She’d told me about the child, of course. It was one of the first personal facts she revealed. Listening to her, fury and hatred and agony barely contained beneath the matter-of-fact delivery of the story, my heart ached. My two boys were my life. To have one taken from me, in any manner, was unthinkable.

Marie never fully recovered from the loss of her first son. I saw this time and again throughout our marriage. A flash of sadness occasionally stilled her laughter when she saw a young woman with an infant. In the days leading up to the boy’s birthday, her temper would flare without apparent cause, and then she would spend the day itself in near silence. And there were the nights when she sobbed in my arms, and I would have done anything bring her son home.

Some mountains are simply too high.

When she first met my boys, I watched carefully. Her son would have been just Adam’s age. I wondered if she would be able to do it, to welcome my boy into her heart, or if he would remind her too much of the son she had lost.

But I reckoned without Marie’s generosity of spirit. The woman who had borne such grief understood this boy, who had also known so much loss. Her initial dealings with me had been fiery and passionate, but she reined herself in with Adam, remaining gentle and steadfast as he attempted to push her away before she could leave him. And slowly, ever so slowly, Adam forgave her for not being Elizabeth or Inger, and he began to trust that she would remain for longer than a season.

It was my great desire to give her a child of her own. Not to replace the one she’d lost; that could never be, and even to think it would be an insult to mother and child. But so that she could know the same joy I had, of holding a newborn and then watching him grow. It took much longer than either of us expected, but at last, she whispered the news to me late one night. Even in her delight over this child, though, the tinge of fear never quite left her. In pregnancy and afterward, she was fiercely protective, as if she could keep Little Joe safe by her will alone. As if his death were the only way that the two could be parted.

Standing beside her grave, holding our five-year-old’s hand, I tried to tell myself that at least she was now with her first-born son. Years later, Adam confessed to having had the same thought. “She was so afraid of outliving us,” he told me. “Not just Little Joe, either. She told me once that she’d been afraid at first to love Hoss and me, because something might happen to us, and she didn’t know if she could survive that again.” He sipped his brandy reflectively.

“But she did,” I said. “She loved you anyway, just as if you were her own.”

“Even though I didn’t make it easy for her,” said Adam ruefully. “I think that, in some ways, she was the bravest person I’ve ever known.” He raised his glass to her, and I did likewise.

In the years following Marie’s death, I seldom gave much thought to her first son. I recalled the boy’s birthday, and I marked it in my mind, but as a tribute to my wife rather than to the boy himself. The truth was that I knew little about the child. Just his name, Jean-Luc de Marigny, and his birthdate, April 7. The fact that he’d been taken from Marie when he was barely three days old, and he’d died shortly thereafter.

And his mother had never gotten over losing him.

Still, as time passed, I hardly recalled more than the bare fact of Marie’s first-born son. There was no reason to remember him.

Until one day, I stood in my living room in front of a slick gambler with a fast gun who claimed to be that child.

Everything in me shouted that it was impossible. The child was dead. Hadn’t they told Marie this? Hadn’t she been shown a grave with the child’s name on the stone? But after her cousin, Edouard D’Arcy, admitted that Mme. de Marigny had hired a man to disgrace Marie so that her son would believe her to be an adulteress, we began to wonder if the other was a lie as well. We paid large sums to detectives who combed New Orleans and its environs, seeking out any information about the child. Year after year, the detectives produced nothing. Finally, after Marie’s death, I stopped looking.

And yet somehow, the child had found us.

It was supposed to have been all settled. The sheriff decreed, I agreed, and Clay Stafford, one of our newest cowhands, acquiesced in the conclusion that it would be better and safer for Clay–and for the rest of us–if he were to leave Virginia City. He might be one of the hardest-working hands we’d had in a long time, but there was more to him than his ability to drive cattle, and that more wasn’t good. Adam and Hoss didn’t comment in my hearing, but I could read their faces, and I knew that they agreed–just as I knew that they understood the true reason for my bowing to Roy Coffee’s wishes: Little Joe, barely nineteen, was already too fascinated with this stranger who had drifted into our lives.

Joe and Clay had hit it off from the first. I, on the other hand, had been uneasy with this dapper stranger from the moment he appeared in front of us, freshly shaved and smelling of bay rum, far too well-dressed for a man who wanted a job pushing cattle. Still, we needed hands, and I told myself that it was foolish to turn down an able-bodied man simply because he was too well-groomed. I’d done my best to squelch my apprehension as he and Joe chatted and laughed. It was simply Joe’s natural friendliness, I told myself. Eventually, the roundup would be finished, Clay would move on, and that would be that.

But on that very first Saturday night, when easy relaxation erupted into a gunfight across a poker table that left one man dead and Clay looking merely regretful at this unfortunate turn of events, I knew that my instincts were correct.

As much as Roy and I had wanted Clay gone, Little Joe wanted him to stay. It wasn’t fair, he insisted. He argued long and loudly with Roy that night, once the miner’s body had been carted away and Clay was pronounced free to go. Joe refused to address the central issue–whether Clay was cheating, as the dead man had claimed–choosing instead to focus on abstract notions of due process and presumptions of innocence. As I watched my boy passionately defending this stranger to one of our oldest friends, I felt a chilling certainty that Clay Stafford was indeed trouble in a way that was much larger than possible sleight of hand at the card table. Something was going to happen, and I wanted Joseph to be far away from Clay when it did. Stray bullets are no respecters of innocence.

Eventually, Joe went along with our decision. I don’t know whether he’d have done so if Clay had resisted, but it looked as if that would not be a problem. And so, I was sitting at my desk, mentally holding my breath until the cardsharp rode out of our lives, when Little Joe stormed into the living room, Clay close on his heels.

“Joe, wait a minute, take it easy-” Clay was saying.

Joe shook off Clay’s hand on his arm and slammed his palm on my desk as if we were in the middle of an argument. “Pa, Clay’s not leaving!” he announced.

“Joe, we need to talk–” Clay started.

“Joseph!” I cut him off. “Clay. What is going on?” I looked sternly from my son to Clay, who stood back guiltily.

“Pa, Clay’s not leaving,” Joe said again. Under my glare, he reined in his belligerence somewhat, but he was as adamant as I had ever heard him.

“Joseph, the matter is closed,” I said in the voice my sons know all too well. “Roy and Clay and I talked, and Clay is leaving. Now, kindly get back out to the north pasture and give your brothers a hand.”

“But Pa, you can’t send him away–he’s my brother, too!”

“Wait–what?” I looked from Joe to Clay, and from Clay to Joe.

“Clay’s my brother,” said Joe more quietly. “My mother was his mother.”

“Well, there you are!” Hoss said as he and Adam came around the corner. “We been waitin’ for you. Let’s go. There ain’t that much daylight left.”

“Wait just a minute.” I held up my hand. I looked from Adam to Hoss to Joe. Then, I looked from Joe to Clay, and my heart began to pound. The resemblance was there, and I’d never seen it. It was Clay who had the same fineness of features, the high cheekbones and angled jaw, as Joe. Neither I nor my other sons had that almost-delicate bone structure. Joe had inherited those features from Marie.

So, apparently, had Clay.

As the two young men stood before him, so strikingly similar that I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed before, I realized that I didn’t want it to be true. I didn’t want this to be Marie’s child. Because if it was, I’d failed her. If the boy wasn’t dead, then I should have found him, should have brought him back to her. I should never have rested until she held her son in her arms.

In the next instant, irrational fury blazed in my heart. How dare Clay agree to leave-so reasonable, so sensible–only to let this information drop on his way out the door? He knew–he had to know–that Little Joe would never stand by and let him ride away if there were the slightest chance that this fantastic story was true. Just making the statement was enough to guarantee that he would be permitted to stay over everyone’s objections, at least until we could sort out whether his story was real. Using the boy in this fashion–it was unforgivable.

Unless Clay was telling the truth.

Clay was watching me, waiting for me to speak. All of them were. I felt as if I were on the back of the wildest bronc, as it twisted and turned first one way and then another, bucking and rearing, while I clung as best I could before the sheer force of the brute would fling me to the ground, trampling all I knew into the dust.

As I fumbled for the right words, I saw it. It was more than just his resemblance to Joe. As Clay stood before me, his gaze intent, I saw the unmistakable glimpse of his mother.

He had Marie’s eyes.

Little Joe’s eyes were green, just like his grandmother Cartwright’s, and they spoke of innocent fun and good times and security born of knowing the unconditional love of his family. But Clay’s eyes, brown like Marie’s, had the same guarded expression she’d worn when I met her. That expression said that, while they might appear to the world to be whole and fine, they had been shattered long ago and were held together now only by the strength of their own wills. During the years of our marriage, Marie had gradually become more healed, less broken, but Clay had apparently found no such salvation.

“All right, let’s start from the beginning,” I said, swallowing hard. “Clay, what is Joe talking about?” I ignored the startled looks from my two older sons.

“Well, sir, Joe’s right,” Clay said. “It’s what I told him. My mother was his mother.”

“What?” Hoss exploded.

“What are you talking about?” Adam stepped in, immediately on the offensive.

“Would you just let the man talk!” shouted Joe.

“That’s enough!” I cut through the rabble. “Adam, Hoss. Would you please wait outside?” Adam’s jaw stiffened. Hoss was watching Joe, clearly prepared to pummel Clay Stafford if the man turned out to be toying with his brother. Reluctantly, when no one spoke further, they left the room, closing the door with more force than absolutely necessary.

“Now, let’s try this again,” I said. “Clay, what makes you think that Joe is your brother?”

“That picture he carries,” said Clay. “That’s my mother.”

