Why hadn’t he confiscated everything from Grady’s office as soon as he’d heard about the scoundrel’s death? And to think Cartwright had kept his note after all these years!

Swallowing down the lump of panic, Henry directed the petitioner to approach the bench.

Cartwright stood before him, so very smug and self-righteous. The man’s insufferable lawyer stood by his side, along with Turner whose earlier confusion looked to be shifting to a growing suspicion.

“All I have to do, Cartwright,” Henry warned in low tones, “is sign this order,” tapping the document in front of him, “and your boy will become Mr. Grant’s ward.”

“Mr. Grant,” Ben said, “died last night in a fair fight. Joseph is in the safekeeping of Dr. Paul Martin.”

Grant was dead!!  Under any other circumstance, Henry would have celebrated with champagne.

“You have nothing, nothing, that cannot be explained away . . .”

“Your Honor,” Wood interrupted, “we have someone who will testify to witnessing Mr. Grady and this person of interest conspiring in Mr. Cartwright’s disappearance and the recent assaults on his sons.”

“You have a witness?” This was impossible to believe. But Cartwright stood perfectly calm and utterly sure of himself. Wood nodded to the judge before directing his gaze out to the courtroom. As if called, a figure swathed in dark clothing rose from a seat in the gallery.  Rozelle Lindstrom met her brother’s eyes across the crowded room. Sorrowful acceptance and grim determination were written on her face, and Henry knew he had lost.

Henry pressed his forehead against his clasped hands.  There was no help for it but to salvage the situation as best he could.

“Mr. Cartwright,” he whispered when he found his voice, “you have convinced me you are indeed a fit parent. I will order your son be restored to your care.”

“Judge Lindstrom,” Wood interjected, “Obviously, Mr. Cartwright’s son must be restored in a public declaration. However, the matter of the conspiracy against Mr. Cartwright is not so easily disposed of.  My client and his sons have been dealt a grievous injustice, and young Joseph, in particular, has been seriously harmed. The evidence against the conspirator must be turned over to the sheriff and territorial officials.”

The consequences were too horrible to contemplate. Henry saw it all: a humiliating arrest, the degradation of trial, the loss of his home and comforts, and finally, the terrifying prospect of prison. He would do anything to save himself from that fate.

“I would like to speak with Mr. Cartwright privately,” he requested. Wood caught Turner’s eye and nodded.  Both lawyers stepped several paces away from the bench. Henry bowed his head in mute supplication.  Cartwright had always been known for his mercy and compassion.  Perhaps, even now, Henry could be forgiven.

“You sent me on that journey seven years ago,” Ben said quietly, “You were in league with Grady.”

“Ezra helped me in times of difficulty . . .”

“Oh, come now, let’s be honest, Henry,” Ben prodded. “You did him favors. You sold him your influence and knowledge so he could prey on the vulnerable. You made certain my sons could barely scrape by on your court-ordered allowance while I was gone.  You would have given him my youngest son if Abel Stoddard hadn’t arrived.”

“Ben, please, I most humbly regret my actions,” Henry appealed. “That scoundrel, Grady, had me under his thumb, and recent circumstances compelled me to make foolish decisions.  Ben, I’m begging you. I would never survive prison.”

Cartwright regarded him without a trace of pity in his expression.

“Henry, I won’t press charges if certain conditions are met.” Cartwright slid a document across the desk. The judge read the page quickly, eyes widening at the implication.

“This is intolerable! I would have nothing.”

“As always, Henry, it is your choice. You can take responsibility for your actions with Sheriff Coffee, or you can accept my conditions.” When Henry failed to respond, Ben turned to walk away.

“Wait,” Henry gasped, “I accept your conditions.  I just . . . I thought you were a merciful man.”

Cartwright favored the judge with a grim smile.  “Consider it restitution.”

XXXXXXXXXX

A parade of emotions marched across the judge’s face:  terrified aggression, sniveling submission, and finally utter confusion. Had the wretch expected Ben to profit from the conditions outlined? There was no point in explaining. He could see Henry would never understand, believing as he did that every heart was as grasping and selfish as his own.  Returning to their respective seats, Ben and the lawyers allowed the defeated judge to gather his wits and words for one final courtroom speech.

