Written for the 2016 Ponderosa Paddlewheel Poker Tournament.

Summary:  The boys are determined to find a birthday gift their father will love.  They succeed too well.

Rated:  T     Word count:  6773

Enthralled

Adam didn’t notice it at first, tucked in a corner surrounded by stacks of books and shelves stuffed with fussy bric-a-brac.

One never knew what might be found in Weber’s Household Emporium, and Adam frequently passed an enjoyable hour poking through the ever-changing, eclectic inventory. Fritz Weber had the knack of turning up the most interesting items.

Although he didn’t have anything specific in mind, Adam hoped to discover something suitable for Pa’s birthday. With any luck, the whatever-it-was would surprise and please Pa while effectively wiping away any lingering memory of last year’s disaster that had nearly cost Joe’s life.  Privately, the brothers had made a pact –no more “special” horses.

When Adam sneezed for the fourth time, he was nearly ready to give up sorting through piles of goods that most folks would uncharitably term junk. Couldn’t Weber be bothered at all to display his stock to better advantage?  Really, it was a wonder the man sold anything at all.

Adam’s persnickety nature got the better of him. He spent at least ten minutes gathering and stacking the books neatly and arranging the glazed vases and figurines by size and color. Satisfied with his work, he stepped back to admire the new display and to wipe the sweat from his brow. His backward progress was halted abruptly when the sharp corner of a heretofore unnoticed piece of furniture connected with his backside. Whirling about to scowl at the offending object, he instead gaped in admiration.

A small slant-lid secretary, its polished surfaces glowing from the deep red cherry wood accented with shining brass on the drawers and sides, stood in graceful splendor. How had he missed it? The piece was as out of place among the gaudy, excessively carved furnishings as a nun in the midst of courtesans. When Adam checked the price inked on the card tucked into one of the drawers, he saw an opportunity.

“Fritz, what can you tell me about this desk?”

The store owner ambled over, expertly maneuvering through the displays.

“You have a fine eye, Adam!” Fritz Weber praised him. “This little beauty was part of an estate sale that Mrs. Fair purchased for her mansion. She had her agent buy the entire lot sight unseen. Unfortunately, this desk didn’t complement the mansion’s décor, and I was able to take it off her hands.”

“Ah. I can see how it wouldn’t suit her taste. It looks old.”

“Old!  Adam, this work of art is over one hundred years old. It was crafted on the east coast from the finest cherry and mahogany for one of the most illustrious military figures of our Revolution, General Charles Lee. Since his death, it has graced some of our country’s most elegant homes.”

The desk was certainly lovely. Of course, it wouldn’t really suit the Ponderosa’s rustic decor any better than it had suited the Fair mansion. Even so, there was something enchanting about the item. But, where in the world would it go if he did bring it home? He supposed if the liquor cabinet was moved to the dining room, the desk would fit nicely against the stair landing next to the window. Now, if Marie were still alive, she would have immediately appreciated its elegance and insisted on purchasing it. Perhaps Pa would appreciate its history . . .

Adam pursed his lips in contemplation. He was pretty certain he was about to do something spontaneous, and in his experience that never ended well.

“All very interesting, Fritz.  Even so, one hundred and twenty-five dollars is a lot of money for an old desk.”

Fritz’s eyes sparkled at the challenge in Adam’s tone.

“You’re right; it’s a great deal of money for an old desk.  But it is a very small sum for a piece of history.”

“Fifty dollars.”

“For you, I can come down to one hundred.”

“Seventy-five dollars is my final offer.”

There was a significant period of silence interrupted only by the ticking of the many clocks scattered throughout the store.  Finally, Fritz heaved a great sigh and raised a sorrowful face to the heavens.

“The Cartwrights are old friends and excellent customers.  If this desk will make you happy, then I’m content to sacrifice it at such a low price.”

The bargaining had gone better than he’d expected. Seventy-five dollars was a fair price for the desk, and if Hoss and Joe wanted to split the cost with him later so much the better. They clasped hands to seal the deal, and Fritz promised to have the desk securely wrapped and stowed in Adam’s wagon within the hour.

Pleased with himself, Adam departed for a leisurely lunch at the Silver Dollar that was greatly enhanced by a couple of beers. Adam was whistling a cheery tune as he pushed through the bat wing doors into the glare of the afternoon sun.  He’d nearly reached his wagon when he was accosted by a young man.

“Mr. Cartwright?  My name is Kade McNeill. Do you have a moment?”  Mr. McNeill insinuated himself between Adam and the buckboard.

