“You mean, nothing at all,” said Joe bitterly.

“I mean, letting your body heal as much as it can,” said the doctor.  They’d been over this time and again, but the boy had always been stubborn, and some things never changed.

“How long until I can go back to a normal life?”  It had been nearly two months since Joe had come home, and he hadn’t been allowed to walk any farther from his bed than the top of the stairs.  His family gathered in his room in the evenings to talk over the day, bringing him tales of the world outside.  As the weeks passed, though, he felt more and more as if they were telling of journeys to a foreign land that he had once visited, but would never see again.

“That depends on what you mean by ‘normal’,” said Doc Martin.  Joe saw a shadow cross the doctor’s face, and he knew that the time had come for the bad news.

Unconsciously, he prepared for the fight.  His chin jutted out as he said, “A normal life.  My life, before this happened.  Working, riding, playing the piano-normal life.”

“You can play the piano now, as long as you don’t overdo it,” said the doctor.  “A few more weeks, and hopefully, you’ll be strong enough to ride some.  I don’t want you lifting anything as heavy as a saddle, but I’d say you can eventually work up to an hour or so on horseback.”

“An hour?  That doesn’t even get me into town!”

“No, it doesn’t,” agreed the doctor.

“And what about working?”

The doctor appraised the young man.  He’d delivered Joe Cartwright, and he’d seen him through any number of illness and injuries.  Remarkably, the boy had always come through unscathed.  Even the bout of pneumonia he’d had at fourteen had left him with no sign of weakness in his lungs.  But now . . . Doc Martin would have given just about anything to be able to tell Joe that he’d beaten the odds once more.

But this time, the house was holding all the cards.

“You’re done with ranching,” Doc said, reaching deep into his personal reserves for a calm, professional demeanor.  “I’m sorry, Joe, but it’s just too much for your heart.  You’re never going to get back to where you were before all this happened.  If you try, you’re going to kill yourself.”

The boy’s face went as white as the pillowcase.  He shook his head.  “No,” he whispered.  “You’re wrong.  You’re lying to me.  It’s not true.”

“I wish I were wrong, Joe,” Doc said.  “I wish to God there was a way to make your heart strong enough that you could go back to the broncs and the cattle, but medical science just isn’t there.  I’m sorry.”

“No.”  Joe was trembling.  His voice rose as he insisted, “No, it’s not true.  You’re wrong.  You don’t know what you’re talking about.  I’m fine.  I can do whatever I want.  I’m fine.  Nothing’s going to kill me.  I’m just like I was.  You’re wrong.  I’m fine!”

“Joe, take it easy–”  The doctor started to lay a hand on his arm, but Joe pushed him away.

“Get out of here!” he snapped.  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.  Get out!”

“Joe, I know this is hard,” said Doc in a soothing voice.  “You don’t need to make any decisions right now.  Eventually, though, you’ll need to start thinking about what else you can do that isn’t going to be as strenuous.”

“I don’t need to do anything else,” said Joe.  “I’m a rancher.  That’s what I do.  I’m part of the Ponderosa.  It’s who I am.  I break broncs and herd cattle and do branding and–”  He broke off.

Because for the first time in his life, he saw tears in Doc Martin’s pale blue eyes.

And in that moment, he knew the truth.

“Oh, God,” he whispered.

“I’m so sorry, Joe,” said the doctor quietly.  For a few minutes, he sat without speaking, his hand resting on Joe’s arm as the young man struggled mightily for control.

“Have you told my father?” his patient asked finally.  Tears glistened, but his voice was quieter.

“Not yet,” said Doc.  He took a moment to listen to Joe’s heart again, more to reassure himself than for any other reason.

“Thank you for that,” said Joe with all the dignity he could muster.  “Don’t say anything.  I want to tell him myself.”  His voice broke on the last word, but the doctor gave no sign that he noticed.

“Are you sure?”  he asked instead.

Joe nodded.  “But not yet.  Not until–not yet.”

“That’s up to you,” said the doctor.  And for several minutes, the only sounds in the room were the faint calls of normal ranch life, outside the closed window.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Joe said at last, without looking up.

“Joe, I–” the doctor began.

“Please go,” said Joe.  “And tell them-tell them I’m sleeping or something.  Whatever you have to tell them.  I just–I don’t feel like seeing anybody right now.”  His shoulders were shaking, and he was holding himself together only by a mighty effort.

With any other patient, Doc would have done as he was asked.  Even in a small town like Virginia City, that was what a doctor did.

But this wasn’t just any patient.

Little Joe was one of the first babies he’d ever delivered.  He’d closed the eyes of Joe’s mother, and he’d watched the little boy cling to his father’s hand at her graveside.  When the boy was seventeen and in love with the notorious Julia Bulette, the unlikely pair had labored with the doctor, day and night, as they fought the epidemic of fever that had swept the mines.  Doc Martin seen this family through countless vigils, often at the bedside of this young man, and he’d always believed that somehow, their love would carry them through anything.