“Upon careful consideration of the testimony and evidence presented today, I must conclude that it is in the best interests of the child, Joseph Francis Cartwright, to be restored immediately to his father’s care and custody without reservation or restriction.”  Henry announced the decision with uncharacteristic directness.

Excited chatter and muffled applause rippled through the courtroom. Several onlookers reached across the railing separating the petitioner from the audience to clap Ben on the back and utter congratulations.  He was hardly aware of the gestures, so intent was he to hear the remainder of the judge’s speech.

“I have dedicated many years of service to the people of this territory,” Henry declared.  Ben managed not to roll his eyes in disgust.

“Recently, a challenge has been presented I cannot ignore,” Henry continued, darting a look at Ben.  “Therefore, so that I may pursue various opportunities afforded by friends and acquaintances of high standing back East, I am tendering my resignation as circuit judge effective immediately.” Henry signed the documents in front of him with savage flourish.  Both documents were pressed hurriedly into Mr. Turner’s hands, and Henry P. Lindstrom, former circuit judge, fled the courtroom before his audience had time to react.

After so many hours of fear for his youngest son and anger at the betrayal that had brought them all to this pass, Henry’s abrupt departure left Ben a bit dizzy from the residual tension. The longing to have his sons safely home with him had never been stronger.

Before he could speak his longing, Hoss was beside him with an arm around his shoulder.  Miss Jones, her mother, and Miss Lindstrom crowded alongside.

“You did it, Pa,” Hoss exclaimed, “You took care of that galoot and got Little Joe back for us.” Hoss’s expressive face was bright with affection and pride.

“Hush, son,” warned Ben, mindful of Miss Lindstrom’s feelings.

Miss Lindstrom’s gaze was pinned to the door through which Henry had escaped. “He never looked my way . . . he never even said, ‘goodbye.’” Her whispered words brimmed with heartache.

“Miss Lindstrom?” Everyone turned at Lamont Turner’s interruption. Carefully avoiding Ben Cartwright’s eyes, the young lawyer approached the lady.

“Miss Rozelle,” Turner said, “the judge wanted you to have this since he’ll be moving east.”

With trembling hands, Rozelle opened the document prepared by Hiram Wood and so recently signed by her brother.  She smiled gratefully at Turner before giving her full attention back to Ben.

“Oh, Mr. Cartwright, Henry has given me the house!  He does care for me, just a little, after all.” Rozelle practically threw herself at Ben and wept against his chest.

Over her head, Ben mouthed, “Well done!” at the young lawyer who nodded and quietly slipped away.  His shirt front was thoroughly wet with tears before Margaret Jones was able to coax Rozelle away from the rancher. The Jones ladies led the weeping woman from the courtroom, supporting her with loving attention. She would be well cared for, and Ben was finally free to follow his instincts.

“Hoss, I can’t wait any longer. We need to go to your brothers.” Ben grabbed at Hoss’s arm.

Striding outside into the weak November sunshine, the men had just swung into their saddles when Hoss let out a loud whoop of joy and relief.

“Look over there, Pa! Little Joe persuaded that doctor to bring him home after all!”

XXXXXXXXXX

It was all Adam could do to prevent Joe from leaping off the rig into Pa’s arms. He kept hold of the kid until Pa was reaching up for his youngest. With Adam’s help, Joe slid smoothly to the ground and was immediately wrapped into a warm embrace.

“Good to see you, brother,” Hoss told him.

“It’s good to be back,” Adam lifted an eyebrow. “Is everything settled?”

“Yep, Mr. Wood took all that stuff you and Miss Abigail found out about the judge and Grady over to the sheriff.  I ain’t sure how it’ll all turn out.”

They stood together in companionable silence watching their father and little brother while waving away curious bystanders.

Finally, Joe pushed back a little from his father’s chest.

“Pa, I did just what Adam told me to do! I hollered, and I fought, and I did everything I could do to find you all.” Joe’s face was ecstatic.

