“Is he coming?”  

Joe could hear Adam’s low voice outside the barn door.  He tried to ignore his brother’s quiet seriousness, focusing instead on the hoof he was bent over.  Hard to tell if that was a crack in Cochise’s shoe or not.  That blasted horse went through more shoes than any three mounts on the ranch combined.

“He’ll be along,” said Hoss almost as quietly.

“Any idea–?”

Joe released the hoof and straightened up.  He didn’t hear a response, but he would have bet a week’s pay that Hoss just shook his head sadly.  They’d been doing that a lot when they thought he couldn’t see them.

It wasn’t that he wanted to ruin Christmas for the rest of the family–far from it.  For days, he’d been trying to get into the Christmas spirit, or at least, to pretend he was in the spirit.  It took so much more effort than he’d expected, though.  He’d get so worn out from trying, and then he’d see a look on somebody’s face that let him know he wasn’t fooling them anyway.  That was when he’d retreat to the barn to do made-up chores, or he’d just head up to the cabin.  Anything to avoid those compassionate, worried, helpless looks.

Not that his family knew what they were being compassionate, or worried or helpless, about.  He hadn’t said anything to them.  He couldn’t have made the words come out, even if he’d wanted to.

Laura had died back in the spring, on a day when wildflowers swayed in the breeze and birds chirped and the sun shone warm.  Their wedding day.  Left behind, Joe had been crippled by grief for months afterward, well into the summer.  Gradually, though, he learned how to manage, how to have normal conversations and remember what he’d been told and put one foot in front of the other.  In fact, he learned so well that none of his family even mentioned Laura any more.  It was as if they’d forgotten her, or maybe they thought he’d forgotten her.  And while there wasn’t a day that passed without his thinking of her, there had indeed come a time when the memories were no longer quite so sharp and painful.  Sometimes, he could even smile when he thought of her.

This, he’d imagined, was how healing worked.  A straight road, mostly uphill, rough and hard sometimes, but steady.  Once you’d traveled it, there was no doubling back.  You got to the end, and you were safe.

Maybe it would have been easier now if he’d been ready.  Nobody had warned him about how grief can sneak up on a man long after he thinks he’s finished with it.  Nobody told him that sometimes all it took was one wrong step, and he could tumble back down that hill so far that it would seem as if the journey had never even begun.  And so, Joe had been completely blindsided when the approach of Christmas tore his heart open and left him bleeding and gasping in pain.

It wasn’t as if Christmas had been a special time for Laura and Joe.  In fact, the two of them had never spent a Christmas together.  They hadn’t even talked about Christmas, except once.  But as it turned out, once was enough. Now, all the thoughts and feelings that went with that one time, everything they’d dreamed of and planned for, were coming back like some fierce, snarling monster, threatening to devour him.

He didn’t know how long his brothers had been gone when he heard the crunch of boot on hay.  He knew without looking up that it was his father.  He pretended to untangle a snarl in Cochise’s tail, trying to compose his features into an expression that wouldn’t worry Pa any more than he was already worried.

“Joseph.”

He looked up as if the deep, rich voice was the first hint he’d had of his father’s appearance.  “Hi, Pa,” he said brightly, grinning as if pleased for company.

“Supper’s almost ready,” Ben said quietly.

“Oh, sure, I’ll be right in.”  Joe set the comb on the divider between stalls.  “Now, you just behave yourself, and maybe you’ll get something nice in your stocking,” he said to the horse, patting his neck.  He could feel his father watching, and he knew that, no matter how long he fussed with Cochise, Pa would still be there, waiting for him.  Better just to get it over with.  He gave the horse’s neck one last pat and cast about for some innocuous topic, enough to get them from the barn to the house.  “Hoss still thinks you’re getting him that rifle, you know,” he said.  “I told him he’d be better off writing a letter to Santa Claus.”

His father smiled.  Joe braced himself.  He’d known for days that this moment was coming.  Pa just wasn’t the type to sit back and leave a man to work things out on his own–leastwise, not a man who was one of his sons.  But Joe didn’t know how to tell his father that he didn’t want to talk to him about it.  If anybody knew how he felt, it would be Pa–after all, the man had buried three wives and countless friends and acquaintances.  Still, Joe couldn’t bring himself to say the words out loud.  It was as if talking would somehow make Laura’s death more real, more permanent, than it already was.