Joe Cartwright wasn’t just any patient.

And so, instead of doing the professional thing and leaving as requested, the doctor gathered the young man into his arms and held him close.

And together, they wept.

* * *

“Where’s Joe?”  Disappointment showed on Hoss’s round face as his father descended the stairs alone.

Ben shook his head.  “He said he’s tired,” he said wearily.  “I told him I’ll bring something up for him in a little while.”

Adam watched his father carefully.  “Any idea what’s going on?”

“None,” admitted Ben.  “He just says he’s tired, he’s not hungry, there’s nothing to talk about, we shouldn’t worry, he’s fine–”

“–the usual,” Adam finished.

“But, Pa!  Jest last week, he was chompin’ at the bit to get out of that room, and now he don’t even wanna get out of bed-that don’t sound right!”  Hoss’s brow furrowed as he spread his napkin in his lap.

“I agree,” said Ben heavily as he took his place at the table.

“What did Doc say?” asked Adam, taking up his fork.

“Very little,” said Ben.  “Mainly, that there was nothing he could tell me.”

“That’s strange,” said Adam.  “Is he saying he doesn’t know anything or that he’s not allowed to say what he knows?”

“He won’t say, but I’m starting to suspect the second,” said Ben.  “Ever since that day when Doc was up there for so long, Joe hasn’t been the same–and I, for one, am getting worried.”  Even though Joe’s last bout with depression had been nearly two years ago, the memories were still too vivid for comfort.

“Now, don’t you fret, Pa,” said Hoss in an obvious effort to downplay his concern of a moment earlier.  “Doc’s been here every day.  If there was somethin’ wrong, he’d know about it.”  He jabbed his fork into a steak and dropped it on his plate.

“Maybe he does know, and maybe that’s why he’s here every day,” suggested Adam as he reached for the string beans.

Ben said nothing as he spooned boiled potatoes onto his plate.  The doctor was keeping something from him; that much was certain.  What, and why–those were the questions, and he was going to get some answers.

Hours later, Ben found himself sitting up in bed, all his senses alert, but with no idea what had wakened him.  He listened.  Nothing.  He heard no sound but his own movements as he rose and reached for his dressing gown, putting it on as he fumbled for his slippers.  In the doorway, he paused and listened again.  Still nothing.

He checked Adam’s room and Hoss’s.  As he expected, both sons were asleep.  At Joe’s doorway, he hesitated.  Hearing nothing, he pushed open the door.

The bed was empty.

He closed his eyes for a second, and then headed for the stairs.  At the top, he stopped, his heart in his throat.

Below him, in the main room, Joe sat on the settee, elbows on his knees and forehead resting on his fists.  In front of him on the table was the bottle of whiskey from the liquor cabinet.

“Joseph,” Ben said quietly, coming down the stairs.

Joe looked up as if he’d been expecting company.  “What are you doing up, Pa?”  There was no sign of slurring in his voice, but Ben knew that this meant nothing.  Joe was far too good at holding his liquor, right up until he couldn’t.

“What are you doing?”  Ben’s voice was cautious, deliberately non-accusatory.

Joe snorted.  “Don’t worry, I’m not drinking it,” he said.

“Then what are you doing with it?”

“Just looking,” Joe said.  “Looking at the weapon I used to ruin my life.  Better than a gun, as it turns out.”  His tone was easy, conversational, bitter.  “Of course, if I’d had the sense to use a gun, it would all have been over, a long time ago.  You wouldn’t have had to go through all this.”

Ben moved closer.  “Son, are you sure you haven’t been drinking?  Even a little bit?”

Joe’s laugh was harsh.  “No, Pa, this is me, stone cold sober,” he said.  “Not that I wouldn’t love a drink right now, but I figured I owe you that much.  God knows, I’ve messed up everything else.  At least you won’t have to sober me up in the morning.”  He picked up the bottle and stared at it as if its label explained the mysteries of the universe.  “At least I can do that much for you,” he whispered, not looking away from the bottle.  “Even if I can’t do anything else.”

“What are you talking about?” Ben asked softly, sitting next to Joe on the settee.  When Joe didn’t answer, Ben laid a gentle arm around his son’s shoulders.  “What is it, Joe?”

Joe held the bottle to his chest as if it were a beloved heirloom.  “I’m sorry,” he said at last.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?”  Ben resisted the urge to take the bottle out of Joe’s hands.