“What can I do for you?” Adam was curious rather than concerned.  Kade McNeill didn’t look like trouble.  He wore his thick auburn hair brushed back from a high forehead.  His grey suit draped a form that was athletic without being muscular. He could look Adam in the eye without strain, but the gaze was empty of any threat.

“I just spoke with Mr. Weber. He’s told me you purchased a particular desk, a small cherry and mahogany secretary.”

“That’s right.” Adam stepped closer to his wagon, and Kade McNeill moved obligingly out of the way.

“Sir, I have been searching for that desk for some time. I am willing to buy it from you right now, at any price you care to name.”

“Mr. McNeill, I appreciate the offer, but I didn’t purchase the desk to sell. My plan is to give it to my father.” Adam swung himself up into the wagon seat and grabbed the reins.

“Forgive me for saying it, but this desk isn’t fit for a son to present to his father. I would be delighted to help you find a better, more suitable item . . . perhaps another desk, for your father . . .”

On any other occasion, Adam might have agreed to the man’s terms. After all, it had been an impulse purchase, it wasn’t as if Adam had searched high and low for this particular desk. Maybe he should just . . . No, Adam found the desk, and he felt completely certain it was the perfect gift. Pa would love it.

Kade McNeill was able to read the decision from Adam’s face.

“Please, Mr. Cartwright, this desk is very important to me. Won’t you reconsider?”

“Thank you for your generous offer,” Adam slapped reins and the wagon rolled forward. “But I’m keeping the desk.  I’m sorry.”

Tipping his hat to the gentleman, Adam eased the wagon into the bustling flow of traffic. He didn’t look back, but he could have sworn he heard Kade McNeill mutter, “I’m very afraid you will be sorry, Mr. Cartwright.”

**********

He’d been itching to have a good look at his birthday gift since its presentation the night before.  After breakfast, the boys had headed out to work, leaving him alone with his treasure.

Ben gently swiped his hand across the gleaming surface of his new desk. He’d admit to being surprised—this was certainly a departure from the usual saddles, rifles, brandy, and God forbid, horses. As soon as he’d seen the desk, Ben was willing to bet that Adam had been responsible for the choice. His oldest son had looked pleased and a bit smug while Hoss and Joe had seemed hopeful but anxious about Ben’s reaction. Regardless of the instigator, Ben was tremendously pleased with the gift. He’d always been a history buff, and he was tickled to have an item associated with one of the generals of the Revolution. To hear that another collector had tried to buy the desk from Adam added to its cachet.

Aside from the history aspect, the desk was curiously compelling. Ben carefully lowered the slant top, propping it securely on the rests. Drawing a chair away from the nearby round table, Ben sat at the desk and gazed at his own reflection in the polished wood. What should he do with this little marvel? His massive oak desk contained his ledgers and receipts. He found that he disliked the idea of sullying this antique with something as mundane as business documents. This desk was special; it should be reserved for more intellectual, perhaps even spiritual pursuits. Thinking hard, Ben remembered a handsome pen and ink well set he had received from the Cattlemen’s Association. He found it (well, Hop Sing found it at his request) and installed the set in a place of honor on the desk. He then liberated a box of fine stationary hidden behind dusty volumes in the bookcase and placed it close at hand ready for needful correspondence.  Ben surveyed the set up with a bit of frustration. Everything was all well and good, but he didn’t actually have anyone to correspond with at the moment.

Struck with an idea, Ben dashed upstairs and drew a small trunk out from underneath his bed. Pushing aside various keepsakes, he at last unearthed a large bound notebook and a small bundle of pencils. Trotting back down the stairs with his finds, Ben settled into the chair, spread the notebook open, sharpened a couple of pencils, and began to sketch.

**********

Hoss took care to stomp off the dried mud clinging to his boots before entering the house. Tracking dirt onto Hop Sing’s clean floors was a sure-fired way to get on the wrong side of their cook. Hoss would rather remain in the man’s good graces; it made it much easier to wheedle a snack before dinner.

He noticed right off that Pa was working away on something at his new desk. He had his head down and acted as if he hadn’t even heard Hoss come through the door. In fact, Pa didn’t look up when Hoss walked right up alongside him. When he saw what Pa was doing, Hoss was flabbergasted.

“I didn’t know you could draw.”

Pa actually jumped in surprise at the sound of his son’s voice. Huh, that was something, Pa didn’t usually get so involved in stuff he shut the world out.