But Pa just said, “Better hurry up.  Hop Sing made roast pork, and if your brother gets to the table first, the rest of us’ll be eating bread for dinner.”

Somewhat to his own surprise, Joe chuckled.  He pretended not to notice his father’s hopeful expression as he prattled on about Hoss and the rifle while they walked across the yard to the house.  At the door, he said, “I’ve just got to wash up.  I’ll be there in a minute.”  He ducked into the kitchen before Pa could say anything.

Another bullet dodged.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Hey, Joe!  Over here!”

Hoss was thigh-deep in cold mud, fighting with a recalcitrant cow that didn’t seem to want to get to solid ground.  Joe sighed as he kicked Cochise’s sides and headed down the hill.  Adam talked about breeding cattle that had more meat on them or could hold their muscle better on the way to market.  How about breeding some that weren’t just plain stupid?

Joe reined in his horse a few feet short of the hole.  “Brother, what in tarnation are you doin’ in that mudhole, anyway?”

Hoss growled, “Jest throw me a rope, and lemme get this goldarned thing outta here!”

“Anything you say, Big Brother,” said Joe with the deliberately slow, lazy inflection that he knew infuriated his brothers.  Sure enough, Hoss glared at him.  With the skill born of years of practice, Joe tossed his lasso, neatly dropping it over the cow’s head in one try.  He nickered to Cochise, who backed up enough to hold the rope taut.  Within a few minutes, Hoss and the muddy cow were on firm ground.

Hoss looked down at himself.  “Dadburn stupid cows,” he muttered.  As he tried to wipe off the worst of the mud, he said, “Hey, Joe, tell me again why we ain’t bankers or somethin’.”

“‘Cause neither one of us is much good with arithmetic,” said Joe.  “‘Sides, can you imagine us sittin’ in a little room all day with a bunch of paper?  We’d both be stir crazy inside of a week.”

“I reckon you’re right about that,” sighed Hoss.  Joe pulled off his own neckcloth and tossed it to Hoss, who wiped his hands and nodded his thanks.  “At this rate, we ain’t gonna get into Virginia City ’til afternoon,” the big man added, scraping enough mud off his boot to fit it into the stirrup.

“Who’s goin’ to Virginia City?”

“I figured you an’ me could go,” said Hoss as he settled into his saddle.  “I dunno about you, but I got Christmas presents left to buy, and I ain’t got no idea what to get Pa or Adam.  I figured we could buy presents and then stop in at the Bucket of Blood for a beer.  Whaddya say?”

The easy feel of the morning vanished.  Christmas again.  Everywhere he turned, somebody wanted to rub his nose in it.  It occurred to Joe to wonder if Hoss was testing him, trying to see what was wrong.  Or maybe, his big brother figured that getting away from the ranch and sitting back with a friendly beer would be a way to get him to open up.  Hoss wasn’t usually devious, though.  He was more likely to ask straight out, as they were riding along under a clear sky with a cold breeze ruffling their collars, or maybe when they were doing barn chores.  Talking was sometimes easier when they were working side by side, not looking straight at each other.

“Sure,” Joe said finally.  “But you’d better clean up first.  I can’t be seen with you lookin’ like that, y’know!”  Before Hoss could answer, he urged Cochise into a run, and he heard Hoss behind him, shouting to his horse, Chubby, to get that scrawny little pinto.

* * * * * * * * * *

By the third shop, Joe knew he’d made a big mistake.  Every storekeeper, every storekeeper’s employee, everybody they met–all of them ended every exchange with “Merry Christmas.”  And Hoss would obligingly wish them a merry Christmas in return.

But Joe couldn’t get the words out.  Merry Christmas.  Sure, he thought bitterly.  This would be a merry Christmas.  The merriest damned holiday in history, that’s what he would have.  Right.  A snowball had a better chance of staying cold on top of the stove.

The first couple of times, he tried to force himself to say it, but it was like there was something in his throat.  The words just wouldn’t come out.  He manufactured a cough once to cover himself, and he pretended not to notice Hoss looking at him strangely.  After that, he just tipped his hat and smiled in the general melee of Christmas greetings, as if Hoss was speaking for both of them.

Finally, the brothers were ensconced at a table at the Bucket of Blood, beers in front of them.  Joe tossed his hat on the table and took a long drink.

“Joe, what’s goin’ on?” asked Hoss.

So much for Hoss not being devious.  “Is that why we came here?  So you could ask me that?”  Joe tried not to show the anger that suddenly flared.