“For everything. For running off in the first place, for hiding, for being too weak to handle her death–”

“Son, it’s all right,” said Ben, rubbing Joe’s arm.  They’d been over this dozens of times.  He’d thought the topic was long behind them, but apparently not.  He tried to catch a subtle look at the level in the whiskey bottle.  He didn’t think that Joe would lie to him–especially about this–but if something was upsetting him enough to get the bottle out in the first place, there was always the chance. . . .

“No, Pa, it’s not all right,” said Joe.  “It’s not even in the same territory as ‘all right.’  Because every time I turn around, there’s something new to be sorry about, and it all flows from the same place.”  He closed his eyes and rested his head against Ben’s shoulder, still clutching the bottle.

Ben held his son close, waiting.  The evening’s fire had burned low, casting more shadow than light.  Ben could divine nothing from his son’s face.  At last, when Joe said no more, Ben asked softly, “What’s the new thing that you’re sorry about?”

Joe didn’t move his head from Ben’s shoulder.  He sounded exhausted as he said, “Doc hasn’t told you?”

Ben shook his head.  “He hasn’t told me anything new lately.  Was he supposed to?”

It was Joe’s turn to shake his head.  “I told him not to,” he said.  “But I figured he’d probably say something anyway.”

“He hasn’t said anything,” said Ben.  When his son was silent, he asked gently, “What was it you thought he was going to tell me?”

Joe took a deep breath and sat up straight.  Eyes fixed on the dying flames, he said, “He says I can’t do ranch work any more.”

After a moment, Ben said, “Well, Joe, you know you’ve still got a ways to go before you can go back to any kind of strenuous work–”

“You don’t understand,” Joe interrupted.  “He’s not talking about being able to break horses or punch cattle in a month or six months or a year.  He’s saying ‘never,’ Pa.  Never again.  Not ever.  I’ve broken my last bronc.  I’ve worked my last roundup.  It’s all over.”  He didn’t look at his father as he spoke the words he’d practiced in the solitude of his bedroom for the past week.  “I’m sorry, Pa,” he said again.

“But there must be something–”

“There isn’t,” Joe cut in.  “Before he ever told me, Doc wrote to a doctor in New York who specializes in hearts.  That’s all this fellow does–just people with heart problems.  You ever hear of such a thing?  That doctor said there’s nothing he can do and that I need to find a new kind of work.  I saw the letter.  The doctor said he was sorry.”  He stood abruptly.  “He’s sorry,” he snorted.  “He’s sorry, I’m sorry, everybody’s sorry–”  He held up the bottle.  “Are you sorry, too?” he shouted at it.

Before Ben could move, Joe flung the bottle into the fireplace.  Glass shattered against the stones.  The sour smell of whiskey mingled with the warm scent of wood ash.

For a long moment, father and son were silent.  “I owe you a bottle of whiskey,” Joe said finally, not looking at his father.

“Joseph.”  In one movement, Ben rose and took his son in his arms.  For a moment, Joe resisted; then, he surrendered, leaning against his father as if his strength had deserted him.  Ben drew him back down to the settee and held the young man close.

“Pa, what happened?  We heard–”  Adam appeared at the top of the stairs, Hoss behind him.

“It’s all right, boys,” said Ben, rubbing Joe’s back as he tried to signal his older sons over Joe’s shoulder to leave them, but Joe turned to face them.

“Sorry, that was me,” he said.  “I broke the whiskey.  Hope you weren’t lookin’ for a drink.”

“Not a problem, Little Brother,” said Hoss.  “You okay?”  He tried not to be obvious as he appraised Joe, trying to discern how drunk his brother was.

“Why don’t you two go back to bed, and we can all talk in the morning?” Ben suggested, giving them a hard look.

“It’s all right, Pa,” said Joe resignedly.  “Might as well tell everybody at once, get it over with.  Come on down, brothers.”  He waited until they had reached the bottom of the stairs before he said, “Looks like you’re gonna have to hire an extra hand for roundup.”

“You don’t think you’ll be up to it by that time?” asked Hoss.  Joe didn’t sound drunk, and Pa wasn’t acting like he was.  Hoss wasn’t sure what to think now.

“It seems I’m never gonna be up to it again,” said Joe.  “Doc says no more ranch work for me.  Ever.”

“Nothin’?  Not even lookin’ for strays?”

“I reckon maybe I can look for them eventually, but I can’t do nothin’ if I find them,” said Joe.  “Right now, I’m not allowed to lift more than ten pounds.  If I’m real good, maybe someday, I can saddle my own horse, but it’s anybody’s guess when that might be.”

“And there’s no possibility–” began Adam.

“None,” said Joe.  The doctor’s words from that afternoon were too vivid in his mind. . . .

“It’s my life!” insisted Joe.  “If I want to work until I die, that’s my choice!”

“It’s your choice,” agreed the doctor.  “But you’re not the only one that that choice affects, and you need to keep that in mind.”

“What are you talking about?” Joe demanded warily.