Pa looked up. He wore just about the biggest grin that Hoss had ever seen.

“I can draw, son.  I just don’t usually bother. There’s always plenty to do; and frankly, I haven’t thought about trying my hand for ages.”

“Do you mind if I take a look?” Hoss gestured at the sketch book.

“Well, don’t expect much. I am very out of practice.”  Ben handed the book over.

Doggone it. It looked like Pa had been working on this for hours. There were several renderings of the lake, a nicely worked view of the house, and several pages of images of Indians.

“These are fine drawings, Pa. You should do this more often. Now, I know where Adam gets his talent.”

The way Ben beamed at his son’s praise warmed Hoss’s heart. Usually, Pa shrugged off compliments. Hoss paged through the sketch book again until he reached the Indian drawings.

“I ain’t never seen Indians dressed like that before. Where’d you come up these pictures?”

They both took a moment to examine the sketches. Ben’s face was pulled into a slight frown. The Indians he’d pictured were not dressed as the Paiutes or other tribes they knew. The hair was wrong, the clothes were wrong, even the campsite shown looked different –instead of hide-draped teepees, the shelters looked permanent and substantial.  Outside one of the structures, a woman cooked at a fire while two little boys played at her side. The homely little scene made Hoss smile.

“I just drew from my imagination, I suppose. I can’t remember meeting any Indians dressed like that,” Ben replied.  “Maybe I saw something like this in a book somewhere.”

“Well, wherever it came from, I think you did real good. Look, I see Hop Sing setting the table. It looks like we’re goin’ to eat soon.”

“You go ahead, son. I’m not hungry.” Ben turned back to his sketch book.

Pa must be really enthralled with his sketches to ignore dinner. If the boys had learned one thing over the years, it was that family made time to break bread together. It was a nice change to see Pa havin’ so much fun.

**********

“Evenin’, Pa!”

Little Joe announced his arrival with a cheery shout and a bang of the front door. The noise interrupted Ben’s train of thought, and he snapped his head up to glare at his youngest son.

“Joseph, when will you get it into your head to come through the door like a civilized man,” Ben growled, rapping his knuckles sharply against the desk top to emphasize his warning.

In the face of his father’s irritation, Joe broad smile faded. One hand went up to first touch, and then to massage his forehead.

“Sorry, Pa.” Joe whispered before turning away to wash up for supper.

**********

Ben flexed his hand gingerly before grasping his fork to dig into the apple pie Hop Sing placed in front of him. He’d had to abandon his sketch book when his hand became too sore to hold a pencil. Although he’d missed the meal, he’d joined his sons at the dining table for dessert. It was a pleasant ending to a pleasant day although his muscles were protesting the hours spent bending over his scribbles.

Stretching his neck and rolling his shoulders produced audible creaks and pops. Hoss chuckled softly at the sounds while Adam grinned openly.

“Tough day, Pa?”

“Don’t get cheeky with me, boy,” Ben replied in wry tones. “My day was just fine.” Warm apple pie followed by a swallow of Hop Sing’s excellent coffee really hit the spot.

Peering over the rim of his coffee cup, Ben took a closer look at his youngest. Ben noticed the boy’s face was sickly pale and dotted with perspiration.

“Little Joe? You don’t seem like yourself tonight.  Are you feeling all right?”

Joe rubbed at his forehead with a weary hand. “Sorry, Pa. I’ve got an awful headache.”

“Why don’t you ask Hop Sing for a headache powder and turn in early?” Ben suggested.

“I think I will. Good night, everyone.” Joe ducked into the kitchen for a few minutes before heading up the stairs.

Adam excused himself from the table and settled into the blue chair next the fireplace. Opening his book, he prepared to read. Ben and Hoss followed him, settling themselves comfortably into their own preferred spots.

“Pa,” Adam said. “Remember, Hiram is expecting you in town tomorrow to go over those contracts.”

Ben huffed indignantly. “I remember my appointments quite clearly, young man. I may be another year older, but I haven’t lost my wits, yet.”

“Just checking,” Adam replied, barely dodging the pillow his father tossed at him.

**********

“You are very persistent, Mr. McNeill.”

The waiter had just delivered their meals when the young man had slipped into a vacant chair next to Hoss. Ben politely put aside his fork and knife to offer his undivided attention.

Kade McNeill smiled apologetically. “Despite appearances, I really don’t mean to be a nuisance. I understand from your response that your oldest son mentioned I have already offered to buy the desk?”

“He has. I’m afraid I’m going to give you the same answer.”