Ben reached for his oldest son. Adam stepped forward to clasp his father’s hand, gently resisting being pulled into a public embrace. His father’s eyes met his with a silent question, “Are you all right?”

Adam responded with a little nod and a confident wink that didn’t fool his father one bit. They’d talk privately later.

XXXXXXXXXX

Henry settled against the hard bench seat. No amount of shifting could make it comfortable, but there was no point in fussing about it. A stagecoach never afforded much in the way of luxury. Envisioning the long trip ahead of him trapped inside a drafty box bouncing along rutted roads, Henry tried to console himself. At the very least, the trip would provide plenty of time to contemplate the possible opportunities his exile might present.

The ex-judge had always prided himself on his optimism.  Surely, this exile (no, he wouldn’t use that term again), this journey would prove itself to be the beginning of a magnificent adventure.  Free from the threat of Grant’s violence as well as the millstone of family responsibility, Henry believed he’d soon find himself once again in possession of a lucrative opportunity. Of course, it would have been easier if that madman hadn’t insisted he leave the West altogether. He was rather fond of California, for instance. However, Cartwright had been quite clear, and Henry had been in no position to argue.

According to the stage driver there would only be two other passengers sharing the coach for the first leg of the trip. Henry was satisfied he wouldn’t be unduly crowded. Content with his own company, he rested his head against the seat back and closed his eyes. The door opened, and the coach dipped with the weight of the boarding passengers. Henry didn’t bother acknowledging their presence; he’d found this behavior most frequently assured his privacy.  A shout from the driver’s seat and the sound of a whip preceded their rapid departure from Virginia City.

Shortly after their descent from town leveled out to the main road, Henry was aware of a match being struck followed by the scent of cigar smoke.  How rude!  Opening his eyes, he prepared to blister his fellow passenger’s ears regarding stage coach courtesies.

It took him a moment to recognize the sharply dressed businessman opposite. Beside him sat a preposterously large man whose scarred knuckles rested on his knees. When realization of the businessman’s identity dawned, Henry’s chest constricted painfully, and the cigar smoke was the least of the threats to his ability to breathe.

“Hello, Henry,” Edgar Forrest took a long draw from his cigar. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

XXXXXXXXXX

Joe had never been so happy to be home.  His pa had kept a hand on his arm or shoulder practically since the minute they’d been reunited, his brothers had hovered and fussed over him, and Hop Sing had fed him until he couldn’t eat another bite. It all felt so comfortable and right that Joe wasn’t sure he ever wanted to leave the Ponderosa again—although Pa and Miss Jones might have something to say about that notion.

Doc Martin had warned him that his injuries would ache, and he might feel a little feverish for a few days.  Joe wasn’t worried; he figured if he could deal with Grant, he could live with a sore arm and back.  It didn’t keep Pa from worrying, though. Joe found himself tucked into bed right after supper, and it looked like his pa wasn’t planning on even leaving the room.  Pa just pulled a chair close, turned the lamp light real low, and sat reading his Bible.

Joe wanted to sit up and talk about everything that had happened.  He wanted to make sure Pa knew he was all right, and that he shouldn’t worry so much. He wanted to tell Pa and his brothers how very, very grateful he was to be a Cartwright and have a family that never, ever let a fella down. Joe wanted all those things and more, but his body just wouldn’t cooperate.  The longer he lay there, snuggled into his own bed with his pa nearby, the sleepier he felt. When he finally let go of trying to keep his eyes open, he felt a warm hand on his forehead brushing back his hair.

“Have sweet dreams, Little Joe.”

Joe smiled because he didn’t have any doubts at all.

“I will, Pa.”

THE END

Author’s note:  In the United States, as early as 1692, local governments maintained the right to remove children from abusive parents.  Child protective agencies were set up by states in the 1840s, and the courts were regarded as responsible for such decisions.  The first criminal prosecution of an abusive parent occurred in 1874.

 

Tags:  Abel Stoddard, Adam Cartwright, Ben Cartwright, Family, Hop Sing, Hoss Cartwright, hostage, Joe / Little Joe Cartwright