Doc hesitated.  They’d been having this discussion for a week now.  Ever since he’d broken the news, he’d made a point of coming back to the Ponderosa every day.  He knew that Joe hadn’t told his family, and the way he knew was that Ben hadn’t confronted him about it.  But he also knew what this kind of stress could do to Joe–and so he made the trek out from town, day after day, to sit with the boy and listen to his heartbeat–and his heartache.

They’d wrestled every point, over and over.  The letter from the New York doctor had been read and reread, until it was smudged and crumpled from handling.  The conclusion was inescapable and non-negotiable:  Joe’s heart simply wouldn’t stand for the strain of the physical dimensions of ranchwork.  If he were to go back to that way of life, he’d likely be dead within a few months.  

“It’s my life,” Joe insisted again.  “If I’m fine with the idea of dying young, that should be good enough.”

Doc knew that the young man was hurting badly.  When he’d left home five years earlier to marry Robin, it had never occurred to him that he might be walking away forever from the life he’d grown up with.  Doc knew that, somehow, Joe had always expected to return to the Ponderosa someday, to carry on with the ranch they’d built.  It was in the boy’s blood.  It was who he was.  To take that away from him–it was like taking away his name.

But Joe needed to understand that there was something else at stake. . . .

And so, the doctor said what he’d never wanted to say.  “Your father is a dear friend of mine,” he said, laying a hand on the young man’s arm.  “He’s been through a lot in his life.”  He looked Joe squarely in the eye.  “I know it’s your life, and I know it’s your choice.  But if you won’t make this choice for yourself, make it for your father.”

“My father will stand beside whatever decision I make,” said Joe stubbornly.

“I know,” said the doctor.  “That’s why it’s up to you.  Your father’s already lost three wives.  He’s had enough grief for one lifetime.”  When Joe said nothing, Doc forced the words out.  “Joe, as his friend, I’m asking you. . . .”

“Asking me what?”  Joe demanded when the words trailed off.

“Don’t make him bury his son.”

Stricken, Joe stared at the doctor.  He pressed his fist against his mouth, feeling tears threaten for the umpteenth time since Doc had first broken the news a week earlier.  No, he begged silently.  You didn’t say that.  Don’t say that.  Don’t. . . .

“I’m sorry, Joe,” said Doc–also for the umpteenth time in the past week.  

“Please go,” said Joe.  His breathing was ragged, and reflexively, the doctor put the stethoscope to his patient’s chest.  “I’m fine,” Joe said, pushing it away.  “Please. . . .”

Doc rose.  The heart and lungs sounded as they had earlier that afternoon, but he hated to leave on this note.  It was a hard balance to strike, knowing when to stay and offer comfort, and when to respect the boy’s request to be alone.  He suspected that even Ben struggled with it on occasion, especially with his youngest son.  “Shall I tell them you’re sleeping?” he asked reluctantly.  

Joe nodded.  “Thanks, Doc,” he managed.  He would hold himself together until the doctor was out the door. . . .  

Now, in the dim light of the dying flames, he looked his eldest brother in the eye.  “There’s nothing,” he said.  His voice was so controlled that no one would have guessed that only a few hours earlier, he’d been pressing a pillow to his face to muffle the sounds of his grief.

Adam Cartwright was a rational, logical man.  It went against his nature to take any statement at face value.  Everything in him wanted to challenge, to probe, to find the flaws in the logic that would enable them to refute this conclusion.

But as he looked into his little brother’s eyes, he knew that there was no flaw this time.  For all his failings, Joe was one of the toughest men he’d ever known.  If Joe had accepted this judgment, it was because there was no alternative.

And so he sat on the edge of the table and laid his hand on his little brother’s arm.  Hoss moved to the back of the settee and rested a large hand on Joe’s neck, above their father’s arm around the young man’s shoulders.

None of them spoke.  There was nothing more to say.

* * *

Doc Martin knew as soon as he walked in the front door that Joe had told his family.  He knew, because all of them–including Hop Sing–were waiting for him in the main room.  Joe was on the settee, and they were gathered around as if to protect him.

But Joe didn’t need to be protected.  As they fired questions at the doctor, and hard answers were given, and then harder ones, Doc saw the young man reach over and lay his hand on top of his father’s.  Ben was focused on the doctor and didn’t see his son’s expression, but the doctor did, and he caught Joe’s eye with a quiet nod and a small smile.

He’d always known Joe Cartwright had it in him.

* * *

“Hey, Pa, we’re back!”  Adam called out.

He and Hoss dropped their hats and gunbelts on the credenza.  Three weeks of searching for strays in the cold wet of early spring made home look awfully good.  Neither had said it aloud, but they’d even missed Joe’s endless complaining about the mud.  It was still hard to believe he’d never be out there with them again, but he’d seemed to be handling the shift to inside work pretty well.  Of course, as Adam had pointed out, Joe had only been at it a month when they left.  The real test would be if he’d survived when it was just him, Pa and those blasted ledgers.