McNeill nodded. “Perhaps you would like to know more about your desk’s provenance?”

“It’s what?” asked Hoss, face screwed up with confusion.

“Provenance is merely a fancy word for the desk’s history, its ‘life story’, if you will.” McNeill offered Hoss a friendly smile. “As you have already been told, this desk was crafted for General Charles Lee, a man acclaimed as a hero for his defense of Charleston. What many people don’t know is that the general was court-martialed following the Battle of Monmouth for disobedience, misbehavior, and disrespect toward his Commander in Chief, George Washington. As a result of his actions, he lost his position in the Continental Army. He died without heirs a few years later.”

Apparently satisfied that he held his audience’s attention, McNeill continued. “Even fewer people know that Lee had married a Mohawk woman who bore him twin sons. The Mohawk Indians gave him a name they felt described his character, Boiling Water.”

“Sounds like that general was a hot head,” Hoss offered.

Ben was feeling a bit impatient. “Mr. McNeill, where are you going with all of this?”

McNeill leaned forward, “Since the desk was sold from Lee’s estate, it has been the property of many people—both illustrious and obscure. Each of those households has been visited with grave misfortune. I promise you, I do not exaggerate when I say that the trail following this desk is a string of murder, suicide and grisly accident.”

“Are you suggesting that this desk has been the cause of these tragedies?”

“History speaks for itself, Mr. Cartwright.”

Ben glanced over at Hoss. Was his son buying any of this nonsense?  Hoss met his questioning gaze with a wink.

“Mr. McNeill,” Hoss said. “It’s awful that terrible things have happened to people over the years, but it just don’t make no sense that a pretty little piece of furniture is the cause of it. You’re talking like it’s alive or something. Stuff like this, tragedies, and accidents, happen all the time to . . . everyone, and there ain’t no desk to blame.”

“Nevertheless, this particular desk has been cursed by a malevolent force . . .”

“If that’s true,” Hoss asked, “why do you want it so bad?”

“I would destroy it. Burn it to ash before it prompted further heartache.”

Ben picked up his cutlery. It was time to put an end to this foolishness, and he hoped McNeill would take the hint.

“I appreciate your offer, but I will be keeping the desk.”

Kade McNeill took the hint. Rising from his chair, he offered a hand to Ben and Hoss before departing.

“Before I go, let me tell you about the last owner of this desk. He was a fine gentleman—wise and kind and virtuous. He loved his family, especially his son. But within a short time of owning the desk, his kind personality changed and the love he had for his son turned to bitter disapproval. Finally, he and the son argued; and in a fit of rage, the father drove a knife into his son’s heart before taking his own life.”

A wave of nausea at the brutal vision the man had put in his mind threatened Ben’s composure. Swallowing back the sick feeling, he listened to McNeill’s final remarks.

“So, you’ll have to bear with me. I don’t believe I can stop trying to convince you to let me have the desk.”  McNeill turned and left the restaurant.

Ben sat in shocked silence, appetite gone.  What exactly did a man say after such a tale?

“Pa, that was the craziest story I ever heard,” Hoss declared before digging into the meal cooling in front of him. He paused and a smile softened his worried expression. “Wait ‘til I tell Adam your birthday present has a stalker!”

**********

Pa was sure rattled about the McNeill fella’s story. He’d hardly touched his food, and Hoss couldn’t get him interested in much conversation. It was a shame that dude should take away some of the pleasure Pa was getting from that new desk of his.

Hoss knew his family thought he was an easy mark for every drifter and con man with a good story. There could even be a bit of truth to that opinion. While he would admit to a soft heart, he had enough common sense to know a ghost story when he heard one. And he sure didn’t believe in curses. There’d been enough foolish talk around town about the “Cartwright Curse” to get his dander up.  Just because bad things happened to good folks didn’t mean they were cursed.

“Ready to head on home, son?”

Hoss nodded and pushed his chair away from the table. He threw a comforting arm around his pa’s shoulders and was rewarded with a warm smile. Soon, they were untying their horses and getting ready to mount when Harvey Purcell hustled up. It just figured they wouldn’t get out of town without more fuss.

“Hoss, Ben . . . it’s good to see you,” Harvey greeted them. “I’ve been keeping an eye out for you.”

“What can I help you with,” Pa answered. Hoss didn’t think it was his imagination that Pa looked a little wary of what was coming.

“Let me show you.” Harvey reached into a pocket and withdrew a small fabric-covered book. He handed it to Ben and pointed to the inside cover. Hoss peeked over Pa’s shoulder to see what the fuss was about.