“Pa’s worried about you,” Hoss said.  “We all are.”  His blue eyes, usually clear as a summer’s day, were dark with concern.  “You in trouble, boy?”

Joe took another long drink.  He wondered what kind of theories were being tossed around after he went to bed, or when he was out of the house.  He could just hear it:  Do you think it’s gambling debts?  No, he wouldn’t get himself in that deep.  A girl, maybe?  Do you think he’s in love?  No, he don’t seem happy.  You don’t suppose he got some girl in the family way, do you?  No, he wouldn’t do that.  He knows better.  Money troubles?  He’d come to one of us if that was the problem.  Do you reckon he’s sick?  No, he doesn’t look it.  But he’s been pretty quiet, and he don’t eat much.  True, but he never does eat that much.  Maybe a friend of his is in trouble, and he’s trying to help, but he promised not to say anything?  Could be.  Hoss, you and Joe are close.  You talk to him.  See if you can’t find out what the problem is.

How could he tell them that the one place in the world he wanted to be was at the cabin that was to be their home, his and Laura’s?  He and Adam and Hoss had had such fun, rebuilding the broken-down shack by the pond, transforming it into a snug little dwelling.  Joe and Laura had taken shelter at the shack that day they were caught in the rainstorm.  As they’d cuddled in front of the fire, his arm protectively around her while she slept, he’d found himself dreaming of the day that they would live there and the nights they could spend in front of that fire.  And so, he and his brothers had hammered and sawed and joked and laughed and finally, on a warm day in the spring, the cabin was finished.

Joe could still remember the light scent of the flowers on the breeze when he walked in the front door.  The braided rug covered most of the floor in the main room.  Chairs were placed on either side of the fireplace–a rocker for Laura, and an overstuffed armchair, like Pa’s, for Joe.  Adam had put a pump in the kitchen so that Laura would never need to have water hauled for her.  Calico curtains stirred gently at the windows.  The big bed was covered with a quilt Hoss and Adam had bought from Mrs. McAllister without telling him.  And there, in the middle of the main room, was the cradle Adam had built, the wood gleaming in the sunlight.

It was as close to heaven as Joe had ever been.  And it lasted less than a day.

The next morning, hours before their wedding, Laura went up to the cabin.  She knew by then.  They’d both known that their time was short, but that morning, she knew she’d reached the end.  When he’d wakened to find her gone, he knew immediately where she was.  Sure enough, she’d used the last of her strength on this earth to go to the cabin, to see their home.

And she died in their bed, in his arms.

“Joe?”

Hoss’ voice broke into his reverie.  Like a slap, the noise and smells of the saloon came back into sharp focus.  A cowhand laughed raucously as he grabbed a giggling saloon girl whose dyed-red curls clashed with her bright red dress.  Her perfume was cheap and harsh, like gardenias picked too long ago and shoved under his nose.  The tinny piano tinkled as rough voices rose in anger at the poker table in the corner.  The beer had gone warm, and it tasted sour.

“Joe?”

With a start, he realized that he hadn’t answered.  He took another drink and forced a smile.  “I’m fine, Brother,” he said.  “Don’t worry about me.”  He drained the glass and clunked it on the table.  “We should get going.  Hop Sing’s gonna be mad if we’re late for supper.”  Without waiting for an answer, Joe shoved back his chair, its wooden legs scraping the floor, and he stood, stretching.

As he moved to pick up his hat, Hoss took hold of his arm.  It wasn’t the rough grab that his big brother made when Joe was doing something stupid or dangerous, but it was firm enough to cause the younger man’s temper to flare for a moment.  He tried to jerk his arm free, but Hoss held firm, and for a moment, the brothers’ eyes locked.

Hoss Cartwright was three hundred pounds if he was an ounce, and he’d passed the six-foot mark when he was twelve.  He’d bested boxers and wrestlers and cowboys and miners and some of the dumbest steers in the high Sierras.  From the time he was eight, his pa had warned him about how strong he was and how he had to be so much more careful than other men because of that.

But as Joe looked into his big brother’s eyes in that dusty saloon on a cold December afternoon, he saw such sadness and tenderness and love that he very nearly fell into the big man’s arms and sobbed out his grief.  If they’d been almost anyplace else, he might have done just that.

But in the Bucket of Blood Saloon in Virginia City, Nevada Territory, men didn’t cry.