I watched the man closely. He appeared to be forthright, and it was easy to see how Joe would have believed him. Then again, this was the same man who had been accused of cheating at poker, and no one had proven that claim false. “How do you know that?” I asked.

“What do you mean, how does he know it? He knows what his mother looks like!” Joe burst in.

“Joseph!” I snapped.

“It’s okay, Joe, it’s a fair question,” said Clay, as calm as Joe was agitated. To me, he said, “There was one like it in my father’s things. I remember seeing it when I was little. I don’t know what happened to it. I always assumed that my grandmother destroyed it.”

“Our grandmother would have destroyed our mother’s picture?” asked Joe.

Our grandmother. Our mother. 

I felt a dart of fear at how quickly Joe was accepting Clay’s story. If I was to find out the truth, I needed to speak with Clay alone.

“Not our grandmother,” Clay was saying. “My father’s mother. She didn’t approve of our mother.”

Our mother, again. 

“Joe, I’d like to speak to Clay alone,” I said, trying to sound reasonable.

“But Pa-”

“Joseph.” I cut him off, fixing my youngest son with the same stern look that had served me well since the boy was old enough to look me in the eye.

“Yes, sir,” said Joe. “I’ll be right outside,” he added. I found myself wondering whether that statement was for my benefit or for Clay’s.

After the door closed, I ushered Clay away from my desk, over toward the fireplace. The expression in Clay’s eyes showed that he knew it was time to get down to cases. Without asking, I poured two brandies, handing him one. I sat down on the table as Clay seated himself in the blue chair.

“Where did you get the name ‘Stafford’?” I asked.

“It was the name of the people who raised me,” said Clay. “Grandmère never told me my mother’s name. With both my parents dead, she said that it was preferable to put such ‘unpleasant matters’ behind us.” The quotation marks were audible. If Joe had been in the room, he would have flown into a rage at such a characterization of his mother, but Clay was clearly accustomed to Mme. de Marigny’s disdain and paid it little heed.

“But your father wasn’t dead,” I said. He looked startled. I explained, “That was how I met your mother. Your father–her first husband–worked for me, here on the Ponderosa. When he was dying, I promised him that I would tell her in person of his death, and so I went to New Orleans to find her.”

“But why was he working here while she was still in New Orleans?”

I hesitated. “How much did your grandmother tell you about your parents?” I asked carefully, reluctant to air the tales of treachery without more solid proof that Clay Stafford was who he said he was.

“She loved to talk about my father,” Clay said. “But all she ever said about my mother that she’d broken my father’s heart-well, that, and a few words I won’t repeat.” Thoughtfully, he added, “I wonder what she told him about me.”

I shook my head. “Jean had no idea that you were alive,” I said. The witch had not only deprived Marie of her child, but she’d banished him from Jean’s life as well-presumably to rid the de Marigny line of the del Vyre taint. I tried, and failed, to imagine how Jean might have reacted if he had known of his mother’s treachery.

I recalled how he used to watch my boys so closely, especially Adam. I did wonder if he’d ever had a child–most men aren’t that intrigued by little ones until they become fathers, and often not even then. But it wasn’t the kind of thing that we’d have discussed. It wasn’t until Marie told me about their child that it all made sense. I remembered how Jean had taught Adam and Hoss about horses, how to ride them and care for them and listen to them. Jean would have been a wonderful father, I’d thought, watching the Frenchman with my sons. It occurred to me that Jean de Marigny, so forthright and honorable, would never have countenanced his son taking up cards as a livelihood. “How did you become a gambler?” I asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

But Clay had clearly lived too long in his world to be thrown by abrupt changes. For an instant, I expected him to deny that he was a gambler. Instead, he merely said, “The older brother in the household where I grew up was a card player.” I wondered if Clay had always distanced himself from the Staffords in this manner or if it was a recent development, born of the revelations about his mother and half-brother. He added, “He always had money and nice clothes and fine women. He taught me well.”

“And so that’s the life you’ve chosen.” It wasn’t a question.

“That’s the life that’s chosen me,” said Clay. “But don’t worry, sir. I have no intention of trying to convince Joe to change professions.”

Bull’s eye. “I appreciate that,” I said. There was no point in trying to bluff. This man’s influence over Joe had been a concern to me even before Clay had disclosed his relationship to Marie. Knowing that the gambler shared his blood, Joe was even more likely than usual to insist on giving Clay the benefit of any doubts anyone might raise.

“How did you learn of us?” I asked, sipping slowly. I noticed that Clay had drunk no more than I had. A very careful man, this Clay Stafford.

“I left New Orleans when I was eighteen,” Clay said. “Wandered for a good long bit. Spent a couple of years in Mexico, fighting with Juarez’s army. Then, last year, I got the urge to go home, to lay a flower on my parents’ graves. Which is when I found out that there were no graves there. I checked the Hall of Records and learned that my mother had married you. After that, it didn’t take much to find out that you and she had a son-my brother.” For just a second, there was a softness in Clay’s eyes. “My grandmother had died before I ever left New Orleans. I didn’t think I had any family left anywhere. So, when I found out about Joe-well, I wanted to meet him.”

“Why didn’t you tell us who you were when you first came here?”

“I didn’t think that would be wise,” said Clay simply. “You don’t just show up and tell a bunch of strangers that they’re your family without finding out about them first. You all could have turned out to be very different from what you are.”

“You weren’t sure you’d like us,” I mused. Clay’s pragmatic, unemotional attitude to such an emotional matter was not at all like either Joe or Marie. His ability to sever feeling from action struck me as an approach he might well have learned from his grandmother.

“I wasn’t sure I’d like you,” Clay agreed, unabashed. He regarded me for a long moment. Then, he rose. “All this is very nice, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’ve worn out my welcome in Virginia City, and I need to be moving on.”

“Of course it changes things,” I said, also rising. “If you’re who you say you are, you’re part of the family, and you belong here.”

“If I’m who I say I am,” Clay echoed, a ghost of a smile in his eyes.

I nodded. “I’m sure you’ll understand if I feel that some inquiries are appropriate.”

“That’s fair,” agreed Clay, and I thought again how different he was from Joe. Joe would be incensed if he knew what I was saying. Instead, Clay commented, “A stranger appears on your doorstep, it’s only natural to wonder. I would just ask one thing in return.”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever comes back, I’d appreciate your telling me first, before you tell the others.”

“Is there something you expect me to learn that you don’t want them to know?” I asked, my tone quiet and steady enough to mask my sudden fear.

“Sir, I’m a gambler, and I’m fast with a gun,” Clay said. “People say all sorts of things about me. Some of those things are even true. I’d just like to know what’s being said before the rest of the ranch knows.”

“The rest of the ranch doesn’t need to know anything you don’t choose to tell them,” I said. “My family’s affairs are private, and they remain that way unless we decide otherwise.” I saw the slight quirk in Clay’s smile at the suggestion that he was included in those family matters. “First things first. Let’s see what comes back from New Orleans.” He rose to indicate that the discussion was over. “Now, why don’t you move your things in from the bunkhouse?” Clay raised his brows ever so slightly at the suggestion, but he simply nodded his thanks.

I watched the lean stranger walk out the front door. Is this your boy, my love? I asked silently. If he is, I’ll do well by him, just as you did for our three. I promise.

But I knew in my heart that this would be far easier said than done.

* * * * * * * * * *

My old friend, Judge Wharton in New Orleans, investigated and confirmed that Clay Stafford was indeed Marie’s son. As such, Clay was part of the family, a fact that wasn’t open to negotiation or protest. And if his arrival caused friction among my other sons–well, the boys had been quite capable of having disagreements before Clay joined the family, and there was no reason to expect that the arrival of a new brother would make things easier. Just as bringing Marie into the household had required adjustments, so also would welcoming her son, but welcome him they would.

Little Joe, of course, received his new brother with open arms. He had learned well my core lesson that nothing is more important than family, and Clay was family. For my youngest son, it was as simple as that. That this new brother was a connection to his mother, that his lifestyle and experiences had been so different and exciting, that he knew New Orleans–all these just added to Clay’s appeal.

I suspected, though, that one of the most important things about Clay was that Joe alone shared his blood. As the youngest, Joe had rarely had anything that was entirely his. Not possessions so much, but accomplishments. His brothers had gone before him almost everywhere, from the first step and the first word to the first kiss from a pretty girl, the first bronc, the first bullet wound. The one area in which Joe’s experience outstripped that of his brothers was the unspoken one where my boys would never compete: of the three Cartwright brothers, only Joe had had the chance to know the woman who bore him.

But Clay’s only connection to the family was Joe, and Joe reveled in this fact like a child with a new puppy–mine, all mine. I knew that, eventually, the shine would wear off this new brother, and I wondered what type of relationship they would have when that occurred. Joe had inherited his mother’s fears about losing the people he loved. It was one of the reasons that my youngest son disliked being alone-he wanted his people where he could keep track of them. On the other hand, Clay didn’t strike me as the type to stick. Perhaps it was simply another version of Marie’s fear–leave them before they can be taken from you–but I wondered if Clay would ever allow himself to be a part of this family the way Joe would want him to be.

Adam and Hoss were more reticent. Neither was cold or unwelcoming, but both were determined to keep an eye on this new family member until they could gauge just how far they could trust him-especially with their younger brother.

Hoss has been his little brother’s self-appointed protector since Joe was an infant. I woke one night, when Little Joe was only a few days old, to see six-year-old Hoss curled up on the hard wooden floor by the cradle, one hand resting on the baby. I carried the sleeping boy back to his own room and tucked him into bed, only to find him beside the cradle the next night, and the next and the next.

