Part One

You’re going to die today.

Joe Cartwright sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding. Wildly, he looked around the room for the source of the words that had ripped him from peaceful sleep.

But nothing untoward, or even unusual, was visible. Pa insisted that they all keep their bedrooms orderly so that Hop Sing needed only to dust and sweep, and even though Little Joe was not naturally tidy, he’d had enough encounters in his younger years with his father’s belt that he’d learned to keep his room neat. And so, his clothes were folded over the back of the chair, boots side by side underneath. The stack of detective novels on the desk was straight. The brushes on the bureau sat equal distances from each other and from the box which held his most valued possessions, including the cuff links Pa gave him last month for his eighteenth birthday. Everything in order, undisturbed by whatever had invaded his rest.

The earliest bits of sunlight peeked around the edges of the blinds. Ordinarily, he’d have pulled the covers over his head, burrowing in for a few more minutes before the day began. But now, sleeping seemed as impossible as running barefoot to San Francisco.

Besides, he should be getting up anyway. It was the responsible, grown-up thing to do. That was why he was awake. Not because of some ridiculous notion that had wormed its way into his dreams.

He forced himself to take slower, deeper breaths, trying to will his heart to stop racing. It’s nothing, he told himself. It was just a dream. Don’t be stupid. It’s nothing.

Yet he trembled as if an icy blast had blown through. He felt powerless to do anything except stare at the door, half-waiting for a hooded figure to burst in, scythe in hand, to haul him to the great beyond.

The door opened.

Joe had heard people say their hearts were in their throats, but he never knew before what that felt like. Now, the lump in his throat paralyzed him. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t breathe. The dark shadow loomed in the doorway. In that second before anything registered, the only thought in his mind was, This is it.

“Hey, Joe, time to get up,” said Hoss.

Joe swallowed as hard as he could. “Yeah,” he managed. Never had he been so thankful for the blinds that kept out revealing light. He thought he saw Hoss tilt his head as if in question, and so he turned his face away on the pretense of climbing out of bed. He rubbed his eyes and faked a yawn, and Hoss left the room, apparently convinced by the charade.

Only then did Joe put up the blinds, allowing the early morning light to flood in. As he turned from the window, he caught a glimpse in the mirror of his face, stark white and wild-eyed.

He looked like a man who’d seen Death.

“All right, cut it out,” he muttered aloud. This was ridiculous. It was a bad dream, nothing more. He should have been used to that by now.

Even though Joe was generally happy and optimistic in daylight, monsters and terrors of all types had haunted his nights ever since he was little. One particular nightmare had plagued him for years, from the time his mother died. At least that one made sense, though: a five-year-old boy who watches his mother thrown to the ground from a stumbling horse, and who stands on the porch, stunned and unnoticed, while she dies in her husband’s arms, is entitled to have nightmares about her death.

Except that in the dream, it wasn’t always his mother who died. Sometimes it was Pa, or Adam, or Hoss, flung violently into the dirt, lying broken and bloodied as Joe begged them to wake up. And sometimes, it was Little Joe himself, flying from the horse, seeing the ground come up to slam into him and knock the breath right out of him. Then, he would lie in his father’s arms, trying desperately to speak, to move, to prove that he wasn’t really dead. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t do anything but scream inside his head as they put him in the pine box and took him up to the grave they’d dug for him, next to his mother’s. All he could do was to stare up at their faces and plead wordlessly for them not to put the lid on the box. His body remained paralyzed as he tried frantically to make a sound, to cry, to do anything at all. They’d sing a hymn–always “Nearer, My God, to Thee”–and then, Pa would say, “It’s time to say good-bye, Joseph.” They’d lower the lid onto the box–

–and he would wake up, screaming.

Joe poured water into the washbowl and splashed it on his face. “Stop it,” he snapped at his reflection. He hadn’t had that dream in ages. He couldn’t even remember what he’d dreamed about last night, but he was sure that if it had been the coffin dream, he’d have known about it.

With resolute firmness, he sharpened his razor on the strap. He set it on the washstand and lathered his face with more than usual care. Then, he picked up the razor and held it to his cheek.