So, Joe Cartwright picked up his hat and managed a lopsided grin.  “I’m fine, Big Brother,” he repeated softly.  “Don’t you worry about me.”  He slid his arm out of his brother’s grasp and nodded to the bartender.  “Take care, Sam.”

“Merry Christmas, Little Joe!” called the bartender.  “Merry Christmas, Hoss!”

“Merry Christmas, Sam,” said Hoss.  Joe touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement of the greeting and walked out into the fading daylight.

* * * * * * * * * *

Little Joe was five years old when his mother died.  He didn’t really understand what it meant to die, except that people cried and brought food and said how sad it all was.  Pa said that Mama had gone to heaven and that she couldn’t come back, but that Pa and Adam and Hoss would take care of him.  His best friend, Mitch Devlin, told him that dying meant that people went to heaven and became angels who watched over the people on earth.  Since Pa had also said Mama was in heaven, this made perfect sense.  He liked the idea of Mama being an angel, dressed all in white like the angel they put on top of the Christmas tree.  Sometimes, when he was outside, he waved up at the sky, just in case Mama was watching.

 

But when he asked his Sunday school teacher, Mrs. Brannigan, she said Mitch was wrong.  She said that people were people, and angels were angels, and there was no changing from one to the other.  She told Little Joe that the Bible left no room for argument on this point, as if the wide-eyed boy was going to challenge her knowledge of the scriptures.  

 

A stern-sounding discussion took place between Reverend Hanson, Mrs. Brannigan and his father a few days later, after Pa’d found him sobbing in a corner of the hayloft, his heart newly broken at the idea that his mama wasn’t an angel watching over him.  He didn’t understand almost anything they said, but that night, Pa took him in his lap and they talked for a long time about his mama.  Little Joe didn’t mean to cry, but he did, and Pa said it was fine to cry about missing somebody you loved.  Pa said that he did it sometimes, too.  The idea of his pa crying was so astounding that Little Joe’s tears stopped.  

 

“But can Mama see me?”  the little boy asked after he’d digested that notion.

 

“I don’t really know, son,” said Pa, holding him close.  Little Joe found this almost as remarkable as Pa crying, the idea that there was something Pa didn’t know.  “What I do know is that she loved you very, very much, and that someday, when you’re in heaven, you’ll get to see her again.”  He sounded very, very sure of this.  

 

“But I want to see her now,” said Little Joe.  

 

“I know,” said Pa.  His voice sounded funny.  “So do I, son.”  He hugged Little Joe tightly.

 

“Pa?”

 

“Hmmm?”

 

“If God didn’t need Mama to be an angel, then why did He take her away from us?”

 

“I don’t know,” Pa said for the second time in as many minutes.  “But I know this, son.  God doesn’t make any mistakes, and He always has a reason for what He does.  Lots of times, we don’t get to know what the reason is, but He always has one.”

 

“Just because, huh?”  The little boy had heard that answer to “why?” plenty of times in his short life.

 

Pa chuckled.  “Kind of like that,” he said.  “Now, it’s time for you to get to bed.  You go on, and I’ll be right up.”

 

Little Joe climbed down from Pa’s lap.  He started for the stairs and turned back.  “Pa?”

 

“No, you can’t stay up until Hoss and Adam get home,” said Pa.

 

“That wasn’t what I was gonna say,” Little Joe protested.  “I was gonna ask, if we don’t know if Mama can see us, that doesn’t mean she can’t, right?  I mean, she might, and maybe we don’t know?”

 

“Maybe,” said Pa slowly, after a pause.

 

“I think she can,” said Little Joe.  “I bet she asked God if she could, an’ He said she could ’cause she’s so pretty an’ nice and smells so good.”

 

“If anybody would have asked, it would be your mama,” said Pa with a wistful smile.  “Now, you go get your nightshirt on, and I’ll be up in a minute.”  Satisfied, the chubby little boy climbed the stairs, unaware of his father watching.

* * * * * * * * * *

The smell of pine enveloped him as soon as he opened the door.  Christmas was still more than a week away, but the tree was already set up in its usual place by the stairs, so that it was the first thing anyone would see when they came in.  It wasn’t decorated yet, but it was so tall and full and splendid that it could easily have done without any man’s well-meaning assistance.