It was the first hint I’d had of just how stubborn my genial middle son could be when he made up his mind. Nothing would dissuade the boy–not reasoning, not yelling, not spanking. Marie’s attempts at bribing Hoss, which I was not supposed to know about, proved fruitless as well. Not even a moratorium on dessert could keep him from his baby brother’s side: Hoss sat at the table, watching everyone else enjoy apple pie with ice cream while his own plate sat empty and tears rolled down his cheeks, but he would not budge.

“Ben, what is so terrible about wanting to be with his brother?” asked Marie that night, after Hoss had gone stoically to his own bed. He always started out there.

“It’s not that,” I said. My frustration was growing by the day. The baby was nearly two months old, and this standoff had to end. “He has to learn to mind. He’s been told what he’s to do, and that should be the end of it.”

“But he’s not hurting the baby,” said Marie. “He just loves him so. When he comes home from school, the first thing he does is to come to wherever we are, just to say hello to Little Joe.”

“Darling, I don’t have a problem with Hoss’ fondness for the baby,” I said. “I’m delighted that he’s so taken with Little Joe. But he must learn to do as he is told, even if it makes him unhappy.”

“But it makes the baby happy to have him here,” Marie pointed out. “He hardly wakens us at night any more.” It was true. Little Joe’s first few nights had been loud, filled with much crying and little sleep. Now that I thought back, I realized that I’d rarely heard the baby cry when Hoss was sleeping next to him.

“That’s not the point,” I said, as much to myself as to my wife. “This isn’t about the baby, it’s about Hoss. He’s been told to sleep in his own room, and that is all that matters.”

Marie looked up at me, big brown eyes sad and rose-pink lips trembling in an adorable pout. I laughed and drew her close. “No, my love, the puppy dog eyes aren’t going to win the day on this one,” I teased. “And neither are your feminine wiles,” I added as she ran one sly finger over my mouth, insinuating the tip between my lips in a most provocative fashion. I kissed her fingertip, but she withdrew it, eyes sparkling mischievously as she reached up to stroke my hair, pressing her full length against me as if that was necessary in order for her to reach so high. I stroked her cheek, as soft as mine was sun-roughened, and marveled at the glorious gift that was my wife.

“Besides, we need our privacy,” I murmured, my hands caressing her lovely curves. I kissed her hungrily as I began to unpin her hair, dropping the pins to the floor as her blond curls tumbled over her shoulders. “The boys can share a room when Little Joe’s out of the cradle, if they still want to,” I added, less concerned with each moment about where they slept.

“If we have too much privacy, there could be a second cradle in our room before the first one is gone,” Marie warned. At my startled look, she laughed. “No, cheri,we have only three boys. For now,” she added with a vixen’s wink. She rested her hands on my neck and stood on tiptoe. “Please, my love,” she whispered, her breath warm in my ear. “Just for now, let Hoss stay with Little Joe. Let our little one know his big brother is near.”

I could feel part of myself melting even as another part grew quite firm. “Well, he can’t go on sleeping on the floor!” I blustered, determined to win a point.

“Then we’ll get him a cot,” smiled Marie. “It’ll just be for a little while. You’ll see.” She kissed me lightly, murmuring, “He doesn’t come in until much later. Perhaps we should enjoy our privacy while we have it.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” I said, scooping my beloved wife up into my arms. “You’re the only one. . . .” She laughed lightly, and I kicked the door closed behind us.

Marie was right, of course. Eventually, Hoss began sleeping through the night in his own room. He and Little Joe shared a room for a few years, but after a while, each wanted his own room. Joe said it was because of Hoss’ snoring, and Hoss said it was because Joe talked in his sleep. Whatever the reason, my younger sons amicably took separate rooms, but their closeness never faded, and Hoss never stopped watching out for his baby brother.

And now, he was watching Clay. I saw it, and I understood that Hoss knew what I also sensed, that somehow, Little Joe was going to get hurt by Clay being here. It wasn’t jealousy; Hoss hadn’t a jealous bone in his body. But Hoss had protected his little brother for too long just to stand by and do nothing. He wasn’t one to rush in, all hot-headed as Joe would have done. That wasn’t Hoss’ way. So, now, he was watching, waiting. He might be willing to welcome Clay as a brother, but his first loyalties would always lie with Little Joe.

Adam is the most cynical of my sons. Not that he would admit it, of course. He would characterize himself as pragmatic or realistic. If you caught him in the right mood, he might confess to being a skeptic. Whatever the term, it was motivated in this instance by the same protective instincts that his large brother possessed. It was Adam who urged that inquiry be made of Judge Wharton. Had the response come back with any question whatsoever, I had no doubt that Adam would have insisted upon further investigation.

“How is it that all your detectives never found him?” Adam asked late that night, after the others were asleep, when just he and I sat by the fire.

“I don’t know,” I said. I had read and reread the wire from Judge Wharton a dozen times since its arrival that afternoon. “The only thing I can figure is that the name threw them off. When Jean’s mother placed the boy with that family, she apparently told them that he was to use their name.”

“Even though it meant cutting the boy off from his own father–her own son? Why on earth would she have done something like that?” asked Adam. For once, reason and logic seemed to be failing him.

“I only met the woman briefly, but the one thing that was abundantly clear was that she hated Marie,” I said. Even now, I recalled her stone-cold demeanor when the topic of Jean and Marie’s marriage came up. “I imagine that she changed the child’s name precisely so that Marie would never find him.” I closed his eyes, trying to imagine hating someone that much. I couldn’t, and I opened my eyes. “She must have had a friend at the Hall of Records, because one of the detectives found a death certificate for Jean-Luc de Marigny.”

“I remember the day you got it,” said Adam softly.

Marie had been carrying Little Joe by this time. When she slit open the envelope and read its contents, an unearthly wail escaped her, as if she were learning of the child’s death for the first time. I caught her just before she fell to the floor, and I carried her up to our room, where she ranted and raved and screamed and sobbed for hours. Finally, exhausted, she collapsed into a heap on the bed, and I took her in my arms, holding her as closely as I could. I had no words for her. Her child was dead, and there was nothing to be said. And so I held her through that long night, trusting Hop Sing to see to the boys.

In the morning, she sat up. Her dress was disheveled and wrinkled, as were my shirt and pants. I reached up and stroked her cheek. She looked down at me, and I saw something in her eyes that I’d never seen before. A brokenness, and at the same time, a resolve.

“Nothing will happen to our child,” she said. There was steel in her voice. Her hands pressed against her rounded belly. “I won’t allow it. Never again.”

“You didn’t allow it the last time,” I said gently, sitting up beside her. “It just happened.”

“It will not happen again,” said Marie. “I will not allow such a thing. Not while there is breath in my body.” I took her in my arms, and she leaned against me, but her hands remained firm against her belly, protecting our son from anything in the world that could harm him.

“So, what are you going to do with him?” asked Adam, bringing me back to the present.

“Do with him?”

“Well, now that he’s officially a family member, don’t you think that things should change?”

I still didn’t know what Adam meant. “He’s already moved into the house,” I pointed out. “He lives with us, eats with us, works with us. What else is there?”

Adam watched me for a long minute without saying a word. I was about to ask again when understanding dawned. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “You boys helped to build this ranch. I always intended it as your heritage.” But now, there were four sons instead of three. One of them had not worked and bled, fought and prayed to build the Ponderosa, but he was Marie’s son, and so he was my son, to be treated as such.

Trust Adam to be thinking ahead. Clay could insist that he’d just wanted to meet Joe, but my eldest son would continue to suspect his motives for a long, long time. Which was why made his question made me smile.

Even though Adam is just as susceptible as the rest of us to a stray needing help, the truth is that it takes a long time for a new person to work his or her way into my son’s heart. No matter Clay’s bloodlines, Adam had not yet taken him in. The question had nothing to do with his feelings for Clay.

My eldest son rarely speaks of his love, but those of us who know him can see it in a thousand subtle ways. This seemingly odd question was only one example. Don’t you think that things should change? Not a concern that they would change, but a concern that they might not.

Because, regardless of such matters as fairness or justified suspicion, Adam understood already how it would hurt Joe if his brother was not treated as an equal. Clay, of course, would have no such issue; as far as I could tell, he hadn’t made up his mind whether he wanted to be a part of the Ponderosa or not, and he would be the last person to insist that he was entitled to a voice or a share. But for Joe, the question was settled, which meant that Adam, by determination born of love, had shoved his very reasonable reservations firmly to the back of his mind so that the question might be settled for him as well.

I drained my glass and set it on the table. “There’s plenty of time to work things out,” I said, rising. “We don’t have to resolve everything tonight.”

Adam nodded. “I expect you’re right,” he said in that voice that makes it clear that what he says and what he means are quite different.

I met his eyes. “We’ll sort it out,” I assured him. I waited until he dropped his gaze in unwilling assent before I crossed the room to head upstairs. As I passed his chair, I rested my hand on his shoulder, and he looked up at me. His small smile showed that he understood. “Come on up,” I urged him. “It’s getting late.”

“I’m going to read for a little while,” said Adam. He retrieved his book and settled in. I patted his shoulder, bid him good night, and headed upstairs to where my other three sons slept.

As I closed my bedroom door behind me, I found myself once again wishing for Marie to talk to about all this. What if she’d survived to see Clay’s arrival? Obviously, she would have welcomed him with all the love a mother can bestow. But how would she have responded to my insistence on checking his story? And what would she think about Adam’s questions? Hoss’ concerns? Joe’s unbridled enthusiasm? Clay’s caution?

Or my guilty reluctance to welcome her son wholeheartedly into our family?

* * * * * * * * * *

Over the next few weeks, I made a conscious effort to think of Clay as one of my sons. I knew I wasn’t succeeding, though. One night during the roundup, when Joe and Clay were coming back from town and camping overnight on the trail, Clay pulled out a jug of some Mexican liquor. When they arrived in camp the next morning, Little Joe was as green and hung over as any man I’ve ever seen.