“Sure can’t wait for some of Hop Sing’s good cookin’!” laughed Hoss.

“Amen to that, Brother!” said Adam.  “If I had to eat cold beans and jerky for one more day. . . .”  They came around the corner to Ben’s desk and stopped in their tracks.

Ben sat at his desk, his face bespeaking more anguish than a man should ever have to know.  In his hand, he held the picture of Joe’s mother.  When he looked up at his older sons, his eyes were bleary with grief.

“Pa, what is it?  What’s the matter?” Adam moved quickly to his father’s side.

“Is it Joe?  Is he okay?”  Hoss’ heart was in his throat.

Ben shook his head.  “He had another attack while you were gone,” he said.

“Is he–”  Hoss couldn’t say the word.

“He’s doing better now,” said Ben.

“Why didn’t you send somebody for us?”  Adam tried to keep the anger from his voice.

“The work needed to be done, and we were managing,” said Ben.  Between the five of them–Ben, the doctor, Hop Sing, Rose Martin, and Maggie Donaldson–they’d managed.  “It wasn’t nearly as bad as the last one, but–”

“But what?” Adam asked ominously.

“It did more damage to Joe’s heart,” Ben said.  “Doc just left.  He says that Joe’s heart is worse.  A lot worse.”  He drew a deep breath and forced the words out.  “Doc says he has six months.  Maybe a year.”

Hoss sat down heavily, devastation written plain on his face.  “No,” he whispered.  Not my little brother.  Not Little Joe.  No.

Adam’s face reflected the blow for only a second before becoming granite.  He felt the shock pass through him like a bolt of lightning, leaving him stunned, but standing.  He was always the one left standing when tragedy struck.  Momentarily, he envied the others the privilege of being able to succumb to grief.

“Does Joe know?” he asked quietly.

Ben shook his head.  “Doc wanted to tell me first.  He wants me there when he tells him.  He had to go–there was an accident out at the Emerson place–but he’s going to come back as soon as he’s done there.”  Because he knows I can’t keep this from my son, he thought.  He could never mask the pain well enough to keep such a secret, even if he were willing to do so.

The grandfather clock struck one.  Ever practical, Adam asked, “Has Joe had lunch yet?”

Ben shook his head again.  “I put some soup on the stove.  Hop Sing is in town, and I–I couldn’t bring myself to go up.”

“I’ll take it up to him,” said Adam quietly.  It wasn’t an offer; it was simply a fact.

“Thank you, son,” Ben managed.  Adam patted Hoss’ shoulder and headed into the kitchen, grateful for the brief distraction of the mundane.

He pushed open the door to Joe’s room to find his brother lying on his side, staring out the window.  “Lunchtime,” he announced with far more verve than was warranted.

Joe’s head jerked around as if he hadn’t heard his brother approach.  “Hey, Adam,” he said.  Even in just the three weeks they’d been gone, Adam could hear that Joe’s voice sounded weaker, breathier.

“Let’s see.  We’ve got chicken soup, we’ve got bread, we’ve got the last of the strawberry jam Hop Sing put up last year, and we’ve got coffee which I can guarantee is excellent, because I made it myself.”  He set the tray on the bedside table.  “Need a hand?” he asked when Joe made no move to sit up.

“I want to go outside,” Joe said suddenly.

“Well, it’s a little chilly for that today, but maybe when it warms up–”

“Adam.  I want to go outside.  Now.”

Something in his brother’s voice got Adam’s attention.  He sat on the edge of the bed.  “Joe, you can’t go out right now,” he said.  Unconsciously, he adopted the same soothing tone he’d used to comfort his brother as a small boy.

“I have to.  Please.”  The green eyes glistened with urgency and unshed tears.  Adam felt his heart lurch.

“Not right now.  Maybe later.”  He couldn’t bring Joe downstairs now, with Pa and Hoss still looking like unwilling survivors of a devastating battle.

“Listen to me.”  Joe sat up and clutched his brother’s arm.  “This is the last spring I’m ever going to see.  I need to be out in it as much as I can.”

“The last spring–Joe, what are you talking about?”  With enormous effort, Adam kept his voice steady.

“You and Pa did a good job on this house.  I’ve been eavesdropping from this room my whole life.”

Oh, God.  No.   

“I heard it all,” Joe continued.  “Six months, maybe a year.  I’ll have good days and not-so-good days.  And if I’m lucky, when it’s over, it’ll be fast, just another attack.  I heard it all, Adam.  I know everything.”

Adam closed his eyes, fighting for the legendary control everyone relied on.  “Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.  “Pa wanted to tell you himself.  He never wanted you to find out like this.  He and Doc were going to talk to you later, when Doc gets back.”