Even in the mirror, he could see his hand shaking.

“This is ridiculous.” He slammed the razor down on the washstand. He was eighteen years old, a man by any definition of the word. He was too old to be scared by some silly dream.

He washed the lather off his face and pulled his nightshirt over his head, flinging it on the bed. Jaw clenched, he pulled on his clothes, but he misbuttoned his shirt and had to start again.

“You’re acting like a fool kid!” he told himself. Spooked by a dream, at his age. If his brothers found out, he’d never hear the end of it.

He sat on the chair and reached underneath for his boots. Determined, he yanked on the first one. He was going to get through the day. When he went to bed tonight, he would laugh at his own foolishness. He picked up the other boot.

You’re going to die today.

He dropped the boot as if he’d been shot. Icy terror threatened to squeeze all breath out of him. Trembling, he pressed his head into his hands, fighting panic. He didn’t know where this notion was coming from, or why. He didn’t know how to combat it. He didn’t even know why he believed it. All he knew, with bone-chilling certainty, was that something, somewhere, had made up its mind. Come nightfall, he would be dead.

And then, there would be a pine box with a lid. . . .

By the time he descended the stairs, he had himself in hand. He was fine. Absolutely fine. No problem. It had just been a moment of silliness. He must have had a nightmare that he didn’t remember, and it had hung on into waking. There had been occasions when Pa had had to wake him up, holding his arms and shaking him to help him break free of the terrors that claimed him. More times than he’d have cared to admit, he’d wakened to find himself sobbing in Pa’s arms. He was far too old for that now, of course, but for just a moment, he found himself wishing for the comfort of Pa’s broad chest and the rumble of his deep voice, reassuring Joe that he was safe, that it had just been a dream.

The rest of the family was well into their breakfast when he slid into his chair. He grunted a response to his father’s “Good morning,” not quite trusting his voice. He poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it down, nodding to his brothers’ greetings.

He could feel his father’s eyes on him as he served himself from the platter of hotcakes. Lucky for him that his beard wasn’t nearly as heavy as Adam’s; Pa probably wouldn’t even notice that he hadn’t shaved. Wonder if they’ll shave me before they put me in the ground, he thought before he could stop himself.

“How much longer do you boys have on the branding?” Pa asked after a minute.

“We can probably finish by tomorrow if the rain holds off,” said Adam.

“Just be careful,” said Pa, the way he always did.

Not like it’s going to do any good, Joe thought. When your time’s up, your time’s up.

Frustrated, he shook his head to rid himself of such notions. He didn’t know where they were coming from, but it was unnerving, like somebody was putting ideas in his head. He speared a ham steak and dropped it on his plate, forcing himself to concentrate on cutting the meat carefully, like there was going to be a prize for it.

He could feel his father watching him. Finally, he looked up, defiant. “What?”

“What do you mean?” asked Pa mildly.

“You’ve been watching me ever since I sat down. What’s the matter?” Joe jammed a piece of hotcake into his mouth.

“You keep a civil tongue in your head,” warned Hoss.

“Don’t tell me how I should be talking! That ain’t your place!” Joe snapped.

“Simmer down, Joe,” said Adam with a touch of heat.

“I’m simmered down, and it’s none of your business anyway!” Joe slammed down his fork.

“Enough!” Pa’s voice thundered, echoing the suddenly-quiet room. He fixed each of his sons with the look they knew all too well, coming at last to rest on his youngest son. “Joseph, is there something going on that I should know about?” he asked in that tone that would not countenance less than the truth.

“No, sir,” Joe said, not meeting his eyes.

“Then I suggest that you settle down and finish your breakfast so that the three of you can get going.” The edge in Pa’s voice made it clear that this was far more than a mere suggestion.

“Yes, sir.” He drained his coffee cup and stood. “I’m finished now.” He left the table, painfully aware of the silence behind him as he donned his jacket and hat. He buckled his gunbelt with hands that shook only slightly. Then, he stalked out the front door, pushing away the thought that he could be leaving the house for the last time.