I watched with a certain grim satisfaction as his ever-compassionate brothers taunted him with fatback and loud noises. As I was walking away, though, I heard Hoss and Adam talking about what a likable fellow Clay was. I wasn’t really paying attention until Hoss said, “Y’know, if one of us had brought Joe home in the shape he was in, we wouldn’t have heard the last of it yet!”

I focused on saddling my horse, pretending not to have heard, and pretending that it wasn’t true. I told myself that Joe was old enough to be responsible for the ill effects of his own bad choices, and I wasn’t going to lay into Clay for having provided the means. Besides, I reasoned, Clay hadn’t grown up looking after a younger brother. I had different expectations of Hoss and Adam because they’d been raised differently. My sons had been taught from childhood that no matter what, they were to look after their brothers.

But there was no question that Hoss was right, and that truth wasn’t sitting well.

From across the camp, I heard running feet, and then retching as Joe rid himself of the remnants of the pulque. I turned just enough to see his three brothers standing uncertainly by the chuck wagon. None of them spoke or moved.

As Joe came staggering back over to the wagon, I saw them standing, watching, each waiting for the other to act or speak. I wondered if Adam and Hoss were waiting for Clay to step up and assist his brother, since he’d been the one to get the boy drunk in the first place. And yet Clay did nothing.

Finally, with a sour glance at Clay, Hoss picked up a canteen and tossed it to his younger brother. Joe rinsed his mouth and recorked the canteen, handing it back to Hoss with a grunt of thanks.

“You okay?” I could barely hear Adam’s words.

Joe nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No reason.” Adam shrugged, turning away to pick up his hat.

I mounted, but as I turned to ride out, my attention was caught by Clay watching the other three with an odd expression. As I rode off, what I saw in his eyes haunted me.

The lonely resignation of an outsider, looking into a world that would never be his.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late that afternoon, I called a break. I gathered my four sons and told them that Hop Sing was fixing supper at the house tonight. After days of trail food, they all looked relieved. Even Joe, who was still a bit the worse for the previous night’s intemperance, seemed pleased by the prospect of a real meal.

That evening, I looked around the table at my sons. Joe sat at my right hand, as he had since Marie died and left to me the task of ensuring that my young son managed to finish a meal before darting away from the table in search of all the interesting things the ranch offered. Adam sat directly across from me, at the foot of the table, and Hoss sat to my left. Now, a fifth chair had been added between Joe’s and Adam’s, for Clay.

Hop Sing processed in from the kitchen, bearing a platter of roast pork. “Hot diggety!” Hoss’ eyes shone with delight. He started to reach across to take the platter, but Hop Sing deliberately held it for me, at my right.

“Mistah Cahtlight want some pork?” he asked innocently.

“I’d love some, thank you,” I nodded. As slowly as possible, I served myself and turned deliberately to Joe. “Joseph? Would you like some pork?”

Joe grinned lazily. “You know, Pa, I don’t think I mind if I do,” he drawled. He poked at various pieces. “Doggone it, Hop Sing, I do believe you’ve outdone yourself this time,” he said as he scrutinized the meat. “This is the best-looking pork I can ever remember seeing-and it smells so good, too!” He gave a long sniff, carefully avoiding his big brother’s eyes. Finally, he withdrew a slice from the bottom of the platter as Adam and I fought to maintain straight faces. In a most leisurely fashion, he turned to Clay. “Clay, what do you think? Would you like some roast pork?”

Clay glanced around the table as if uncertain what was happening. “Thanks, Joe,” he said. He served himself briskly and turned to the others. “Adam? Hoss?”

“I’d love some, thank you,” said Adam. Like Joe, he took his sweet time selecting just the right piece. Then, he handed the platter back to Hop Sing. “Thanks so much, Hop Sing,” he said. “I think we’re all set here.”

“Now, you just wait a cotton-pickin’ minute!” Hoss exploded. He reached across Adam and seized the platter as we burst into laughter. “Dadburnest group I ever did see!” He, shoveled pork onto his plate as Joe’s distinctive cackle rose above Hoss’ grumbling. “A man could starve to death waitin’ for the likes of this family!” He set down the nearly empty platter and grabbed the bowl of potatoes before Adam could move it away.

“Roast pork is Hoss’ favorite,” Joe explained as he wiped his eyes.

“Oh,” said Clay. He grinned at Hoss, but the big man was already focused on his plate.

“Hey, Pa, you’ll never guess who I saw in town today,” said Hoss when he’d downed a goodly portion of his dinner.

“Well? Who?” asked Adam when Hoss resumed eating without answering his own question.

Hoss swallowed, oblivious to the gravy on his chin. “Remember that old timer we run across up by the lake that time? The feller who thought he bought the Ponderosa from that Comstock feller?”

“I remember!” Joe turned to Clay to explain. “Seems this old coot thought he’d bought some of our land from this swindler who’d been selling claims all over the Washoe. What did that old fellow pay for our land? Twenty dollars or something?”

“Twenty-five,” said Adam. “And he tried to run us off with a shotgun because he thought we were trespassing.”

“Henry T. P. Comstock,” I mused, chuckling. “I haven’t thought of him in a long time.”

“Remember that mule he had?” Joe laughed. “How he got as far as he got on that old thing is beyond me.”

“Dorothy,” nodded Adam. “The name of the mule,” he added when Clay looked confused. “I remember that night at Dutch Pete’s when he sold all those claims.”

“He was so busy trying to swindle everybody that he wouldn’t listen when the fellow he was supposedly partners with tried to tell him that the claims really were valuable,” I explained. “He ended up selling them for pennies on the dollar.”

“That was a fun night,” said Joe.

Adam raised an eyebrow. “Considering that you almost started a war with the Paiutes, it was great fun.”

“A war with the Paiutes?” Clay peered at his brother with new respect.

“I didn’t start any war,” Joe assured him. “It was all a misunderstanding.”

“He took Chief Winnemucca’s daughter to the dance,” Adam explained. “Without her father’s permission, of course.”

“And she was already promised to someone,” I added wryly.

“She never told me that!” Joe pointed out.

“Not that you asked,” Adam commented.

“She didn’t hardly speak English, did she?” asked Hoss.

“Well, not a lot, but she understood the important things,” said Joe. A dreamy smile crossed his face at the memory of some of the “important things” the lovely Princess Sara had understood. Winnemucca and his braves had walked into the dance at Dutch Pete’s to find my youngest son kissing the chief’s daughter. It had taken all my diplomatic skills to keep Joe’s scalp attached his head.

“‘Course, once everybody started gettin’ all het up about the gold, nobody was thinkin’ about the Paiutes anyway,” said Hoss. He speared several more pieces of pork. “Hey, Joe, pass the potatoes.” His brother obliged, and he happily scooped most of the bowl’s contents onto his plate.

“That was the night Henry Comstock named the strike the Comstock Lode,” I recalled. “That old crowbait didn’t miss a chance.”

“He was the darnedest thing,” said Hoss happily. “Always comin’ up with some scheme or other. Kind of reminds me of you, Little Brother,” he added.

“Me?” squawked Joe, all innocence. “Since when do I come up with schemes?”

“Since when don’t you?” challenged Adam. “Or have you forgotten your brief but illustrious career as a bank robber?”

Little Joe rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “That wasn’t a scheme,” he protested. To Clay, he said, “The fellows who owned this one bank were trying to run a local man out of business, so they decided the way to do it was to ruin the Virginia City branch of the bank. Only I found out, and so Hoss and me got the money out of there before the owners could do anything about it.”

“Sounds like a fine plan,” said Clay unconvincingly.

“Well–it would’ve been if it hadn’t been for the real bank robbers,” said Joe.

At Clay’s puzzled look, Adam explained, “Seems there were bank employees who also wanted the money, so they decided to steal it from Hoss and Joe.”

“But we got it back,” said Joe. “Besides, my ideas always work out just fine. If it hadn’t been for me and Hoss, old Hank Meyers would never have gotten to marry Miss Abigail!”

“Can we not talk about that?” Adam commandeered another piece of pork. “Are there any peas left?” Joe peered into the bowl and shook his head, and Adam settled down grumpily to his pork.

“Adam don’t like to talk about Miss Abigail, ’cause she was sweet on him,” Hoss explained to Clay.

“They almost got married,” Joe added helpfully.

“We did not almost get married,” Adam snapped. “That would have required me to be willing to marry that woman, and I would never, ever have done that. Ever.”

“Ever,” Joe echoed, giggling.

“Ever,” I agreed.

“Ever,” said Hoss between mouthfuls.

“Ever?” asked Clay.

“Ever,” said Adam firmly.

“I take it you’re not the marrying kind,” commented Clay.

Adam looked as surprised by the statement as I felt. “No, it’s not that,” he said, recovering his poise. “It was the lady herself. I was not as–uh, taken with her as she was with me.”

“You ever been married?” Joe asked Clay.

I was about to reprimand Joe for such a personal question when Clay said, “Nope, not me. I’m definitely not the marrying kind.”

Hoss grunted. “Well, you sure ain’t like Little Brother, then,” he said. “That one can fall in love three times in a day without breakin’ a sweat! He must’ve gotten that from your side of the family, Pa,” he added with a wink.

“Oh, I didn’t say I don’t find women attractive,” said Clay, sipping his wine. “I’m just not the kind to settle down.” He turned his attention to his plate while the rest of us exchanged cautious looks, none willing to pursue this particular topic.

“Clay, what part of New Orleans did you grow up in?” I asked after a rather too-long silence.