Except for the years when Adam was away at college, the three brothers had always picked the tree out together.  They’d argue vigorously about which one was the right choice, and on several occasions, they returned with black eyes and split lips in addition to the tree.  Two years ago, Hoss and Joe had to set up and decorate the tree while Adam rested on the settee, nursing the ribs that had gotten cracked in defense of his selection.  Joe was always convinced that, even laid up, Adam considered himself to have won, since it was his tree that graced their home that year.

This was the first year Joe hadn’t helped his brothers to pick out the tree.  He really hadn’t meant to miss it.  They’d talked about it at breakfast, and they’d agreed to meet out by the road to the lake at ten o’clock.  From there, they’d go to see each brother’s choice, and then they’d make the decision together.

Joe meant to be there, he really did.  But as he was riding along the lake road in the freshly-fallen snow, wondering how he was going to hide the fact that he hadn’t picked out a tree, he found himself turning back, heading instead for the trail leading up to the cabin.  Powder flew, dusting man and horse as they climbed the trail they now traveled nearly every day.

He’d just stay a minute, he promised himself.  But he stabled his horse in the little shed that he and his brothers built as a temporary shelter until they could build a proper barn, and he went inside the cabin and built a fire.  He sat down, and the minute turned into an hour, and the hour into several hours, and the next thing he knew, darkness had fallen and he hadn’t moved from his armchair all day.

So, his brothers had gone ahead and chosen a tree without him.  He wasn’t sure whether he was hurt or relieved.

Joe hung his jacket and hat on the peg.  He coiled up his gunbelt and lay it on the credenza.  As he turned, his father said quietly, “It’s pretty late.”

Joe drew a deep breath.  Seeing the tree, he’d missed the man in the red leather chair.  Running a hand over his hair, he pasted on a smile.  “Guess it is,” he said.  “Must have lost track of time.”

“Son?”  Ben laid his book on the table.  When Joe started to head for the stairs, his father rose as if to intercept him.

“Night, Pa,” said Joe, as if there were any chance of escaping.

“Joseph.”  Ben rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, and Joe stopped, as if physically restrained.  “Sit down for a minute, please.”  It was phrased as a request, but Joe knew better.  He sat down on the settee, braced, as his father sat opposite him on the table.

“What is it, Joe?  What’s the matter?” asked Ben without preamble.  “And don’t tell me nothing,” he added as Joe was about to protest.  “There’s something wrong, and I’d like to help if I can.”

Joe shook his head ruefully.  “I wish you could, Pa,” he said.  “You have no idea how much I wish somebody could help.”  Make it not be real that she’s dead, he wanted to say, just like a little boy.  Make her be alive again.  Make it not hurt so much that she’s gone.

“Would you like to talk about it?’  The gentle brown eyes invited him to tell everything.  If only he could.  If only the words would come out.

“I can’t,” Joe said finally.  At Pa’s questioning look, he said, “I wish I could.  I wish there were something-but I can’t even say–”  His voice faltered.  He wanted to take that next step, to say the words out loud, but if he did–if he did–it would be more than he could bear.  He just knew it.  Whoever said that only sticks and stones could hurt, but never words–well, that fellow had no idea what he was talking about.

After a long silence, Joe said, “I’ve been thinking about going away in the spring.”  His voice sounded unsteady, even to his own ears.

“Any place in particular?”  If Ben was surprised by the turn in the conversation, he hid it.

“New Orleans,” said Joe.  At his father’s quizzical look, he said, “You know I’ve always wanted to spend some time there.  I thought maybe, next spring–”  Next spring, when the Ponderosa is in full flower and looks just the way it did when Laura was here and alive and we were in love and happy. . . .

“Well, we can talk about that after Christmas,” said Ben.  He searched his son’s face.  Anyone who hadn’t known the boy his entire life might have been fooled into thinking Joe was just tired.  After a long minute, he asked quietly, “Does this trip have anything to do with–what’s going on now?”

Joe ran his hand through his hair again.  He couldn’t meet his father’s eyes.  He could feel Pa waiting, watching for clues to–what?  There was no explanation, nothing he could offer that would make sense.  It didn’t make sense, any of it:  a beautiful young woman was dead, and Christmas without her-life without her-was a constant agony.  Now, he had to keep going for reasons he could no longer remember, if he’d ever known them at all.

Finally, without looking up, Joe said, “Pa, if it’s okay–I’m really tired, and I’d just like to go to bed.”