* * * * * * * * * *

The stench of burning hide drifted to Joe on the wind as he sighted the next calf. A slight nudge with his legs, and Oliver was off to cut this one from the herd.

A good little horse, this Oliver. Smaller than Cochise, Joe’s beloved pinto, but a good cutting horse. He didn’t look like much–an unexceptional dun coat, a bit on the scrawny side–but he had turned out to be agile and tough and smart. Adam and Hoss hadn’t thought much of the little horse when they first saw him at the Carson City auction last year, but Joe had seen his potential, and Oliver had been worth the fight. Joe had worked him all last summer, and this year, Oliver had come into his own. Now, Joe didn’t have to do much more than point him toward the chosen calf, and Oliver pretty much took it from there.

The calf bawled as the rope found him. Almost too quickly to see, Hoss had the calf down, and Adam applied the branding iron to the left rump. One of the hands, Jake, reached in with his knife as Hoss held the calf steady, and moments later, Jake tossed the calf’s testicles onto the pile by the fire. Another minute, and the calf was back on his feet, bleating as he staggered back into the herd, searching for his mother.

They’d gotten through the entire morning without the slightest mishap. Granted, his brothers kept exchanging looks when they thought he couldn’t see them, but he steadfastly ignored them. He’d deliberately brought Oliver so that he could be out in the herd, rather than working with Adam and Hoss by the fire. Even though a part of him wanted to spend his last day on earth close to his brothers, he didn’t dare. What if whatever had targeted him missed and took one of them? So, he’d saddled the little horse, saying simply, “Oliver still needs more work,” when Adam had raised an eyebrow at his choice of mount.

You’re going to die today.

The thought kept slamming into him at odd moments, a punch to the gut that nobody could see. Over and over, he tore his thoughts away from this ridiculous notion, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. You couldn’t let your mind wander when you were branding. Too many things could go wrong. Maybe he didn’t have a choice about dying today, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to help death along by doing something stupid.

“Hey, Joe!” Hoss was waving him in. Almost reluctantly, he pointed Oliver toward the opening of the canyon.

“What?” he called as soon as he was close enough.

“Lunchtime,” said Hoss.

Lunchtime. The day was half over, and he was still alive. He supposed that counted for something.

Unless it just meant that his time was running out.

Adam handed out dishes of beans and cups of coffee. Joe accepted his with a grunt of thanks and sat down apart from the others, but Hoss came and sat next to him. He ignored Hoss’ questioning look. He never could get anything past his big brother, but this was one time he was willing to try.

Unexpected tears filled his eyes for a second as he watched the familiar scene. How many calves had he roped and branded since that first one? For the first time all day, a small smile crossed his face. He recalled how he’d stood by the fire, determined to show no nervousness. The acrid smoke stung his nostrils. Pa wrapped his strong hand around Joe’s as he demonstrated how to hold the branding iron. Adam brought the calf in, and Hoss took it down, and then it was Little Joe’s turn. He was twelve years old, and he felt like ten kinds of a man as he placed the Ponderosa brand on that shiny red-brown rump. He watched the little heifer scamper away, back to the herd. Then, he looked up and saw the pride in Pa’s face, in those dark eyes and that special smile, and he felt Pa’s hand on his shoulder. “Good work,” was all Pa said, but Little Joe knew what was unsaid, and he grinned for all he was worth.

It was fitting, he supposed, that he should die here, surrounded by horses and cattle. A man should die as he’s lived. Tears stung his eyes again. He leaned over and pretended to fuss with his boot so that Hoss wouldn’t see how close he was to flinging himself against his big brother’s broad chest, just like a little kid, and spilling everything.

The men sat around, cracking off-color jokes and making plans for Saturday night. Because they can, his mind taunted him. They’ll still be alive on Saturday.

“Stop it,” he told himself fiercely.

“Stop what?” asked Hoss, peering at him.

“What? What are you talking about?” Joe feigned his best puzzled look, brows drawn together.

“You jest said to stop it,” said Hoss.