“I know,” said Joe.  “And that’s exactly what’s going to happen, and they’re not going to know that I already know.  Because I’m not going to tell them, and neither are you.”  He held his brother’s gaze, wavering only the slightest bit.

“I won’t say a word,” promised Adam.

“And you’ll help me get outside,” said Joe.

Adam cupped his hand at the back of his brother’s neck.  “I’ll tell you what,” he said.  “You stay here and try to eat something, and I’ll see what I can do about getting Pa and Hoss out of the main room.”  At Joe’s quizzical frown, he said, “There’s a reason I brought your lunch and not Pa.  He was afraid you’d see it in his face–and to be honest, you would.”

Joe dropped his head into his hand.  “‘Don’t make him bury his son,'” he muttered.

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s what Doc said to me when he told me I had to quit ranch work.  He said I could keep it up, but it would kill me.  I said it was my choice, and he said that Pa’d known enough grief in his life with losing three wives, and I shouldn’t make him bury his son.”  He snorted with derision.  “So, I stopped–and look how much good it did.”

“There’s no way to know how much of a difference it made,” said Adam, wondering where he got the nerve to ask his brother to be reasonable in the face of the ultimate unreasonableness.

“Not enough of one, that’s for sure,” said Joe.  “But there’s nothing we can do about it now–except get me the hell out of this room.”  His eyes still glistened, but determination shone through the tears.

Adam regarded his little brother thoughtfully.  There would be much to deal with in the coming days–storms and tears and railing against the fates–but in that moment, Adam knew that, as long as his heart held out, Joe Cartwright would survive the rest of it.

As his brothers had always said, the kid had grit.

* * *

“Mrs. Miller was asking after you today, Joseph,” said Ben after they’d given thanks for the evening meal.

“What’d you tell her?” asked Joe warily.  He knew that everybody knew he was sick, but he still hated having his private matters made public.

It had been nearly a month since Doc had delivered his prognosis.  As he’d predicted, Joe had good days and not-so-good days.  On the good days, a person would hardly have known anything was wrong with him, unless he was watching closely enough to see the moments when Joe suddenly reached for a chair or a bench or an arm, anything to support him.  He still played the piano at church when he could, but even he knew that the day was coming soon when he’d have to give it up.  He accompanied the children’s choir when they sang at Easter, and it was all Ben could do to keep from breaking down right there, as his son played for the little ones who sang about the resurrection from the dead.  On the good days, Joe was outside as much as he could be, soaking in the sights and sounds and smells of the ranch.  He laughed and told dreadful jokes and even rode Cochise when he could.  He hung on the fence at the corral and tried his best to whoop and holler as other men broke the horses, and only the people who knew him best saw the sadness in his eyes when he turned away.

Then, there were the not-so-good days, when Joe struggled for breath and his heart pounded wildly, and Doc stayed close.  Without talking about it, Adam and Hoss assumed the running of the ranch so that Ben could remain by Joe’s bedside.  Each of the not-so-good days required several days of recovery, making the good days all the more like precious jewels to be cherished.

And as there were good days and not-so-good days with Joe’s physical health, so also did the Cartwrights know such variant times as they sought to cope, individually and as a family, with the knowledge that Joe’s time was drawing ever closer.  Each tried, in his own way, to process his pain.  There were days when Joe spent hours at the piano, when Hoss rode out before dawn and returned late, when Ben stared unseeingly at ledgers and Adam did likewise with books and Hop Sing baked more breads and cakes and pies than they could eat in a month.  But then, there were the days when they were able to ride together to the bluff overlooking the lake for a picnic, or go fishing, or simply laugh together over dinner, and these, too, were treasures that they knew they would remember forever.

Other than Doc, nobody outside the family knew.  Joe was bracing for the day when he would tell Maggie, but he had no intention of sharing the news with anyone else.  As far as he was concerned, he’d be dead when he was dead, and they could all just be surprised.  But even he knew that people were beginning to whisper.  People like Mrs. Miller.

“I told her you were fine,” said his father.  It was true; this had been a good day.  “She said to give you her best.”

“That’s all?  That don’t sound like Mrs. Miller,” said Hoss.  Laurie Ann Miller and her husband owned the mercantile, and it was widely known that she considered it her duty to dispense information with the goods she sold.

“Sounds as if she’s slipping,” Adam agreed.  He reached for the platter of roast beef, but Hoss had already gotten to it.

“Now, boys,” said Ben mildly.  “She’s just being neighborly.  Pass the potatoes, Adam.”