“Of course,” Ben said, patting his son’s knee.  Joe immediately got to his feet and headed up the stairs.  “Joseph?”

“Yes, Pa?”  The young man turned from the top of the staircase.

“If you want to talk about it–”  Whatever “it” is.

Joe forced a smile.  “Thanks, Pa.”  He disappeared around the corner, and a moment later, the sound of the bedroom door closing was audible in the living room.

* * * * * * * * *

He headed up the trail toward the cabin, clutching Cochise’s reins as if they were a lifeline.  He hated the pain he’d seen on his father’s face, the disappointment in his brothers’ eyes.  Even more, he hated knowing that it was his fault.

The Christmas Eve festivities had always been a Cartwright tradition.  Right after breakfast, all of them, including Hop Sing, headed into town to visit friends.  They spent the day going from house to house, delivering and receiving gifts, drinking eggnog and eating everything from roast beef to fruitcake.  Then, in the evening, everyone met at the church to sing carols and listen to Reverend Hanson’s Christmas sermon.  Afterward, back at the Ponderosa, the Cartwrights gathered in front of a roaring fire, and after Ben read aloud the Christmas story from the gospel of Luke, they drank brandy and reminisced about Christmases past.

Joe had been planning to go with his family.  He really thought he could.  When he tried to tie his string tie, though, his hands started shaking.  Suddenly queasy and lightheaded, he had to sit down and put his head between his knees, taking deep, slow breaths until the feeling passed.  He tried to tell himself that it was because he hadn’t eaten much for breakfast, but he knew better.  The prospect of being surrounded by people who were laughing and singing and celebrating, hearing “Merry Christmas” over and over and being expected to say it back, listening to the preacher talk about how wonderful the season was and how happy he should be–it was just more than he could handle.

He hadn’t even bothered making up an excuse.  He just said, as casually as possible, that he didn’t think he was going to go to town with them.  Adam started to say something, but Pa stopped him with a look.

“All right, son,” his father said simply.  “We won’t be too late.”  As if he thought that his son might be waiting at home for their return.  At least Joe wouldn’t have to lie about where he was going.  To his older sons, Ben said, “Come on, boys, we should get going.  Go hitch up the buggy, will you?”

After Hoss and Adam went outside, Ben laid a hand on his youngest son’s shoulder.  For a long moment, the two men looked at each other.  Then, Ben patted Joe’s shoulder.  “We’ll see you later,” he said softly.

“Pa-”  Ben turned back, waiting quietly.  “Pa–I’m sorry,” Joe said hoarsely.  Sorry to ruin Christmas for everybody.  Sorry I can’t handle her being gone.  Sorry I’m not the man you are.  So sorry. . . . 

Without a word, Ben wrapped his arms around his son and held him close.  Joe closed his eyes, inhaling the smell of good pipe tobacco and bay rum cologne.  For a moment, all the hard, painful feelings welled up, and he suddenly felt as if he could tell his father everything.

“Pa, we’re all set–”  Hoss opened the door, and Joe broke away from his father’s embrace.

“You all have a good time,” Joe said, blinking back the tears that had started to threaten.

“Joseph–”  Ben started to reach for him again.

“Go ahead, really, Pa, I’m fine.”  Joe stepped back.  The moment was past.  Without waiting for an answer, he turned and headed into the kitchen, where smells of Hop Sing’s Christmas preparations lingered, comforting and dangerous.  He stood by the stove, unmoving, until he heard the front door close and his family ride away.

The snow was just starting as he arrived at the cabin.  He secured Cochise in the little shed.  Then, he crossed the small yard to the porch and let himself into the cabin.

“Sweetheart, I’m home,” he called softly.  It was foolish, he knew, but for just a moment, before the silence of the cabin grew too loud, he could pretend that she was there, waiting for him.  He could pretend that, while he’d spent the day working, she’d been here, wrapping presents and baking cookies and decorating the Christmas tree–

The Christmas tree.

It wasn’t possible.  He blinked hard.  Not quite believing, he approached slowly, as if it might vanish.

It wasn’t a big tree.  Only a couple feet high, this one was planted in a little iron bucket and sat in the middle of the table.  The boughs were decorated simply, with popcorn and berries and stars cut from heavy silver paper.  A slightly larger star, with a more intricate pattern, perched atop the tree.  Candleholders bearing small candles were tied to branches.  A box of matches sat neatly beside the bucket.