Joe rolled his eyes. “You must be a little sun-touched, Big Brother,” he said. “I didn’t say anything.” Before Hoss could argue, he tossed the last of his coffee on the ground. “Let’s get back to work.” He pretended to ignore the curious eyes on him as he strode to his horse and swung into the saddle.

The afternoon fled too quickly, like the river running fast and full after the spring thaw. With each calf he brought in, Joe could feel the minutes ticking away. How many now? How long until the end?

I should have said good-bye to Pa, he thought. And to Hop Sing. For just a second, he closed his eyes as he thought of his father and his long-time friend.

“Cut it out!” he told himself for the umpteenth time. He kicked Oliver’s sides in emphasis, and the little horse turned his head for a second, as if to ask what he’d done wrong. “Nothing, it’s my fault,” Joe said, patting the gelding’s neck. Oliver shouldn’t have to pay for having a doomed rider.

The sunlight was just beginning to fade when Oliver lifted his head, ears back. Immediately alert, Joe reined him in, listening. He didn’t hear anything other than the cattle, but Oliver was visibly nervous.

“Easy, boy, it’s okay,” he murmured. He craned his neck to see where the others were working. No one seemed to think anything was amiss.

“It’s just our imagination,” he told the horse. “You’re as bad as I am now. Tonight, when we’re home having our supper, we’ll laugh at how silly we were.”

But then, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he knew that what he’d been feeling all day was real.

He scanned the herd, frowning. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew. Rancher’s instinct, Pa called it. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his gut. He nudged Oliver, but the little horse moved away, back toward the fire. “Come on, you,” he muttered, kicking Oliver’s sides and reining harder. Almost reluctantly, the horse moved along the edge of the herd.

“Joe! What are you doing?” called Adam.

Joe held up his hand. He wasn’t certain himself. All he knew was that something wasn’t right, and he had to figure it out. Fast.

The sun was dipping low. In the growing shadows, he strained to see the herd. They’d brought them into this box canyon in order to keep the cattle from straying before they finished the branding. It was an idea they’d heard about, and like any other idea, it had advantages and disadvantages. The advantage, of course, was that the branding could go faster because the herd was essentially corralled. The disadvantage was that there was only one way for them to get out, and so it was even more important than usual to keep them calm. A stampede could go in only one direction–the direction where the men had set up the branding.

Normally, the cattle would be milling about, settling down, the newly branded and castrated calves secure with their mothers. But a few of them weren’t moving. As he watched, several more stopped and lifted their heads. He followed their gaze, and he froze.

On the ledge, twenty feet up, almost hidden by the shadows, crouched a puma.

“Puma!” he shouted. “Puma!”

It was a rancher’s worst nightmare. If he fired, he could stampede the cattle–right out of the box canyon and over his brothers and the others at the branding fire. And if he didn’t, the puma could pounce–and stampede the cattle right out of the box canyon and over the men at the branding fire.

And then, it was as if everything slowed down, and every second lasted for minutes. He heard himself yell again and again, his voice echoing off the high rock walls. The cattle began to move toward the opening of the canyon. He heard others behind him, yelling things he couldn’t understand over the increasing noise of the cattle. He drew his rifle, aimed, and fired as the puma leapt. Blood spurted from the belly of the airborne cat. He didn’t see where it landed, but he heard the startled cattle moaning. He kicked Oliver’s sides, urging the horse to the edge of the canyon, seeing the cattle lumbering toward him faster and faster, and helpless to do anything.

You’re going to die today.

From a place so deep inside he hadn’t known it existed, Joe Cartwright yelled into the darkness: “Like hell, I am! Nobody’s dying today!”

Joe yanked the reins, pulling the horse around. He bent low over Oliver’s neck, kicking for all he was worth. As soon as they were near the front, Oliver started easing over, forcing the cattle to move. As Joe and Oliver gained more ground, they began to zigzag in front of the cattle, working back and forth, turning the ones they could, dodging the ones who got past and trying to catch up to turn those. The thundering of hooves, the low moans, all echoing off the walls of the canyon–it was deafening, and as dusk turned to darkness, the din grew louder and louder.