“Pa, Mrs. Miller passed ‘neighborly’ a long time ago,” said Adam.  “Last thing we need is for her to start talking.  She’s gets a whiff of what’s going on, and everybody’s going to be on some sort of a deathwatch.  Pass the peas, Joe.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me if Clyde Scribner starts taking bets on the date,” Joe chuckled as he handed Adam the dish.  “That fellow’d bet on which raindrop hits the ground first.”

“Joseph!”  Sometimes, his youngest son’s humor took a definite turn toward the macabre.

“They’re all a pack of vultures,” said Hoss with such uncharacteristic bitterness that they all stared.

“Tell you what, Big Brother,” Joe said, spearing a slice of roast beef from the platter.  “You just stick close, and I’ll let you know when I think the time’s gonna be, and maybe you can pick up a few bucks.  You can take a trip or something–on me, so to speak.”

“That ain’t funny!” snapped Hoss.

“No one said it was,” Ben began, glaring at his youngest son, but Hoss threw down his napkin and stormed out the door.  Ben started to rise to go after him, but Joe restrained him with a hand on his arm.

“Let me go,” said Joe.  After a moment, Ben sat back down, and Joe went after his brother.

Not surprisingly, Hoss was in the barn, saddling his horse.  “You want to saddle mine, too?” said Joe.  When Hoss didn’t look up from tightening his cinch, Joe said, “Either you do it or I will.”

Hoss looked up.  Anger smoldered in his eyes, and his jaw was clenched.  “Jest leave me be,” he said.

“Sorry, can’t do that,” said Joe.  “I’m riding with you.  And if you don’t saddle Cochise, I will.  How much you figure that saddle weighs, anyway?  Twenty-five pounds?  Thirty?  And he’s probably–what, fifteen, sixteen hands?  Pretty high for somebody with a heart like mine to lift that kind of weight.”  He held Hoss’s glare without flinching.  “What’s it gonna be?  You or me?”

“Dadburn your ornery hide!”  Hoss reached past him for Chubby’s bridle.

“Or, we could just stay here and talk about it,” said Joe.  Hoss stood next to Chubby, bridle in hand.  “Come on,” Joe urged.  “Give the poor horse a break.  Let’s just sit down and talk.”  Much as Joe would have loved to ride with his brother, he figured that the amount of time it would take to talk this whole thing out would far exceed his stamina.  All he needed to do was have an attack and die out on the road somewhere, and Hoss would never forgive himself.

Hoss wasn’t moving.  Clearly, it was time to up the ante.  “Come on, sit with me.”  Joe placed a foot on the bottom rung of the ladder to the loft.

“What in tarnation do you think you’re doin’?” demanded Hoss suspiciously.

“Going up to the loft,” said Joe, as if there couldn’t possibly have been any question.  “That’s where we always talked when we were kids.”

“You ain’t climbin’ that ladder,” said Hoss.

“I can climb this ladder,” said Joe.  He was pretty sure he was right about that.  The loft wasn’t that high.  Ten feet, maybe twelve.  Fifteen, at the most.  He could handle that.  He put his other foot on the next rung and hauled himself up another rung.  “You comin’, or am I gonna waste the trip to the loft?”

“You get off that ladder now, Joseph,” said Hoss in the voice that said that he meant business.  Joe remembered that voice well from his childhood, and he remembered the painful consequences of ignoring it.

Even so, he met his big brother’s glare coolly.  “You gonna stay here?”

“I’ll stay here,” said Hoss finally.

“Unsaddle Chub, and then I’ll get down,” said Joe.  It wasn’t like he had much in the way of leverage.  He had to use what there was.  Luckily, it was enough.  As soon as Hoss hauled the saddle off Chubby’s back, Joe jumped lightly to the barn floor.  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he said, dusting off his hands.  “Now, let’s sit down.”  He took a seat on one of the bales of hay next to the feed box.  Reluctantly, Hoss sat down next to him.

The brothers sat without speaking, listening to Chubby and Cochise whinnying.  “Well, those two are talking, anyway,” Joe said finally.

“You’re the one who wanted to talk,” said Hoss.  “I jest wanted to ride for a little bit.”

Joe considered the point.  “Okay,” he said.  “I just wanted to tell you that I didn’t mean to upset you in there.  I’m sorry.”  Hoss remained silent, eyes fixed on his boots.  “Look, Hoss, if anybody knows this ain’t funny, it’s me,” Joe said.  “But if we can’t laugh every so often, we’re gonna go nuts.”

“I can’t laugh about it,” said Hoss.  “And I don’t want to.”

Joe drew as deep a breath as he could manage.  “I know we’ve never really talked about the whole thing,” he said.  “I can’t imagine how I’d feel if it was you instead of me.  I don’t know how to tell you to get ready.  All I can tell you is that it’s gonna happen, and when it does, I’m gonna need you.”