Mrs. Dorothea Cartwright.  Joseph and Dorothea Cartwright.  Mrs. Joseph Cartwright. The titles were written all over the inside of the little book.

“I don’t understand,” Pa said.

“This is my youngest daughter’s book. Dorothea is thirteen years old,” Harvey said.

“Now, Harvey, I can’t believe that Joseph would . . .” Ben stopped speaking when Harvey held up a hand.

“No, Ben! Don’t worry. Little Joe is a good boy, and I know he hasn’t been meddling with my little girl.” Harvey smiled as he went on to explain. “You know boys ‘cause you raised three sons. I know girls ‘cause I’ve got four daughters.  Dorothea is my youngest, and believe me, I’ve seen this before. She’s got a bad case of puppy love. Sooner or later—probably when she next sees Little Joe—she’s liable to spill out all of these growin’ up feelings on him. I thought if I let you know you could talk to him. That way, he’d be prepared and can let her down gently.”

Hoss breathed easier.  He’d never believe Little Joe would take advantage of any woman, much less a little girl, but it was good to hear this little girl’s father felt the same way.

Ben nodded and patted Harvey’s arm. “You’re a good father, Harvey. Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be sure to talk to Joseph.”

The two fathers exchanged a few words of farewell before Hoss and Ben were finally on their way home.

“Pa, you don’t blame Little Joe for Dorothea bein’ sweet on him, do you?”

Ben chuckled.  “No, I don’t blame him. I’ll talk to him tonight and let him know to treat her kindly.”

**********

Ben added a bit of shading to the drawing he’d been working on for the last hour. It had been a relief to get back home, put his cares aside, sit at his desk, and work on his drawings. He tried to put Kade McNeill’s lunatic ramblings out of his mind. Just thinking about the man made his temper rise. Of all the fool notions!  He turned his attention back to the sketch, but his temper got the better of him, and bearing down too hard, the pencil snapped in his hand.

Fiddlesticks. Ben searched the desk top in vain for the pen knife he used to sharpen pencils. Even though he knew the desk’s drawers were empty, he opened and searched each desk drawer, reaching into the corners for something useful.  When his questing hand reached the back of the lowest drawer, he touched something he hadn’t noticed before.

Pulling the drawer completely out of the desk, Ben searched the drawer’s bottom again for the weak spot he’d noticed.  A portion of the wood had moved, had given in just a little . . . there!  He found it.  Pressing firmly, Ben slid aside a thin veneer of the wood concealing a small niche.  Reaching inside, Ben withdrew a knife.

Laying the drawer carefully onto the floor, Ben held the knife up to the light. A gleaming blade extended six inches from a hilt inlaid with ivory.  Ben tested the blade, drawing it gently across his palm.

The sound of his sons’ voices carried through the open window.  Adam and Joe were laughing and joking, jostling each other aside to be the first through the front door.

Without thinking, Ben tossed the knife into the top desk drawer and closed it quickly. He grabbed the bottom drawer and attempted to slide it back into place. He muttered a few choice phrases half-remembered from his sailing days as he struggled.  He almost had it in place when Joe and Adam came through the door.

“Evening, Pa,” Adam greeted his father. “Do you need help with that drawer?”

“Hmmm?  No, no, I’ve got it.”  Ben rubbed a hand across his eyes.  Maybe he had been straining his eyes. It was hard to focus. For a moment, the light in the room flared and dimmed. He could see Adam clearly as well as Hoss who had emerged from the kitchen, sandwich in hand, to greet his brothers. Joseph stood at the edge, his form nearly obscured by the darkness. A firm shake of his head, and Ben’s sight returned to normal.

“What were you two yammerin’ about out there?” Hoss asked.  “I could hear you in the kitchen.”

“Now, that’s quite a story,” Adam replied. Little Joe took a swipe at his oldest brother, missed by a mile, and then tried to put his hand over Adam’s mouth.

“Don’t listen to him, Pa,” Joe called out. “He’s just tryin’ to get me into trouble.”

“Stop that, you rude pup!” Adam pushed Joe aside, and the two of them wrestled for a moment until Adam managed to subdue Joe with a headlock. Watching their horseplay was getting on Ben’s nerves.

“As I was saying,” Adam began-pausing to smack Joe lightly on the top of the head, “It seems the family Romeo has managed to promise three girls that he will be taking them to the barn dance on Friday.”