Dimly, Joe began to realize that he wasn’t alone, that others on horseback had joined him. He could hear shouting, but the words were unintelligible. It seemed as if he’d been riding forever in this pandemonium, racing back and forth to turn the cattle. He strained in the fading light to see which cattle were moving where. He thought they might be slowing, but he couldn’t be sure.

And then, Oliver stumbled.

Flying. He was flying. The noise was so dense that he thought it might be holding him up. He might fly all the way home. Pa would like that.

In the instant before he hit the ground, he thought, I’m sorry, Pa.

And then, the ground slammed into him and knocked the breath right out of him.

* * * * * * * * * *

He’d heard that, when you went to heaven, there was some sort of bright white light, but this light was yellowish and softened by fog. Maybe he wasn’t in heaven. When he was eight years old, Mary Catherine Boyd, who was Catholic, told him about purgatory, where Catholics said you went if you weren’t ready for heaven. Pa said there was no such place, but it looked like he might be wrong, because this definitely wasn’t heaven, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t hell.

“Joseph.”

Joe blinked hard. If this was Saint Peter, he sounded an awful lot like Pa. He blinked again, trying to clear away the fog.

“It’s all right, son, you just lie still,” said Pa.

So confusing. What was Pa doing in purgatory? Joe tried to reach out, but his left arm didn’t move. He tried to talk, but no sound came. Oh, please, God, no. It wasn’t purgatory. It was his nightmare, real at last. Panic seized his throat. He felt a hitching in his chest, like he was going to cry, but it hurt so badly that he tried not to move. He closed his eyes, but he could feel tears leaking out from under his lids.

“Pa?” he murmured.

“Easy, son, I’m right here,” said Pa.

“Pa?” His head was pounding, his left shoulder was on fire, and his torso felt like somebody had beaten him up with iron fists. He was trembling with cold, and he struggled not to cry like a little kid.

“I’m right here,” Pa repeated, his hand stroking Joe’s hair. “You’re all right, Joe. Just take it easy.” Joe blinked again, but he still didn’t see much other than light and fog. He tried again to reach for Pa, but his left arm still wouldn’t move.

“Pa,” he said again, and he could hear the terrified pleading in his own voice.

“Easy, son,” said Pa. “You’re going to be all right. Just lie still now.”

Nothing made sense. It couldn’t be the nightmare if Pa could hear him, but he was supposed to be dead–so what was Pa doing here? Was he dead too? Then he found that he could move his right arm. He reached toward Pa’s voice, and Pa caught his hand. “Are we dead?” he asked, his voice breaking.

“No,” said Pa gently, stroking Joe’s hair, and Joe could hear the chuckle in Pa’s voice. “We’re not dead,” Pa said. “I promise.”

“But I’m–I’m gonna die.” There. The words were out at last. He closed his eyes, mortified even in his pain and confusion as sobs began to shake him.

He heard something splash softly. A moment later, a cool, wet cloth pressed gently against his face. “Take it easy, son,” said Pa. “You’re not going to die. I’m right here with you. You’re going to be fine, I promise.”

“But–what–” He couldn’t find the words to ask what he wanted to know. His breathing was getting rougher, catching in his chest, and it hurt so much that he wished he could stop breathing altogether.

“Don’t you worry now,” said Pa. “Everything’s going to be all right.” He kept talking in that warm, soothing voice, sponging Joe’s face with the damp cloth, until finally, Joe felt quieter. Even though he still didn’t know what was happening, he could rest, knowing that Pa was here to see to things.

“Hey, Pa, how’s he doing?” Heavy footsteps accompanied the question.

Joe squinted in the direction of his brother’s voice. What was Hoss doing here? Was everybody in purgatory? What about Adam? Was he here, too?

“He’s awake,” said Pa. “He’s a little confused, though.”

“Well, he hit his head pretty good,” said Hoss.

Pa stroked Joe’s forehead. “Don’t you worry, son,” he said to Joe. “You’re going to be just fine.”

“What did the doc say?” asked Hoss. Joe felt his brother rest a hand on his right shoulder, the one that didn’t hurt.