“We actually lived outside the city,” said Clay. “About fifteen miles away, in a little town right on the river.” It did not escape me that he chose not to volunteer the name of the town.

“Did you spend much time in New Orleans when you were growing up?” asked Adam.

Clay shook his head. “Very little, in fact. At the time, I just assumed that it was because of the distance. Now, I suspect it had more to do with my grandmother.”

“That must’ve been nice, growin’ up by the river,” said Hoss. Silently, I blessed my son for his innocent way of turning the conversation. The others followed his lead, asking questions about life on the Mississippi and reminiscing about that writer fellow, Sam Clemens, who had come through Virginia City a couple of years earlier and who had talked so much about that great river.

“One of these days, we’ll have to get down to New Orleans,” said Joe, clapping Clay on the shoulder.

“It’s a fine city, all right,” said Clay. He drained his coffee cup. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m pretty tired. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to turn in.”

“Sounds like an excellent idea,” I said, rising. “We’re still not done with that roundup.”

“But it was nice to get a break tonight,” said Adam, and his brothers murmured their assent.

As my sons headed up the stairs, I heard Clay say to Joe, “It sounds like you’ve had a pretty nice life here.”

“About as nice as they come,” said my youngest son. “And now, you’re part of it, too.”

I couldn’t hear Clay’s response, but I’d have bet that it was as noncommittal as his answer to Joe’s suggestion about the trip to New Orleans. Clay Stafford was a very, very careful man.

I looked to the stairs, even though my sons were gone from sight. Clearly, Clay hadn’t yet made up his mind about staying on the Ponderosa. Just as clearly, Joe had made his own mind up.

I blew out the lamp and headed upstairs. All I could do was pray that Clay would make the right decision.

And that Little Joe wouldn’t be too badly hurt when Clay made the choice I suspected he would.

* * * * * * * * * *

I’d just added the column of figures for the fourth time–reaching the fourth different sum–when I heard someone ride up. Grateful for an excuse to abandon the ledger, I headed for the door, opening it just as Roy Coffee raised his hand to knock.

“Roy! Come in!” I ushered my old friend into the living room. “Hop Sing! A cup of coffee for the sheriff, please!” I called. “Come in, come in,” I urged as he stood in the doorway.

“Ben, this ain’t a social call,” said Roy in that tone that always makes my stomach lurch.

“The boys are all in the north pasture,” I said. Please let them all still be there, all safe and healthy.

Roy nodded. “It ain’t like that,” he said. “Not exactly.”

“What do you mean?” I tried to read his face. He looked sad. Sad for me. “Come in, sit down.” I turned and settled myself in my chair, leaving him no choice but to follow. Hop Sing brought his coffee, and Roy thanked him, declining cream and sugar. “Now, what’s all this about?” I asked.

“I got a wire today from the sheriff in Chico Wells,” Roy said. The name meant nothing to me. “Little town way down south in Texas, right over the border from Mexico, almost on the water,” he clarified. I nodded my understanding, and he continued, “Seems that friend of yours, Judge Wharton, is a pretty thorough fellow. When he was checking Clay’s story, he tracked down a whole bunch of leads. This was one of them.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “If Allen Wharton found something out, why would the sheriff be wiring you instead of him? Or me?”

“I reckon the judge must’ve told him where Clay is,” said Roy. “An’ the sheriff figured I oughta know who was in my town.”

“I don’t understand,” I said again, although I was beginning to.

Roy took a sip of his coffee. “I take it Clay ain’t told you about Chico Wells,” he said. When I shook my head, he continued, “About two years ago, Clay was ridin’ through Chico Wells, and he got into a poker game.”

“And?”

“Same thing happened there as happened here,” said Roy bluntly. “Fellow said Clay was cheating, somebody drew, and the other fellow ended up dead. Clay said he didn’t low-card, but you know as well as I do that you can’t prove somethin’ like that after the fact. Sheriff had Clay out of there the next morning.”

And from there, he went to New Orleans, and then he came here, I thought. “What else did he say?”

Roy shook his head. “Nothin’ else,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ben, I truly am, but I figured you’d want to know.”

“You’re right, I do,” I said heavily. “Thank you for making the trip out here to tell me.”

“What’re you gonna do?” the sheriff asked as he stood.

“I’m going to talk to Clay,” I said. “Find out what happened in Chico Wells-and in Virginia City.”

“You gonna ask if he cheated?” Roy’s bushy eyebrows shot up.

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t know what I’m going to say–to him or to Joe.”

“You don’t reckon Clay’s told him already?”

I shook my head. “Clay plays his cards pretty close to the vest,” I said without thinking. At Roy’s unexpected bark of laughter, I realized the expression I’d used and shook my head. “I’m sure he hasn’t told Joe,” I clarified. “Which means that I’ll have to.”

“He ain’t gonna take it well,” warned Roy as if I needed to be told.

I shrugged. “Joseph’s going to have to learn that there can be weaknesses in people, even people we care about.”

“Well, Ben, I wish you luck with that one,” said Roy sincerely. “I’d best be gettin’ back to town. If you need me, lemme know.”

“Thanks, Roy,” I said, walking him out to his horse. As he started to mount, I said, “Roy.” He paused, waiting. “If you should get any more telegrams–”

“You’ll be the first to know,” he assured me. He hauled himself into the saddle and touched the brim of his hat. “You take care now,” he said.

I watched as he rode off, down the road and out of sight. I hadn’t been kidding before: I had no idea what to say to Clay, or to Joe, or to Adam and Hoss.

Clay could have been innocent. It was possible. Some men just can’t admit that they’re bad poker players, and so they insist that the other fellow must have been cheating. And as Joe pointed out that night in town, if Clay weren’t faster with a gun, he’d be the dead one. Maybe it was nothing more than a coincidence.

Or maybe there were more telegrams that just hadn’t found us yet.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late in the afternoon, Hoss and Adam rode in. I’d been listening for horses ever since Roy left, and I was out the door to greet them before I realized that there were only two of them. “Where are Joe and Clay?” I asked.

“Joe went into town to get the payroll,” said Hoss.

“What about Clay?” I tried to sound offhand.

“He’s bringing the rest of the herd down,” said Adam. “He’ll be here soon.” He peered at me. “Anything wrong?”

I wanted to tell my older sons what was happening. I’d never actually promised Clay that I’d tell him first when he’d made the request all those weeks ago. But I knew how Adam and Hoss would react, and it seemed fair to give Clay a chance to explain before his brothers started in on him. “We’ll talk later,” I said. “Joe went by himself?” I added to change the subject.

“We didn’t think it was a good idea for Clay to go with him,” Adam said.

“Thank you,” I said, meaning it. It had only been a few weeks since Clay had gone into town to pick up supplies, only to be confronted by a group of still-angry miners. If it hadn’t been for Joe, who’d raced to town when he heard of Clay’s unwise decision, I can’t say what would have happened. As it was, I heard from a number of people how the two brothers faced the group down. I wasn’t certain whether those who told the story were more interested in the way Joe and Clay had handled the miners or the fact that there was a new son on the Ponderosa.

Clay rode in just as Hop Sing’s complaints about the family’s lateness for supper were reaching operatic levels. He washed up hastily and joined us at the table. I considered telling him then about Chico Wells, but he looked more contented than I could recall seeing him, and I didn’t want to disturb his supper. The news could keep until Clay and I were alone.

Dinner was a much quieter affair with Joe absent. “I wonder what’s takin’ him so long,” mused Hoss as he carved off a piece of beef. “He shoulda been back two hours ago.”

“Probably found himself a pretty girl and a poker game,” said Adam.

“Not with the payroll, he’d better not!” I tried to sound as if I were joking. Don’t fret, I told myself. Nothing’s wrong. Joseph is a grown man. He can handle himself. I repeated the litany over and over, like a priest saying his rosary, as I tried to suppress my ever-growing sense that something was indeed wrong.

I was almost ready to send Adam and Hoss out after him when I heard a horse in the yard. “It’s about time!” I snapped to no one in particular. I waited, but I heard no steps on the porch. Just as I was about to go and see who was here, I heard a crash outside, as if someone had knocked over the rocking chair, and the bell on the porch began to ring.

“What the–” I flung the door open, and for a moment, we all froze. An instant later, we ran as one out to where Joe’s slender body lay sprawled on the porch. “Help me get him inside!” The order was unnecessary; his brothers were already taking hold of his arms and legs. “Lay him on the settee,” I instructed. Adam ran to the kitchen to start Hop Sing preparing the necessary items as I got a good look at my boy.

His face was covered with dirt and blood and bruises as dark and ominous as thunderclouds. His right cheek was swollen at the bone. His lips were parted, and his breathing was rough and shallow. He fought to open his eyes, and I fought for enough control that he would not feel my fear.

Through more than thirty years as a father of sons, I have never been able to be casual about seeing one of my boys injured. Ironically, my passionate, dramatic Marie, born and raised for city life, was far better than I at remaining calm in those moments when one of the boys fell off a horse or out of the hayloft, or got hurt in any of the myriad other ways that boys living on a ranch can manage. Even if it’s clear almost at once that nothing serious has happened, that first instant still sends my heart racing.

Perhaps because I know all too well how quickly everything can change.

“Easy, now,” I said, stroking his hair. “Don’t try to move.”

“Pa?” The word was breathy with pain.

“I’m right here, son,” I said. I rested my hand on his arm to comfort myself as much as him. “You just take it easy. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Adam returned from the kitchen and stood behind the settee, placing a hand on Joe’s shoulder. His eyes were dark with concern. “What happened, Little Brother? Somebody bushwhack you?”

Little Joe started to shake his head, but he winced at the movement. “Huh-uh,” he managed.