Next to the matches lay a small, square envelope.  His name was printed carefully, in his father’s distinctive hand.  Slowly, he took it up, turning it over and over.  Finally, carefully, he unfastened the flap, removing a folded piece of paper and a rectangular piece of cardstock.

The ticket stated that it would admit one for passage on the New Hope, sailing from San Francisco to New Orleans and back.  The note, like the envelope, was in his father’s writing.  It said simply, “Joseph–Go when you choose, and come back when you’re ready.  We love you.  Pa, Adam and Hoss.”

He sank into the chair.  They knew.  He didn’t know how, but they knew.  And yet, uncharacteristically, they hadn’t hovered and smothered and forced their way into his grief.  Somehow, they realized it was too big for that.  Too huge, too awful, to be satisfied by tears and hugs and a few simple phrases, however well-meant.  Whatever it had cost them to hold back–and he knew it had cost them–they had shown him the respect of allowing him to decide for himself what to share and what to keep private.  He bowed his head, eyes closed.

Early winter darkness slowly enveloped the cabin as snowflakes drifted down.  The light in the room faded.  Joe had built a fire in the fireplace hours earlier.  Now, he took up the box of matches and lit the candles on the little tree.  For what seemed like a long time, he sat in the home that would have been theirs, watching the candlelight.  Cautiously, he began to remember how they’d talked of Christmas, and he let his imagination unfold, to show him how it would have been, how they’d planned it to be. . . .

“We’ll have the stockings hanging from the mantle,” said Joe.  Laura looked so tired, lying back against the pillows.  Joe perched on the side of the bed, holding her hand and knowing that he’d be content to do that for the rest of his life. “And Santa will put all sorts of things into your stocking, and you’ll sit in your rocking chair, in front of the fire, and open it,” he added.

 

“What about your stocking?”  giggled Laura.  

 

“Mine?  Well, I guess Mrs. Santa will have to take care of filling that one!”  Her laughter delighted him.  “But Santa will handle stockings for any little ones who might be running around by then!”

 

“Little ones?  Joe, it’s almost the end of April.  We’re not going to have little ones by Christmas-it’s not possible.”  Laura was blushing slightly at such a bold discussion, even with her own fiancé.  

 

He kissed her hand, and her blush deepened.  “Well, even if she’s not running around at Christmas, I bet our baby is born by the spring.”

 

“‘She’?”  Laura dimpled.  “I thought you’d want a son first.”

 

“Nope,” said Joe.  “First, I think we should have a daughter who can be just like her mother in every way.  Then, we can get around to having sons to take care of the ranch and carry on the Cartwright name.”

 

“Our daughter,” said Laura dreamily.  “Katharine Marie Cartwright.  Little Katie Cartwright.”  They’d already agreed that their first daughter would be named for both their mothers.

 

“Maybe she’ll be born early,” said Joe.  “Then, she can see the Christmas tree with the angel on top, and all the presents, and she can listen to you singing Christmas carols while you bake sugar cookies, and then I’ll take her outside to make snow angels-”  

 

“Joe!”  Laura laughed.  “If our baby comes early enough for Christmas, she’s certainly not going to be old enough to make snow angels!”  

 

“Then I guess you’ll have to be my snow angel,” he murmured, leaning in for a kiss.  She linked her hands behind his neck and drew him close.  Only three more days until their wedding, and then they’d have forever. . . .

 

His mind’s eye saw the two of them sitting in front of the fire, laughing, surrounded by carefully chosen gifts.  In his imagination, Laura’s belly was swollen with the child she would soon bear–a girl, as lovely as her mother.  His wife’s blue eyes sparkled, and her touch on his cheek was as soft and gentle as a rose petal.  Around her neck, on a delicate chain, she wore the gold locket he’d given her for this, their first Christmas.  Her voice, low and sweet, echoed in his ear as he reached for her.

“Always,” he murmured aloud.  It had been his last promise to her.  “Always, my love.  Always a part of my life.”

As he sat alone by the light of the little Christmas tree, the dam broke at last.  The agony of missing her slammed into him like a vicious fist to his gut.  He doubled over, clutching his midsection.  The moans escaped from deep within him, gutteral, almost animal in their depth and intensity.  He fell to his knees on the braided rug, keening.  He rocked back and forth, his forehead nearly touching the rug as the sobs wrenched themselves free at last.