“Stop it, Adam,” Joe shouted. “It’s not like that. It’s not even my fault.”

Their arguing was nearly drowned out by Hoss’s bellow of laughter. Ben could feel a headache start to form.

Wasn’t this just like Joseph? Always the cause of trouble. A perfectly peaceful evening ruined for everybody by his foolishness. Him and his women. Scandalous. Sinful. The Boulette woman. The gypsy woman. Always expecting his family to pick up the pieces, to save him from himself. Even today, a father had complained about Joe’s philandering ways.

“Enough,” Ben roared. His sons froze; it was almost comical. “Let go of your brother, Adam.”

Adam released Joe and stepped away. Ben swayed a bit on his feet from the force of the emotions swelling from his chest. He steadied himself against the edge of the desk.

“Joseph,” Ben said. “We have all been very patient with your shortcomings, with your proclivities . . .” Ben paused at the sound of Adam’s sharp inhale. “But this is the end. I never thought I would raise a cad, a . . . a bounder who trifles with women’s affections or associates with women of ill repute. Someone who shames his family and himself.”

“Pa?” Joseph’s face was a study in shock. Good, perhaps Ben had his attention.

Ben sat back down at his desk before continuing. “I’ll have you know, Hoss and I were forced to apologize for your behavior with Dorothea Purcell. Her father is quite upset. You may have gone too far this time, boy.”

“Pa,” Hoss interrupted, “Mr. Purcell wasn’t upset . . .”

“Stop trying to protect your brother,” Ben growled. “Joseph, I’m warning you; mend your ways.”

“Pa, if you would just . . .,” Joe began.

Ben gave the slightly open desk drawer a hard push. It finally closed with a loud bang.

“Shut your mouth, boy. Don’t say another word tonight.”  Joseph’s mouth shut with an almost audible click.

Ah, blessed silence, finally. Had he gotten through to the boy? Apparently not. Rather than display remorse, his youngest boy’s expressive eyes pleaded for understanding, for sympathy. When Ben failed to respond to the silent plea, the boy’s eyes filled with tears.  It was sickening to watch.  Where had he gone wrong? He supposed he could spare a bit of advice.

“Grow up, Joseph.”

**********

Adam finally got out of bed.  Clearly, he wouldn’t get any sleep, and he usually fretted better on his feet.

He couldn’t remember anything that had shaken and saddened him more than the scene between his father and Little Joe.  It didn’t help that Adam felt a bit guilty for bringing up the barn dance in the first place. He had never dreamed Ben would have reacted so viciously. Their father had a bit of a temper, but he had never–at least until now—been deliberately hurtful. The words Pa had flung at Joe were so cold and cruel that someone who didn’t know them would be forgiven for believing that Ben hated Little Joe.

The evening that followed Ben’s outburst had been painful for everyone. Ben had immediately turned his back to his family and began to draw. Nothing Adam or Hoss said made the slightest impact; their father hadn’t even looked up from his sketches.

Little Joe hadn’t spoken another word. He’d merely climbed the stairs and gone to his room.

No one had sat down for dinner.

Hoss had hauled Adam out to the porch and bent his ear for too long with the wild tale Kade McNeill had spouted.  Honestly, curses?  Ben Cartwright might be acting strangely, but Adam wasn’t ready to call in a priest for an exorcism.

He and Hoss had tried to talk to Little Joe. They’d gone to his room to find him stretched out on his bed, mute and miserable. The only response he gave them were shrugs, finally dismissing them altogether when he rolled away pulling his quilt over him.

Adam wiped a weary hand over his face.  The clock in the great room sounded four in the morning.  He might as well get dressed. He thought if he moved quietly he could get to the kitchen for hot water without rousing the entire house.  Pulling his robe around him, he slipped from his room and closed his door with a soft click. As he started down the stairs, he was surprised to see the lamps were still burning in the great room. His father was slumped in the red leather chair, chin against his chest, dead to the world. A bottle of brandy was nestled between his knees, the sketch book lay open on the rug at his father’s feet. He didn’t stir when Adam moved the bottle to the hearth.

What was so darn compelling about those sketches, anyway? Adam picked up them up, flipping through the pages. He smiled at the drawings of the house and lake. There was no doubt his pa had talent; the images were charming. The pictures of the Indian village were also well done. Adam stopped smiling when he reached the final pages of the sketch book. His father had drawn realistic scenes of brutal carnage: men dismembered, dying, and dead on a battlefield.

