Summary:  Adam Cartwright is taking the long road home, but sometimes life takes a man in a direction he never intended to go.

Rating:  T   (1683 words)

Prelude Series:

Prelude #1 
Prelude #2 – Junction

 

PRELUDE

 

Silent warning,
Unspoken desire,
Your arms surround an innocent fire.
Can two hearts unfold love’s tender reason?
One open moment changes a lifetime,
Interweaving secrets with life’s passion.*

 

Cold; stone cold.

The man grimaced as he pulled the cup away from his lips – the coffee was as cold as the night. He had been staring at the documents in front of him for so long he could hardly read the words. No matter, his brain had stopped making sense of them at least an hour ago. Sighing, he pushed them aside.

He picked up an envelope addressed to him – Sheriff Adam Cartwright.  The title still sounded strange, but there was no reason to get used to it because he had no intention of keeping it any longer than necessary.

‘Acting’ sheriff was the more correct term, since he planned to remain only until the marshal arrived and a replacement could be appointed.  In truth it was ‘accidental’ sheriff, for the job had fallen to him merely by chance following an unusual and tragic twist of fate.

After a dismal year in Boston he had come back west, though not home, not to the Ponderosa.  Returning so soon after leaving seemed almost like an admission of failure.   He hadn’t even written his family.

He had steamed from San Francisco to Sacramento, bought a horse, and a day’s ride took him to Junction, where he stopped for a meal and a bed for the night.  A minor fracas in the saloon attracted the local sheriff, who bore an uncanny resemblance to Adam’s old friend Ira Tatum.  The man behind the badge was Ira’s brother.

Over the course of a pleasant evening that included one of the best steaks he’d had in nearly two years, he found Ezra Tatum to be every bit as likable as his twin. Both had the same easy manner and self-deprecating wit, both had been ranchers and were widowers. Ezra had a daughter somewhere back east. Sadly, he learned, Ira had passed the year before.

Adam also learned that Ezra’s deputy had been hooked by a steer and was laid up indefinitely, and he could use an extra man in the meantime.  The position didn’t pay much but included a room and meals at the boarding house, Ezra explained, and besides, “nothing ever happens around here so it’s a pretty easy job.”  He laughed when he said it.

He didn’t know whether it was the sheriff’s friendly persuasion or his own general mood that prompted him to even consider the offer in the first place. Well, why not?  His family wasn’t expecting him, and he was in no particular hurry.  Besides, it was only temporary.

It would have been an easy job except for one thing.  In a town where nothing ever happens, something eventually does; and something did. In this case it was an attempted bank robbery, foiled in the end, with three men dead. One of them was Sheriff Ezra Tatum.

Adam tracked down the murderer and brought him to justice. And then he pinned the sheriff’s badge on his own vest to stand in the gap, because that’s what he was raised to do. After all, if nothing else, he was still a Cartwright, whatever that meant anymore.

So here he was, burning the oil past midnight once again, accidental sheriff of Junction, California; the man in charge. Adam Cartwright, a man adrift.

One a.m. No wonder he was beat. His eyes felt like he had ridden through a sandstorm. He massaged them, his head resting in his hands, but only for a moment. The chill in the office prompted him to get up and stoke the fire before it went out completely. Otherwise, it would be too cold to sleep.

Relishing the heat from the freshly kindled flames, he watched the envelope in his hand erupt and burn almost to his fingertips before he dropped it into the blaze. It was a frivolity from childhood, and unlike the moth, he knew exactly how close he could come without getting hurt. He smirked, recalling an admonition about playing with fire, but there was also another kind, one more unpredictable and perhaps more dangerous.

Rising to pour himself a drink, he tried not to think of her, but her face was there even before he sat down again, and he could no more will it away than reach into the sky and touch the moon. He leaned back and propped his feet on the desk, closing his eyes as he savored the velvety warmth in his throat, thinking the unthinkable.