“You can tell us later,” I said with a glance at my eldest son. “First things first. Where are you hurting?”

“Head. Ribs.” Just those two words seemed to take enormous effort.

“Anyplace else?” asked Hoss. He laid a hand on Joe’s leg. “You okay otherwise?”

“Yeah,” breathed Joe. “Fine.” He squinted up at me, then at Hoss, and then Adam. “Where’s Clay?”

“I’m here,” said Clay, stepping into Joe’s line of sight beside Adam. “Listen, I’m going to go and put your horse away.”

Joe nodded slightly. “Money,” he managed. “In the saddlebag.”

“I’ll take care of it,” promised Clay. He darted out the door without a backward glance.

“So, if you weren’t bushwhacked, what happened?” asked Adam. I frowned at him; this persistence was unusual, and I didn’t like what it suggested.

“Don’t worry about that now,” I said to Joe. “Let’s get you into bed, and we can talk later. Hoss, go on up and get a fire started in Joe’s room.” My middle son patted Joe’s leg encouragingly and headed upstairs, pausing only to scoop an enormous armload of wood from the box by the fireplace.

I slid my arm behind Joe’s back to help him sit up. Once he seemed to have his balance, Adam and I helped him to his feet. Leaning heavily on us, Joe started to make his unsteady way to the stairs. At the bottom of the flight, he hesitated. “It’s all right,” I said. “Just take your time. There’s no rush.” I held him firmly in case he was about to pass out, but after a minute, he nodded, slowly lifting one foot to the first stair.

It seemed forever before we reached his room. Hoss had lit the lamps and turned down the bedclothes, and the fire blazed brightly. Adam and I eased Little Joe onto the bed, and I helped him to remove his jacket and shirt as Adam knelt to pull off his boots. As gently as we could, we helped him to lie back, and he closed his eyes in apparent relief.

Hop Sing appeared moments later, bearing a tray loaded with the usual medical supplies, as well as a stack of soft white cloths, soap, and a bowl of steaming water. “Hop Sing put broth on stove,” he added as he set the tray on the bedside table. He nodded at my thanks and turned to Joe, saying something in his native tongue that I didn’t understand, but my youngest son clearly did. Joe’s eyes darkened, but he simply nodded.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

“Everything all right?” I asked as Hop Sing left. Little Joe nodded, not meeting my eyes. “Joseph. Look at me.” Reluctantly, he obeyed. “Is everything all right?” I repeated.

Joe nodded. “He just said–Clay hasn’t come in from the barn.” I waited, and after a minute, Joe said, “How long does it take to stable a horse?”

“Maybe he had some other things to do out there, too,” I said. I was relieved enough that Joe seemed to be more alert that I didn’t care whether Clay stayed in the barn all evening. Joe started to speak, but I held up my hand as I bent my head to his chest to listen to his breathing, trying to discern whether it seemed to be getting any easier now that he was lying back. After a minute, I straightened. “I think you’re going to be in bed for at least a few days, young man. Now, let’s get you cleaned up,” I added as I dipped one of the cloths into the water.

A short time later, I smoothed salve onto the last of Joe’s cuts. His cracked ribs were bound, and his face, absent the dirt and blood, didn’t look as bad as I’d feared. His knuckles were raw and slightly swollen, reassuring me that he’d been able to fight back. I didn’t like the wheezing, but I was willing to wait until morning to see if it would resolve on its own without need for the doctor.

“So, how did this happen?” I asked gently as I rested my hand on his forehead. A little warm, but nothing to worry about, thank heaven. He was definitely going to be laid up for a while, but considering what could have happened, I knew enough to be grateful.

Joe swallowed hard. He was suddenly very interested in his socks, but when Hoss sat down on the foot of the bed, he shifted his gaze to his fingertips.

“Joseph? What happened?” I laid my hand on his arm.

Unwillingly, he looked up at me. “It was those miners,” he said at last. “The ones Clay and I had trouble with–when he went to get the supplies.” He was still short of breath, but hopefully, that would pass when he’d had a chance to rest.

“You mean the ones Clay had trouble with that night in the saloon,” said Adam. “What happened?” His voice was clipped, as though he were trying to mask his anger and failing.

Joe glared at Adam for a second, nostrils flaring. Before he could snap at his brother, I said, “Joseph. What happened with the miners?”

Joe tore his focus away from Adam. With obvious effort, he said, “I was just putting the money in my saddlebag when one of them tapped me on the shoulder. I don’t–I don’t remember what he said, but–next thing I knew, I was in the alley next to the bank with a bunch of them.” He stopped, and I stroked his arm until he lifted his head with a tremulous smile. “They said they had a message for that new brother of mine. And then it started.” His breathing was getting rough, and I pressed a glass of water into his hand.

“How many was there?” asked Hoss, his hand resting on Joe’s leg as Joe drank.

Joe shrugged slightly. “Dunno,” he admitted as he handed back the glass. “Six, eight maybe. I got in a couple good punches, and then two of them grabbed my arms, and the rest started pounding on me. Next thing I knew, I was lying in the alley, and they were gone.”

I could feel the tension crackling in Adam like summer lightning. Before he could speak his mind, I said, “I wish you’d gone over to Doc Martin’s instead of trying to ride. He’d have sent somebody for us.”

“Didn’t even think of it,” Joe admitted. “I just wanted to come home.”

I rubbed his arm, unable to speak for a moment. “Well, you made it,” I said when I’d recovered my voice. “Now I want you to get some rest.” I looked up at my older sons. “You two should get started paying the men. They’ve been waiting for a while.” I rose, adding to Joe, “I’m going to bring up that broth Hop Sing’s been heating, and when I do, you’re going to drink it all, and then you’re going to sleep. Understood?”

“You mean I can’t go to the dance tonight?” Joe managed a tired wink and a pale version of his usual heart-stopping grin. I smiled and tousled his hair, just as if I didn’t realize how hard my battered son was working to try to make me feel better.

“Don’t you even try to get up, young man,” I warned. “I’ll be right back with your broth.” Hoss patted his leg as he heaved his bulk off the bed, and Adam rested a hand on his little brother’s shoulder before he followed us out of the room.

No sooner had Joe’s door closed behind us than Adam hissed, “What are we going to do about this?”

“What do you mean?” I had a pretty good idea what he meant, but I wasn’t about to suggest anything.

“Joe could have been killed,” said Adam bluntly.

“I know,” I said, looking him squarely in the eye.

“And you’re not going to do anything.” It wasn’t a question, and I felt my hackles rising.

“Ease up, Adam,” said Hoss, a warning hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“What are you suggesting that I do?” I asked. “Send Clay away? Is that what you want?”

Adam faltered a bit at my directness. Then, he squared his shoulders. “Maybe for a while,” he said. “Until this whole thing blows over.”

“It’s been nearly two months since Clay shot that miner,” I said. “If it were going to blow over, it would have happened by now.” I peered at the son who had been willing a short time ago to have Clay share in the legacy of the Ponderosa. “Clay is still family,” I reminded him. “He’s Joseph’s half-brother and Marie’s son. Just because he doesn’t share our blood doesn’t make him any less a member of this family.”

“Small comfort that’ll be if Joe ends up dead,” said Adam. Even as I flinched at his harsh words, I nearly smiled at how much Adam sounded like his hot-headed little brother.

“That’s enough,” said Hoss before I could. “Nobody’s gettin’ killed, and nobody’s leavin’. We can still take care of our own.”

Adam stared incredulously at his brother. “Joe barely made it home alive this time,” he said. “What if he’s not so lucky next time? What if they decide to send their message with a gun?”

Hoss had no answer. His eyes darted from Adam to me, searching for a solution.

“We can’t keep the kid on the Ponderosa forever,” Adam continued. “Sooner or later, he’s going to be in town alone again. And when he is, I want to know that he’s going to make it back home alive.”

“Which is why we’re going to let the sheriff know what happened,” I said steadily. “The law will handle this. And as for the rest–we’re family, all of us, and we stand together. No matter what.” I fixed Adam with the glare usually reserved for keeping his youngest brother from going off half-cocked. I could only imagine what he’d be saying if he knew about Chico Wells. Giving silent thanks for my restraint at dinner, I added, “I will speak to Clay about what’s happened. You two, go and take care of paying the men.”

Adam held my eyes long enough to let me know that he wasn’t about to be cowed. Then, he took a deep breath and muttered to his brother, “Let’s go.” He headed for the stairs.

Hoss started to follow, but turned back. He opened his mouth, but closed it without speaking. His eyes were full of the struggle of choosing brother over brother.

I patted his shoulder. “The men are waiting,” I said. He nodded and turned to follow Adam, leaving me with the small comfort of knowing that at least one of my sons was as uncertain as I was.

The door closed as I reached the landing. To my surprise, I saw Clay sitting on the arm of my chair. I hadn’t heard a word exchanged among the three brothers as Hoss and Adam had crossed the living room.

He rose as I entered the room. “How is he, sir?”

“He’s pretty badly beaten up, but he’ll be all right,” I allowed.

Before I could think how to phrase the next part, Clay asked, “Did he tell you what happened?”

I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said. “He said that the miners meant it as a message for you.”

Clay looked down, shaking his head. “I was afraid of that,” he said. He lifted his head. “I’ll be getting my things together, sir.”

“That’s no answer,” I said, and I meant it. I hadn’t been certain upstairs, but I was now: Clay wasn’t leaving if I had anything to say about it. He was Marie’s son, and that made him my son.

But Little Joe was my son, too. . . .

I shook my head to rid myself of the thought. “Running away never solved anything,” I said firmly.

“I saw what Joe looked like when we brought him in,” Clay said. “They could have killed him, and it would have been because of me.”