“Pretty much what we thought,” said Pa. “Concussion, a couple of cracked ribs, and he dislocated that shoulder. That’s why Doc bound up his arm against the ribs, so he couldn’t move it.”

Hoss whistled softly. “That boy’s got more lives than an old tomcat,” he said. “How’re you feelin’, Shortshanks?”

“Dead,” murmured Joe.

Hoss chuckled. “No, Little Brother, you ain’t dead,” he said. “I don’t know how, but you’re still here. When you went sailin’ over that pony’s head, I thought you were a goner for sure. You hit the ground so hard it knocked all the wind out of you, but somehow, them cattle didn’t trample you.”

Joe blinked hard again, and this time, the fog cleared slightly. “Ain’t I dead?”

“Aren’t,” came Adam’s voice. “And no, you’re not.” Joe felt a hand resting on his foot. Even though he couldn’t see that far, he figured it must be Adam, because Pa and Hoss were already up at his head.

It didn’t make sense, any of it. He wanted to ask how this could be, but Pa was lifting his head from the pillow and holding a glass to his mouth. “Try and drink a little bit,” he was saying, and Joe drank, even as he tried to sort out how it was that they’d have water in purgatory. Gratefully, he lay back, the wet cloth cool against his face.

Then, a memory slammed into him. “Oliver,” he murmured.

“Just rest now, son,” said Pa. He spoke in that deep, gentle voice he used when he wanted Joe to calm down, and Joe’s stomach lurched.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” he managed.

Adam patted his foot. “I’m sorry, Joe,” he said. “His leg was broken. We had to put him down.”

Joe closed his eyes. You’re going to die today. So, the fates didn’t distinguish between a man and his horse. Tears threatened again as he looked up at Pa. “He was a good horse,” he said, as if that should make a difference.

“Yes, he was,” said Pa. He pressed the cool, wet cloth against Joe’s face.

“He shouldn’t have died,” Joe insisted.

“No, but these things happen sometimes, even to good horses,” said Pa.

“Besides, you got that puma,” offered Hoss. “You saved the whole danged herd, and then some. I hate to think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t shot that cat. Herd would’ve gone loco, prob’ly trampled all of us.”

“That was some fine shooting, all right, Little Brother,” said Adam. “You should be proud.”

“But he’s dead,” said Joe.

“The puma?” Hoss sounded mighty confused.

“Oliver,” said Joe, swiping at the tears that trickled down his cheeks like he was some fool kid.

Pa took over then as he bathed Joe’s face with the wet cloth. “Easy, now, son,” he said. “It’s all right. You’re just worn out, that’s all. You need to get some sleep.” He repeated the soft words, running the wet cloth over Joe’s face until he felt easier. Then, Pa asked, “Are you hurting much? Do you think some laudanum might help you sleep?”

“Huh-uh.” Joe started to shake his head, but he caught his breath as the first inch of movement convinced him that this was a very bad idea.

“Maybe just a little, okay?” Pa suggested. Before Joe knew what was happening, he felt his head being lifted from the pillow and the spoon being maneuvered between his lips. He swallowed the sharp-tasting liquid, grimacing as he was laid back down.

Pa’s hand, so work-roughened and strong, was infinitely soft and gentle as it stroked Joe’s brow. “Close your eyes, Joseph,” he said. Joe opened his mouth to speak, and Pa laid a finger on his lips. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” he promised. “For now, you just get some rest.”

“Time’s it?” Joe murmured.

“It’s a little after midnight,” said Pa. “Now, go to sleep.”

After midnight, and he was still alive. He didn’t know how, or why, but for now, it didn’t matter. He was here, and that would have to be enough.

* * * * * * * * * *

Part Two

I’d spent most of the morning at my desk, tending to correspondence. Joseph had spent the same time dozing fitfully on the settee. It had been nearly a week since the stampede, and I hadn’t had the heart to make him stay in bed another day, even though I knew that Paul Martin would have my hide if he found out I let the boy get up so soon. Still, keeping Joe in bed has always been a chore and a half, and I figured that Paul would understand.