She was wise in many ways but still naive about men, mostly because she was young (too young, he reminded himself) and had yet to realize the extent of her charms. The day would come; no doubt, she would use that knowledge to full advantage, and he pitied the man (or men). For now, she was sweet and unguarded, and lately a little too close for comfort.

He was careful not to make a misstep.  He would swear his conduct had been above reproach. But he caught himself watching her when she didn’t know he was looking, and he knew every feature of her face by heart – the dark eyes beneath the sweep of ebony lashes; the finely arched brows; the delicate nose; the slight dimple in her cheek; the subtle, sensual pout of her bottom lip….

A humorless chuckle escaped him as he refilled his glass. He had always heard there was no fool like an old fool, and he supposed he was that, to even imagine such a thing. It wasn’t her fault. She had no way of knowing she was Pandora’s Box, dropped practically into his lap. He prided himself on being a strong man, stronger than most in his opinion, but it was hard even for him to keep pretending not to notice her.

He knew without looking what was inside that box, and why it could never be opened, not even a little bit. Good intentions and better judgment often proved a poor match for unbridled desire. And neither of them could afford the price they might have to pay for something as small as just one kiss. Even if she was willing, he wouldn’t dare, he knew that much about himself. That heat was a warning he would not ignore. He swore silently at the thought of what was never going to happen, as if it made any difference.

She’ll be off my hands and out of my hair as soon as this job is over, he consoled himself, putting the bottle away after the third drink, itself a rarity. He unbuttoned his shirt and stretched out on the cot in the corner. Whether it was the fire or the whiskey or something else, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t cold anymore, only dog-tired. The walls faded as he surrendered in sleep to dance with a dark eyed girl in dreams…

He couldn’t tell who fired or from which direction, but when he heard the shots, she was his first thought. Shoving her to the ground, he shielded her with his body during the pandemonium that ensued. Her eyes widened in fright, and he could feel her heart pounding beneath his own. With a finger to her lips to insure her silence, he listened for what he could not see; shouts and more shots until the gunman was apprehended. When he was satisfied the danger was over, he turned his attention back to her. “Are you alright?” Releasing a ragged breath, she nodded. Her lashes flicked upward. The fear in her eyes was gone, replaced by something else. He lingered above her, unable or unwilling to move, and for a moment it was as though he had forgotten how to breathe. One corner of her mouth turned up slightly, melting his resolve like a snowball in summer. It seemed he was a moth, after all.

The world spun away as she returned his tender offering, her lips warm and pliant, igniting a fire that consumed them both. He pulled her to him, capturing a handful of golden curls, caressing her satin shoulders, kissing her as though they were the only two people on earth, and suddenly he was falling, but he didn’t care…

An adrenaline rush jerked him awake in a cold sweat just as he was about to hit bottom. He ran a hand over his face, waiting for his pulse to slow before he sat up. 2:45. Still enough time to get in a few hours of sleep before morning.  He could certainly use it.

It had been years since he’d had a dream like that, and it rattled him to his core. He knew a man was only responsible for his actions, not his subconscious thoughts; even so, he didn’t like the feeling. Why me, Lord? He frowned up at the ceiling. Don’t I have enough problems in my life without this one?

Moments later he was back at his desk going over his notes again. Pausing to glance once more at the clock on the wall, his gaze fell on the sign beneath it. ORDER IS THE FIRST LAW OF HEAVEN. He resumed his reading with a scowl. The sooner he finished up here, the sooner his life could get back to some kind of normal, and the sooner the better as far as he was concerned…

Meanwhile, his heart merely smiled at such a foolish notion.

And in the distance
Sounds a prelude
To an interlude.*

 

~END~

 

Acknowledgments: David Dortort of course; Leo Gordon and Paul Leslie Peil for the character Ira Tatum from their script The Flannel-Mouth Gun; also Caprice Fox and Peter Eldridge for the beautiful lyrics to Prelude/Interlude*, the inspiration for this vignette.

*copyright 1993, New York Voices Music

 

Tags:  Adam Cartwright, Angst