**********

Ben fumed. His errant youngest son continued to be a thorn in his side. His laziness was contagious; Hoss and Adam had dithered and dallied waiting for Joe to emerge from his room until Ben had, in no uncertain terms, ordered the two out of the house.

The Good Book said that when a father spared the rod, he spoiled the child. He’d been too easy on Joseph. Far better to punish him now than allow sinful ways. Joseph was about to find out he wasn’t too old for a “necessary talk.”

Creaking boards and the soft thud of boots against wood signaled Joseph was finally ready to face the day. Ben settled comfortably in his desk chair, sharpening a pencil with the knife he’d found. Joe himself finally appeared at the top of the stairs, his surly attitude evident.

“Good morning, Pa.”

“There’s not much of the morning left, is there?”  Ben continued working at the pencil tip, sparing only a glance for his son.

“Sorry,” Joe said. “I guess I overslept. I’ll head out to the north pasture like we planned.” He came slowly down the steps, stopping on the landing.

What was the boy waiting for?  If he was supposed to be out working, he should be moving with purpose, not tiptoeing around like a child.

“I was hoping we could talk before I go. I’m not sure what’s wrong, but I thought that if we talked it out, maybe I could understand what’s goin’ on  . . .  and I could explain . . .”

Ben stood up.  “You’re right, Joseph, we need to talk.” He began working his belt out of the loops. It was quite satisfying to watch Little Joe go pale.

“Pa, you’re not touching me with that belt.”

“You’ll do as you’re told, Joseph.” Ben pushed back from the desk and rounded the corner to the bottom of the stairs.

“I haven’t done anything to deserve a beating,” Joe said. “I’m goin’ to the north pasture for the day, and then I’m gonna spend the night in town. I don’t feel too welcome around here.”

“Don’t defy me, Joseph.” Ben started up the steps. “I’m your father, and I tell you what you deserve.”  He reached the landing, breathing fast and glaring at Joseph.

“Let me by, Pa! I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Joseph tried to duck past him, but was stopped when Ben grabbed the front of his shirt. Joe pulled back, his hands on Ben’s wrists trying to wrench free from his father’s grasp. The two wrestled—Joseph determined to escape the house, and Ben just as determined he remain to face his punishment. In the end, it didn’t take too long to decide the winner. Ben had the advantage of height, weight, and anger. Little Joe was no match for him. When Joe tried to twist free, Ben twisted the boy’s arms around and gave him a good shove to subdue him. Joe’s heels slipped over the edge of the landing and he tumbled backward down the remaining steps, rolling awkwardly until he landed in a jumbled heap on the floor.

Ben stood there, unbelieving. The cloud of emotion that surrounded him evaporated. He moved slowly down the stairs, expecting Joe to jump up and make a dash for the door.  Instead, his son lay motionless, arms and legs sprawled, eyes open and unblinking while a small pool of blood spread beneath his head.

He sat down hard on the bottom step when he found he couldn’t quite catch his breath. Everything that had happened—the fight, his anger at Joseph, felt like a nightmare.  It couldn’t be real, could it?  Had he hurt Little Joe?  He crawled toward his son before laying his head on Joe’s chest-straining to hear a heartbeat. Nothing.  He turned Little Joe’s face towards him, slapping him on the cheek without response.  It was no use.  Ben choked on a sob as he lay his hand across his son’s face, closing the green eyes.

He scrabbled backward finally pulling himself up into his desk chair, laying his head on the smooth, polished surface and cried. What had he done?  What could he do?  There was no making this right.  There was no cure or solution for the monstrous mistake he had made.  Adam and Hoss would never, ever forgive him. He couldn’t forgive himself. He lifted his head, dashing away the tears.  The knife.  It lay there, edge honed and glinting.  He couldn’t fix this, but he could atone for his sin.

With the decision, he felt calmer.  He rolled back his sleeve, exposing his left arm past the elbow.  Picking up the knife, he brought the tip to the inside of his arm. He was certain it would be quicker, more efficient to slice down toward his hand rather than cut across his wrist.

“Mr. Cartwright?”

Kade McNeill was standing in front of him, blocking his view of Joseph’s bleeding body.  Where had he come from?

“Don’t do it, Mr. Cartwright. It wasn’t your fault.”  Ben looked at him, unbelieving.  The evidence of Ben’s wrongdoing was right in front of them, and this strange man claimed it wasn’t Ben’s fault?

“I hurt him. I hurt my boy.”  Ben’s voice cracked, and he dropped his head into his hands.