“Pa?”

Joe was struggling to sit up. I wasn’t supposed to see him bite his lip against the pain of his ribs and shoulder, so I merely laid down my pen and said, “Hang on, I’ll give you a hand.” I ignored his protests that he could manage as I helped him to sit up, propping him up with pillows.

“How’s that?” I asked.

He smiled his thanks, a pale version of his usual heart-stopping grin. For an instant, I thought he was just tired. Then, his smile faded. “Pa–if I tell you something, will you promise not to laugh?”

I felt my own smile fade. “Of course,” I said carefully.

Here it was at last. I’d known for days that something was troubling him; the boy is as easy to see through as cool lake water on a summer day. As he recuperated, he’d been too quiet for pain that was only physical, and I’d caught too many troubled looks in unguarded moments. I breathed a silent prayer for wisdom and settled myself on the edge of the long, low table next to him.

“You remember last Wednesday?” He was studying his fingernails as if he’d never seen them before.

Did I remember? All too well, and not only for the day’s end, when Hoss and Adam had brought him home, unconscious and bloodied. From the moment I saw Joseph coming down the stairs that morning, I felt as if storm clouds were gathering, black and oppressive. For the first time in a long while, since his early days working with his brothers, I was afraid for my boy. I even thought of making up some project at the house, just to keep him close by. I told myself that I was just being silly, an overprotective mother hen, but still I watched him so closely throughout breakfast that he became annoyed with me. As the boys rode off, I implored Heaven to stay close to all of them that day, but especially to Little Joe. As the day had passed, I’d found myself reiterating my prayer for their safety even as I chastised myself for lacking faith in my sons. When they finally rode in, with Adam holding a battered Little Joe in the saddle in front of him, I knew with dreadful certainty that the day’s battle had been much more than the imaginings of a fretful father.

“Well–I don’t know if it was a dream or what, but–this sounds so stupid, but–” He took a deep breath. I waited, and finally he said, “I had a feeling I was going to die that day.”

“You thought you were going to die?” My stomach pitched like a ship at stormy sea.

He nodded. Once he said the first words, the rest tumbled out. “When I woke up, I swear I heard somebody saying, ‘You’re going to die today.’ All day, I kept hearing that in my head, and I was convinced I was going to die. And when I woke up at home, I thought I’d died and was in purgatory.” When I said nothing, he mumbled, “See? I told you it was stupid.”

I rested my hand on his knee. “It doesn’t sound stupid,” I said with more conviction than I intended. “Not even a little bit.” He looked up as if he thought I might be making fun of him, and I patted his knee reassuringly. “What do you think now?” I added.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Obviously, I’m not dead, so it must have been my imagination. But it seemed so real, and I couldn’t shake it off, no matter how hard I tried. And then, when Adam said they’d put Oliver down, I thought–I thought maybe somehow, he died in place of me.”

“But you feel okay now?” I asked, as much for myself as for Joseph.

He nodded. “It was just that one day.”

I forced a smile. “Well, then, there’s nothing to worry about, is there?”

“I guess not,” he admitted. We sat quietly together, and for a moment, I was tempted to recount my experience from that day. But he seemed to be relieved at the notion that he’d imagined it all, and I didn’t want to be the one to tell him otherwise.

“Do you think it’s possible?” he asked suddenly.

“Do I think what’s possible?”

“That a man might know beforehand that he’s going to die.”

I took my time answering, choosing my words carefully. “I think there’s a lot more to the world than what we can see,” I said. “I’ve heard of men who’ve claimed to know when they were going to die. But for most of us, I don’t think it happens that way.” My son still looked troubled, and I rested my hand on the back of his neck. “You don’t have to be afraid,” I said quietly. “Death is a part of life.”

He looked at me as if he thought I was about to preach him a sermon. “I know,” he said, just as quietly. “But still . . . I don’t think I want to know ahead of time when I’m going to die.” He looked down and away, and I could feel the memory of fear in the tense young muscles.