I looked at him sharply. We’d kept our voices down, but I wondered if he’d heard what Adam had said. “We’re going to let the law deal with them,” I said. “First thing in the morning, I’m going into town to talk to the sheriff. He’ll take care of it.”

“This time,” said Clay. “But what about next time?”

“Next time? What ‘next time’?” Suddenly, I was so angry. “You mean, the way this was the next time after Chico Wells? What are you saying, Clay? Will there be another miner?”

Surprise darted across his face. It was the first time I’d seen him without his customary control. An instant later, he had recovered his poise. “Who told you about that?”

“The sheriff,” I said. “He received a wire this afternoon. I was going to speak to you privately after supper.”

“Thank you for that,” said Clay. He dropped his eyes, and as abruptly as it had flared, my fury melted.

I sat down on the table. Without thinking, I started to put my hand on his knee as I would have with Joseph. He moved his leg just as I pulled back my hand. To cover the moment, I asked, “What happened in Chico Wells?”

“Fellow said I was cheating and pulled a gun. I was faster, but he had a big family, lots of brothers and cousins, and the sheriff told me to get out of town while I could.” His tone was shockingly matter-of-fact.

“Clay.” I waited until he looked at me to ask. “Were you cheating?”

He held my gaze. “In Chico Wells–yes, I was. But not here.” I must have looked dubious, because he said, “I swear to you, sir, I was not cheating the night that miner accused me. I wouldn’t have done it–not then.”

It was an odd statement. “Why not then?”

“Because I knew somebody could get killed,” he said. “And my brother was at the next table.” His well-tempered voice held just a hint of sorrow. “Trouble’s been following me my whole life. Now, it’s followed me here. I’m sorry, sir. I won’t bring any more to you.” He rose, holding out his hand.

I stood, too, but I didn’t take his hand in the farewell that he obviously intended. “You’re not leaving,” I said, as if it were my decision. “We’re your family. We’ll handle this together. Joe’s going to be fine. And the rest-it’ll all work out eventually. You’ll see.” I waited, but he said no more. “I’ve got some broth heating for Joe,” I said. “You can go up and see him if you like.” I headed into the kitchen without waiting for an answer, but I smiled to myself as I heard his boots on the stairs.

I lingered in the kitchen to give the two brothers time alone. Hopefully, Joe was awake, since Clay would probably be reluctant to waken him. Then again, it would please Joe to wake and find his brother there.

But when I finally went upstairs and opened the door to Joe’s room, Joe was alone, asleep. My heart began to pound. Slow down, I told myself. Clay could have been any number of places–his own room, the barn, the bunkhouse to pick up his pay. Maybe they’d visited for a few minutes and Clay had left Joe to sleep. Just because he wasn’t sitting with his brother didn’t mean that he’d left the Ponderosa.

Logical points, all of them. And I knew in my gut that none of them were true.

I set the cup on the bedside table and started to draw a blanket up over Joe, but he woke as I touched him. “Hey, Pa,” he murmured. “Guess I nodded off.”

“I guess you did,” I said with deliberate lightness. I helped him to sit up a bit and handed him the cup and saucer.

“Where’s everybody?” he asked.

“Hoss and Adam are paying the men,” I said. “I saw Clay downstairs a few minutes ago.”

Joe’s eyes grew somber. “Did you tell him what happened?” At my nod, he said, “He’s blaming himself, isn’t he?”

“That’s not for you to worry about right now, Joseph,” I said.

But my son knew me too well to be put off by my evasion. “It’s not his fault,” Joe said. “Did you tell him that?”

“Son, you need to rest now, not fret about what everybody else thinks.” My words sounded feeble, even to my own ears.

“You think it’s his fault,” Little Joe said. “You think I got hurt because of him.”

They were two very different statements, but I wasn’t about to argue. “Take it easy, Joe,” I said. “Just drink your broth.”

“Is that what you were talking about, out in the hall? I could hear you talking. You all want Clay to leave, don’t you?”

“No, we don’t,” I said, but he wasn’t listening.

“You can’t throw him out,” said Joe. Panic was starting to squeeze his voice. “He’s my brother. You can’t throw him out of the family just because of something like this.”

“Nobody said anything about throwing him out of the family,” I said. For the second time in half an hour, I wondered how far our argument had carried.

“If you throw him out, you’re throwing me out, too,” insisted Joe as if I hadn’t spoken. “I’ll go with him, back to Mexico or New Orleans or wherever he wants. You can’t throw my brother out!”

“Joseph, calm down,” I said. His breathing was growing rough again. I sat on the edge of the bed and took his chin in my hand, forcing him to look at me. “Listen to me. Nobody is being thrown out of anyplace, do you understand? I already told Clay, we’re family and we’ll handle this matter together. Now, you just settle down and drink that broth.”

“I want to see him, Pa.” The boy looked unconvinced.

“The best thing for you right now, young man, is rest,” I said firmly. I rose and crossed the room to put another log on the fire so that I could avoid his eyes for a minute.

“I’ll rest after I talk to Clay,” said Joe. I almost smiled in spite of everything. My son, the deal-maker.

I replaced the poker and turned to him. Marie’s fierce loyalty burned in our son’s bleary eyes. I relented, resting my hand on his shoulder. “All right,” I said. “You drink that broth–all of it–and I’ll send him up.”

If he’s still here.

* * * * * * * * * *

I stalled as long as I could, hoping that he’d be asleep before I went back upstairs. My footsteps were heavy and dull, slowing of their own accord as I reached Joseph’s door. My hand on the knob, I paused for one last prayer, but there was no miracle, no sound of Clay opening the door and bounding up the stairs to see his brother. Finally, with no other choice, I opened the door.

Joe’s eyes opened, a smile already crossing his bruised face as he turned. The smile froze halfway when he saw that I was alone. “Where’s Clay?”

The trepidation in his voice told me that he already knew what I would say. I drew up the bedside chair and rested my hand on his arm. “Son, Clay’s gone.”

“What do you mean?” His eyes searched mine for some sign that he’d misunderstood.

“I checked his room,” I said. “His things are gone. And his horse isn’t in the barn.” I felt him begin to tremble. “Joseph, he’s a grown man. He has to make his own decisions.”

“What did you say to him?” The words were sharp, an accusation. My first reaction was to defend myself, but in the next breath, I understood: if somebody drove Clay away, then he didn’t leave Joe voluntarily. But if Clay had choices, and he left anyway. . . .

“I told him the truth,” I said, as determinedly calm as Little Joe was agitated. “I told him what had happened to you and why, and I told him that he was family and we would handle this together.” My son looked unconvinced. “Joe, you can’t force someone to stay if he’s decided to go. Some men aren’t made for our kind of life. Only Clay knows what kind of life fits him. It’s not for anyone else to say.”

“But he’s my brother.” Joe’s voice cracked, just a little bit, on the last word. “He wouldn’t just leave like that, without even saying goodbye. I know he wouldn’t. Somebody has to go after him, bring him back.” He tried to sit up, but a gasp of pain escaped him.

“You’re not going anywhere, young man,” I said sternly. “Clay has made his decision, and we’re going to respect it, even if we don’t agree with it. And maybe someday, when he’s ready, he’ll come back.” The words sounded feeble even to me, and Joe glared at me.

“Where’s Hoss and Adam?” he demanded. His logic was obvious: if I wouldn’t let him go after Clay, he’d send his brothers.

“Last I saw, they were out in the bunkhouse,” I said. They’d finished paying the men, and when I’d gone out to the barn to look for Clay, the poker games had already been under way. “Son, I’m sorry, I truly am,” I said, and I was.

He swallowed hard. “I’m tired, Pa,” he said. “I’m going to go to sleep now.” He laid his head back and closed his eyes, but not before I saw the determined glint that told me this wasn’t over, not by a long shot.

I watched him for a long minute, my thoughts a jumble of conflicting arguments. Something inside me knew what needed to happen. Never had I wished so much to be wrong.

I rose and drew the bedclothes up over him. “You call me if you need me,” I said, patting his shoulder.

I started to turn down the flame in the bedside lamp. Then, I looked again at Joseph, eyes closed and jaw tight. Beneath the blanket, I saw movement as his hand clenched into a fist.

And I left his room, the lamp still burning brightly as I drew the door closed.

* * * * * * * * * *

Sooner than I’d expected, Hoss and Adam burst into my room, smelling of bunkhouse cigars and cheap whiskey. “Pa, Joe’s gone,” said Adam without preamble. “He’s not in his room, and his horse is gone.”

“We think he went after Clay,” added Hoss.

“I’m sure he did,” I said.

My mild response caught them off guard. “Well, don’t worry,” said Adam. “We’ll bring him back.”

“No, you won’t,” I said firmly. My sons’ jaws dropped as I continued, “This is something Joseph needs to do on his own. You will not interfere.”

“Interfere–but, Pa! He ain’t in no shape to be runnin’ around out there! That boy should be in bed!” Hoss was horrified.

“I know,” I said heavily. The memory of his bruised face rose unbidden before me.

“And you’re just planning to let him do whatever he feels like doing?” Adam’s incredulity was just shy of disrespectful, but I forced myself to stay silent.

“What if he goes with Clay?” Hoss was struggling. He clearly thought I’d lost my mind.

“He won’t,” I said. Whatever else happened, I knew in my bones that Joseph would return.

“Pa, you know how he talked about going to New Orleans with Clay,” Adam argued. “What if they just go now?”

My heart ached to hear them. This was the love and loyalty that bound my sons together, all three of them. I had no question that Joseph felt as strongly about Hoss and Adam as they did about him. Likewise, I had no question that he felt just as strongly about Clay.