Finally, he lay on the rug, spent.  Untended, the fire in the fireplace was little more than coals.  The only other light came from the candles on the tree.  Shadows, large and grotesque, flickered on the walls.  There was no sound other than his own ragged breathing.  He was all alone:  no Laura, no little Katie.  No Pa, no Adam, no Hoss.  No one.

But part of that had been his choice.

As the candles burned lower, he slowly felt quieter.  It occurred to Joe that, for the first time in weeks, he wasn’t braced against anything.  The memories had slammed him, hard and fast, with fiercely sharp corners and jagged edges, and the pain had been almost overwhelming-and yet, somehow, he was still here.  Battered and bruised, perhaps, but closer to intact than he’d have thought.

Slowly, Joe pushed himself up into a sitting position.  He felt damp and fragile, almost newborn.  Moving carefully, he fished in his pocket, even though he knew he didn’t have a handkerchief.  He wiped his face on his sleeve, smiling ruefully at the thought of how Pa would chastise him.

Tears welled up as he felt the empty place where she used to be.  The tears spilled over as he knew once again that he would never share Christmas with Laura, not here or anywhere else.  He would never share anything more with her.  Their life was in the past.  They had had a beautiful, passionate love, and he would always love her, but there was no more to build there.  The memories he cherished were just that–memories.  Her chair was empty now.  Still, it was the place reserved for her, and it would always be special.  It would always be hers.

But there were others in his world, and they, too, were deserving of his attention.  He didn’t have to turn his back on her to love them.  He could have it all, the present and future as well as the past.  And in that dimly lit room, with snow falling silently outside, Joe knew at last that he needed to take a step.  It was time, and Laura would have understood.

* * * * * * * * * *

He handed Cochise’s reins to Larry.  The livery stable was bustling, but the little old man always had room for the Cartwrights.  Always room at this inn, Joe reflected.  He handed over a five-dollar piece.  He wanted to wish Larry a merry Christmas, but he couldn’t say the words.  That was still too much.  So, he just said, “Keep the change.”

“Merry Christmas!”  Larry called after him.  Joe touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement and kept going.

Outside, the snow was falling quietly.  His steps were muffled on the boards of the sidewalk.  The shopkeepers had shut their doors hours earlier.  Even the Bucket of Blood was closed.  Only one building was lit up.  Almost everybody in Virginia City, young and old, devout and not so observant, had crowded into the church to celebrate the Savior’s birth.

Joe paused at the doorway, swallowing hard.  Christmas carols, joyful and triumphant, resounded through the closed door.  For a moment, he started to turn back.  No one would know he was ever here.

But his hand turned the doorknob, and he stepped inside.  He took off his hat and slapped it against his leg, letting snow fall to the floor.  The congregation stood with their backs to him, singing lustily, if that could properly be said of Christmas carols.

A little more than halfway up the aisle, in their usual pew on the left, he saw his family.  As always, Pa was on the aisle, then Hoss, then Adam.  Even in the crowded pew, the Cartwrights were spread out just enough that, if they moved down, there would be room for one more.

He hesitated for a moment.  Then, as the congregation started the last verse of “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” he admitted to himself that this was where he wanted to be.  Laura wasn’t here, and she never would be, any more than his mother would.  He knew that that would always be hard and that he would always feel the absence of both women at this time of year.  But somehow, something had shifted, and he was here anyway.  It was his choice, and he’d made it.  He was ready to be with his family.  As much as he could be, he was ready to celebrate Christmas.

He touched Pa’s shoulder, and his father snapped around as if startled.  Then, his warm brown eyes lit on his youngest son.  He stopped singing in mid-word, and the smile that spread across his face spoke volumes.  For just a moment, their eyes met, and Joe knew that his father understood everything.  As the congregation sang around them, Joe nodded.

Pa’s eyes glistened as he stepped out of the pew to allow Joe to move into his regular place between his father and Hoss.  Pa rested his hand on the back of Joe’s neck, as he’d done so many times.  A big, gap-toothed grin threatened to split Hoss’ face right in two as he slapped Joe on the back.  Adam reached over, behind Hoss, and placed a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder for a moment, giving a squeeze.

Pa held the hymnbook so that Joe could see the words, but he didn’t have to.  Joe knew the words.  They all did.  Mindless of the people who might be watching, Joe reached up and laid his arm around his father’s shoulders.

And as the final triumphant chords echoed through the church, Joe whispered, “Merry Christmas, Pa.”

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.