I wanted to reassure him, but the words would not come. I couldn’t say when he would leave this life, any more than I could have predicted his mother’s death. I wanted to tell him the truth, that all the days of his life were ordained before he was ever born, but I knew that if I were still alive when his last day came, I’d be on my knees anyway, begging the Almighty to give him more time.

“Son, only God knows for sure when your time will come,” I said at last. “It’s not something you or anybody else can say. All I can tell you is that you’ll go when it’s the right time. It might not be when we think is right, but it’ll be right.”

He still didn’t look up. “Do you think Mama knew she was going to die?”

The question took me by surprise, and yet I found that I knew the answer. “No, she didn’t.”

The certainty in my voice caught his attention. He looked up, clearly wanting to believe. “But how can you be sure?”

I met his eyes squarely and told him the truth. “Because if she’d known, she wouldn’t have gone out riding. She’d have stayed right here. She would never have left you by choice.”

We sat without speaking, my right hand on the back of his neck, Joe gripping my left. Seeing her die had marked him, even more than I’d realized. As secure and happy-go-lucky as he was most of the time, there was a dark stream of grief trickling through the center of him that would never quite run dry.

I rested my cheek against his bowed head. I’d always prayed that my boys would have long, rich lives. A selfish prayer, I realized suddenly: if they lived to ripe old ages, I would never have to know the unspeakable agony of burying them. I pulled Little Joe close, shutting my eyes against the horror of losing the young man I held now, of losing any of my sons.

“Pa, my shoulder,” protested Joe.

“Sorry, son,” I said, releasing him. The clock chimed eleven, and I rose. I tried to sound casual as I suggested, “Why don’t you go on upstairs and try to get some sleep? Lunch won’t be ready for another hour.” I could see that he needed to rest. He was worn out from the burden of carrying his secret.

Besides, I needed some time to think on this conversation.

For a moment, as he looked up at me, I could almost see the little boy I’d held close so many nights, green eyes glistening with tears as he’d clung to me, absolute in his faith that his pa could keep him safe. But the crooked half-grin of the young man reminded me that the little boy had indeed grown up, and that he understood now that some things were outside even my control.

I surveyed the fading bruises on his face, the bandages binding his arm to his torso. He could so easily have died that day. And I’d done the only thing I could do to protect my son.

Outside my control, yes. But not outside His.

I helped Joe to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” I began, but he waved me off.

“Don’t worry, I can do it myself,” he said with that wink that gets him around me more often than I’d like to admit. I went back to my desk, pretending to focus on the letter I’d been writing as I watched him make his way up the stairs. At the top, he turned back to flash a knowing grin at me.

Caught, I couldn’t help laughing. “You get to bed, young man!” I managed a mock serious tone, and he shook his head, chuckling, as he headed down the hall.

I dipped my pen into the ink and resumed writing. “I am pleased to advise you that the Ponderosa can supply the timber you require within sixty days of the signing of the contract. If you wish to discuss this matter further, I would be happy to meet with you when you are in Virginia City on the thirtieth.” I signed the letter and set it on the desk to dry as my thoughts returned to Joseph.

He’d had a feeling. I recalled now how tense he’d been that morning, snapping at everyone. It hadn’t occurred to me that he would have felt the descending darkness–but how could he not? Had it not been just such a feeling that compelled me to pray for his safety throughout that day? I’m a devout man, but I don’t routinely spend my days in prayer. Yet, on that day, I continually found my thoughts turning to my boys, and I couldn’t begin to count the number of times I prayed that they would be safe.

When I saw him that night, I knew that my prayers had been answered. Yes, he was injured, but as I took him down from Adam’s horse, I knew beyond all doubt that my son had come within a hairsbreadth of being killed.

Just as I knew that he had been protected–far beyond what man could explain.

“It’s a miracle he wasn’t trampled,” said Adam as we waited for the doctor. Adam, who lives by logic and reason, and has little patience for that which cannot be sorted out rationally. Even he saw the truth that night.

I folded the letter into the envelope. Address, seal, and it was ready to go. Then, I rose and headed upstairs. My son was awake, and there was more talking to be done. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did.

Call it a feeling.
The End