“Yes, you did. But, it wasn’t your fault. If you help me now, we’ll make certain no one else is hurt.”  Kade McNeill stretched out a hand to help Ben to his feet.

Ben knew what he had to do, and he wished a million times over that he had done it sooner. At least this way, no other father’s child would be hurt. He and Kade McNeill carried the desk out the front door into the yard. While Ben Cartwright stood shaken and miserable, hands covered in his son’s blood, Kade soaked the beautiful antique desk with lamp oil and set it alight.

The wood caught fire fast and burned devilishly bright. The flames leaped, and a pillar of choking black smoke rose into the air. In Ben’s fevered imagination, the desk groaned and screamed in agony as it burned, voices shouted in anguish and anger, children cried for mercy, and men sobbed for forgiveness.

He coughed, eyes and lungs burning with the noxious fumes.  Kade McNeill slipped an arm around Ben’s shoulder and helped him to the porch.

“I should have listened to you, Mc Neill.  I should have let you have the desk . . .” Ben vision was full of the black smoke and without quite knowing how, he found himself flat on his back, too weak to keep his eyes open. It didn’t matter; he never wanted to open his eyes again. As he gave himself over to oblivion, he thought he could hear Kade McNeill’s comforting words.

“Everything will be all right, Mr. Cartwright.  I promise everything will be all right.”

**********

Adam didn’t notice it at first, tucked in a corner surrounded by stacks of books and shelves stuffed with fussy bric-a-brac.

One never knew what might be found in Weber’s Household Emporium, and Adam frequently passed an enjoyable hour poking through the ever-changing, eclectic inventory. Fritz Weber had the knack of turning up the most interesting items.

Although he didn’t have anything specific in mind, Adam hoped to discover something suitable for Pa’s birthday. With any luck, the whatever-it-was would surprise and please Pa while effectively wiping away any lingering memory of last year’s disaster that had nearly cost Joe’s life. Privately, the brothers had made a pact –no more “special” horses.

When Adam sneezed for the fourth time, he was nearly ready to give up sorting through piles of goods that most folks would uncharitably term junk. Couldn’t Weber be bothered at all to display his stock to better advantage?  Really, it was a wonder the man sold anything at all.

Adam’s persnickety nature got the better of him. He spent at least ten minutes gathering and stacking the books neatly and arranging the glazed vases and figurines by size and color. Satisfied with his work, he stepped back to admire the new display and to wipe the sweat from his brow. His backward progress was halted abruptly when a sharp edge connected with his backside. Whirling about to scowl at the offending object, he instead was struck by the beauty of simple item.

An antique mess kit of the sort officers had carried to field more than a hundred years before was perched on a table. How had he missed it?  When Adam checked the price inked on the card, he saw an opportunity.

“Fritz, what can you tell me about this mess kit?”

The store owner ambled over, expertly maneuvering through the displays.

“You have a fine eye, Adam!” Fritz Weber praised him. “This little beauty came from the estate of Alistair McNeill.  He and his son, Kade, amassed quite the collection of Revolution-era items.”

“The son is selling off the collection?”

“No, it seems the son has also passed away. There was some awful story going around,” Fritz said primly, “but you know I don’t like to repeat gossip.”  Fritz paused, clearly hoping to be urged to share what he’d heard.  Adam decided not to ask; he didn’t want to tempt Fritz into gossiping.

Adam pursed his lips in contemplation. He was pretty certain he was about to do something uncharacteristically spontaneous; it would be nice if it turned out well.

“I’ll take it.”

They clasped hands to seal the deal, and Fritz promised to have the kit securely wrapped and stowed in Adam’s wagon within the hour.

Pleased with himself, Adam departed for a leisurely lunch at the Silver Dollar that was greatly enhanced by a couple of beers. Adam was whistling a cheery tune as he pushed through the bat wing doors into the glare of the afternoon sun. He checked the back of the wagon to make sure Pa’s gift had been packed and found the kit, securely wrapped in brown paper and string with a note tucked into a corner.  Adam opened the neatly folded paper and frowned in confusion at the message.

A fit present for a father.  Enjoy it with my compliments and blessings.

Adam shook his head; he didn’t remember telling Fritz the desk was a gift for his father. Hauling himself up onto the wagon seat, he slapped the reins and headed the team toward home.

Pa was going to love his birthday gift.

The End

Words drawn:  desk, revolution, draw, stalker, knife

Tags:  Adam Cartwright, Ben Cartwright, Birthday, Hoss Cartwright, Joe / Little Joe Cartwright,