But Clay himself–there was the weak link. That young man knew nothing of the kind of love and commitment that Joe had offered without reservation from the first moment Clay revealed his secret. Whatever feelings Marie’s older son might have for Joe, or for this family, would not be enough to hold him here.

I turned to the sons before me. “He won’t,” I said again. They made no response, lips pressed together as if holding back sharp retorts. I relented slightly. “If Joe’s not back by morning, we’ll go after him,” I decreed. Adam and Hoss were clearly unsatisfied by this compromise, but I would give no more. I would not divide my sons into warring factions, and allowing Adam and Hoss to drag their little brother home under these circumstances would do precisely that.

I went downstairs, leaving them to grumble. Settling myself in the blue chair where Clay had sat a lifetime earlier, I prepared to wait for Joseph’s return.

Hours later, I was awakened by footsteps on the porch. One person only. The steps echoed, slow, heavy, defeated. I hastened to the door, flinging it open. And there he stood.

His bruised face was dotted with sweat despite the cool night. He held himself so stiffly that it was clear that his ribs were hurting. His lips were trembling.

But as he looked up at me, it was his eyes, raw with anguish, that told the story. In the days to come, I would hear the details–how he’d caught up with Clay and tried to persuade him to return to the Ponderosa. How Clay had refused. How Joe had tried to suggest that he should accompany Clay on this travels. How Clay had rejected him. I don’t need your family, and I don’t need you. Joe would repeat these words in a monotone, his gaze turned inward as if seeing again the brother who could say such words.

Fury rose in my heart at the shattered look in his eyes. Maybe I’d raised my sons too well, protected them too much. Certainly, I’d never prepared Joseph for the notion his own flesh and blood would–or could–ever turn his back on him. He and Hoss and Adam loved each other fiercely. Bicker and quarrel as they might, there was no question of their devotion. Each would have given his life for the others without a second’s thought. It was what brothers did. Clay was Joe’s brother. At least in Joe’s heart, they were bound, one to another.

And so, in spite of Clay’s harsh words–or maybe because he needed to try once more to make Clay believe in the strength of that bond–Little Joe had given to his brother his most cherished possession.

The picture of his mother. Their mother.

Weeks would pass before he confessed this to me. He’d thought I might be angry, he said. I assured him that I wasn’t. It was his picture, to do with as he saw fit. By this time, his cracked ribs were well-healed, his bruises long faded. Only the shadows in his eyes when he thought himself unobserved revealed the deeper pain that lingered. And so, I put my arm around his shoulders and told him the truth, that it was as generous a gesture as I’d ever known. Even when he admitted that he’d told Clay to bring it back some day, thereby keeping alive the hope of some future contact, I didn’t retract my words. I just held him and wished for a way to ease his pain.

As Joe stood before me that night, shivering with cold and mute with anguish, I knew nothing of these details. I knew only that, somehow, my boy had been blindsided by the violent betrayal of his love. Every protective instinct a father ever possessed reared up in my heart. If Clay had stood before me at that moment, I honestly don’t know that I could have restrained myself.

Thoughts swirled through my head like a dust storm as we faced each other. Almost afraid, I asked stupidly, “Are you all right?”

For a moment, he stood motionless. Then, he lurched forward into my arms as sobs ripped themselves from him. I held him close, feeling his fingers digging into my back. “Pa,” he choked, over and over. I stroked his hair, but I said nothing. I simply held him as his grief overwhelmed both of us.

It’s strange, what goes through a man’s mind at such a moment. Even as my heart broke for the boy weeping in my arms, I found myself feeling a bizarre pity for the man who had inflicted this agony. At least Joe had his family’s love and support to see him through. Clay, by his own choice, had no one, nothing-except, perhaps, whatever cold comfort he was able to find in the freedom that he apparently cherished even above his own brother.

I’m sorry, my love, I told her silently. I did what I could. It just wasn’t enough. I couldn’t make Clay into something he wasn’t.

As Joe’s sobs lessened, I rested my cheek against his damp curls. The cool night breeze drifted through the open door. His horse, still out at the rail, nickered softly. Ordinarily, I’d have settled Joe on the settee and tended to the animal, but not tonight. The pinto would have to wait.

At last, I felt Joe’s grip on me loosen. He straightened, wiping his face on his sleeve. I kept my arm around him as I said, “Let’s get you up to bed.” I closed the front door at last and supported Joseph as he made his laborious, pain-filled trek across the living room, up the stairs, and down the hall to his bedroom.

The lamp still burned softly, just as I’d left it. Little Joe made no sound as I lowered him to sit on the bed and removed his jacket and shirt for the second time that night. Utterly drained, he lay back as I lifted his legs onto the bed. I pulled off his boots and drew the covers over him, smoothing his hair back from his face. The fire had burned down to glowing coals, but another log soon dispelled the chill. I carried a washbowl of cool water over to the bedside table as if, in washing away his tears, I could somehow wash away his heartbreak.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked as gently as I could. I wasn’t surprised when he shook his head. He closed his eyes as I sponged his bruised face, and he looked so young, so vulnerable, that my own eyes filled with tears. When I picked up the bowl to go and empty it, his eyes snapped open and he tried to sit up, gasping in pain even as he grabbed my arm.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged, his voice cracking.

“I’m not leaving,” I assured him as I set the bowl back on the nightstand and turned the lamp down low. I sat on the side of the bed, careful not to jostle him. His eyes glistened in the dim light, pleading silently for me to make sense of this terrifying new world where a brother could just walk away without a backward glance. “I’m not going anywhere,” I promised. “I’m staying right here with you.”

Broken, he clung to me as I stroked his hair, his arm, his bruised cheek. He did nothing to hold back the tears that spilled over. He was far past such trivial matters as pride or dignity. The anguish of his lost innocence was almost palpable. I had never felt so helpless.

I could feel the room gradually cooling as the fire burned down. For a moment, I considered getting up to tend it. Instead, I tucked the quilt more snugly around Joe with one hand while he continued to clutch my other arm as though I, too, could disappear if he failed to hold tightly enough. The marks from the beating he’d taken for his brother paled beside such a wound.

The darkness outside was just beginning to soften when I heard Hoss and Adam moving around, much earlier than usual. Footsteps paused outside the door. Behind me, I heard the slightest sound of the latch lifting. A moment later, the tiny click of its fall signaled the closing of the door.

Joe’s eyes were growing glassy and unfocused. I rested my free hand on his hair as his grip on me weakened. “Maybe you should try to get some sleep,” I suggested. “I’ll bring you something to eat in a little while.” Fear darted through his eyes like a silver minnow in a stream, and he tightened his grasp on my arm. But the effort of continuing to keep watch was finally too great. Almost at once, he sagged, defeated by the ruthless battering of body and soul. No matter how strong and vibrant his love for his family, it wasn’t enough to hold those who would leave. My heart ached at his surrender.

Like his mother before him, Joseph would grieve the departure of Jean-Luc de Marigny for the rest of his life. And because he mourned this loss, so would we all. It was something a man like Clay Stafford would never understand.

I leaned over to kiss his brow. Tears welled up in his eyes again, and I squeezed his hand. “Go to sleep, son,” I whispered. Obediently, he closed his eyes, scalding liquid grief leaking from beneath his lids. I held his hand against my face until his breathing became deeper and even. Only then did I rise and leave, closing the door soundlessly behind me.

Hoss and Adam were at the table when I came downstairs. They looked up sharply, questioning, and I nodded. We had hard days ahead of us, but we would work through them as a family, together.

I rubbed the back of my neck, wishing that I had the luxury of going back to bed. As I sat down, I said, “Joe’s horse is still out there. Would one of you take care of it?”

“Sure, Pa.” Hoss was up almost before I finished speaking. He opened the door and turned back, frowning. “There ain’t no horse out here.”

“Of course, there is,” I said, rising. “It was still there when Joe and I went upstairs.” But the yard was empty. “What on earth–”

And then I knew. Not the details, but the truth.

The early light, crisp and clear, filtered through the trees as I crossed the yard to the barn, Hoss and Adam on my heels. Joe’s horse stood in his stall, munching the last of his hay. The saddle and bridle had been neatly put away in their customary places. I looked around, half-expecting to see the glint of a silver frame.

“Who put the pinto away?” demanded Adam. Even in the dim light, I could see the angry questions in my sons’ eyes. “I don’t think any of the hands are up yet,” he added, almost as a challenge.

I rested a hand on each of their shoulders. “Your brother did.”

Trouble has been following me my whole life, he’d said. In that moment, I knew that leaving had been his clumsy way of trying to protect his little brother. When Joe, beaten but driven, went after him–the one thing I’m sure Clay never expected–Clay had to send him away or risk letting that trouble find Joseph again. That Clay had been harsh, perhaps even cruel, was clear from the wreckage he’d left behind, but strangely, I understood: anything less than complete and absolute rejection, and Joe would never have let Clay go.

In the days to come, I would wrestle with whether to tell Little Joe that his brother had followed him home that night. As the boy slogged through the mire of his grief, I found myself picturing Clay at the edge of the yard, safely hidden by the darkness, keeping watch as Joe stumbled into my arms. I saw him unable to leave, a silent witness to the devastation and heartbreak he had inflicted in his misguided effort to keep his brother safe. I imagined him patting the pinto’s neck in one last farewell as he headed out into the solitary world he’d chosen.

Sending Joseph away might well have been the only truly selfless act of Clay Stafford’s self-protective life. I could assuage Joe’s pain, but only at the cost of undoing all that Clay had tried to do for his brother. Ultimately, I kept silent.

Clay could tell his own story, in his own time.

In the light of dawn, I found the faith to believe that one day, Marie’s son–our son–would do just that.

The End

Continued in:  Saying Goodbye