Hoss said nothing for a long time.  Just as Joe was about to get up, Hoss said, “I held you when you warn’t even an hour old.  You’ve been my best friend as long as I can remember.  I jest can’t picture a world without you in it.  It don’t make any sense.”

“It don’t make any sense to me, either,” said Joe.  “There are lots of drunks whose hearts are just fine.  Maybe mine was never any good anyway.”

“Dadburnit, don’t say things like that!”  Hoss looked away, and Joe laid his hand on the big man’s shoulder.

“Then tell me what to say to you,” Joe said.  “‘Cause this is real, and it’s not going away.  I’m going to die, Hoss.  Six months, a year–I don’t know, but I’m not going to see your kids grow up.  I’m not going to see Adam’s kids.  I’m not going to have kids of my own–”

“Damn it, Joe, jest stop it!”  Hoss got up and flung himself into Chubby’s stall.  “I’m gonna ride, and you ain’t comin’ with me.  Understand?”  He saddled the big horse, led him out and rode off as Joe let his head fall back against the wall, blowing out a frustrated breath.

Ben looked up when the door opened.  Ever since he heard the single horse ride out, he’d been forcing himself to wait for Joe to come in on his own.  “Joe, would you come here?”  he invited.  When his youngest son had settled himself on the hearth next to Ben’s chair, Ben asked gently, “Is everything all right?”

“I made it worse,” said Joe.  “I just wanted him to understand. . . .”

“Joseph.”  Ben rested his hand on Joe’s shoulder, just as Joe had done with Hoss earlier.  “He can’t understand.  No one can.  It’s not possible.  But I’ll tell you this, son.  Your brother loves you, and he’s going to stick with you.  We all will.  We may not always be what you need us to be, but we’ll all be trying our best for you.”

“I know,” said Joe.  “I just thought. . . .”

“Let him grieve, son,” said Ben.  “He’ll come back to you.  I promise.”  Joe bowed his head, his warm cheek brushing Ben’s hand.  Instantly, Ben’s concern shifted, and he laid his palm first against his son’s face, and then on his forehead.  “You’re got some fever,” he said.  “How’re you feeling?”

“I’m fine,” said Joe.  “Just tired.”

“Well, let’s get you upstairs to bed,” said Ben, rising.  When Joe didn’t protest that he could manage the stairs on his own, Ben’s concern began to mount.  “Just lean on me,” he murmured as they started up the stairs.  By the time they reached the top, Joe’s breathing was rough and he was coughing.  “Adam!” Ben called.  A moment later, the eldest Cartwright brother was running down the stairs and out the door.

When Hoss rode into the yard the next morning, he was greeted by the all-too-familiar sight of the doctor’s rig.  He barreled into the house just as Ben and Doc were coming down the stairs.

“What happened?  Is he all right?” Hoss demanded.

“As much as he can be,” said the doctor.  “He’s running a fever, but nothing earth-shattering.  Heart and lungs sound as they have, no worse.  Just keep him warm and quiet, and make sure he’s eating.  I’ll be over at the Fletcher place, but if anything changes, you send somebody for me right away.”

Hoss bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and down the hall to Joe’s room.  At the doorway, he stopped.  Adam was sitting in the bedside chair, book in hand, reading aloud as Joe lay with his eyes closed.  Quietly, Hoss entered the room.

“You can’t tiptoe in boots that size,” Joe said drowsily, opening his eyes.

“What’d you do?” Hoss asked with mock gruffness, settling himself on the side of the bed.

“Same old thing,” said Joe.  “Foiled a bank robbery, rescued a lady in distress, wrestled a bear.  See how much fun you missed?”  Hoss laid a large hand on Joe’s forehead, and Joe smiled.  “I’m fine, Big Brother,” he said.  “Just a fever.  Nothing to get excited about.  Not like Older Brother’s book-now, that’s exciting stuff.  Which one is this again?”

“Paradise Lost,” said Adam.  “Show some respect.  It was my mother’s favorite.”

“So the rest of us have to suffer,” said Joe.  “Just my luck, she’ll have a copy, too, and I’ll have to spend eternity listening to this stuff.”  At Hoss’ stricken look, he said, “Sorry, Brother.”

“I’m going to see what Pa’s up to,” said Adam as the silence stretched out.  He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Joe took his brother’s hand.  For a while, the two were quiet.  At last, Joe spoke.  “I’m sorry, Hoss, I really am,” he said.  “I don’t mean to die on you.”

“I know,” said the big man hoarsely.  “I jest–”  His voice broke.

Ever since Little Joe was a baby, he had sought solace in his big brother’s arms.  Countless times, he’d clung to Hoss, weeping against the broad chest, feeling the comfort and strength and love that embraced him.  One of the most devastating moments of his life had come that day, a year earlier, when he’d thought Hoss had given up on him.  The two brothers shared a bond that ran deeper than words or thoughts could say, a bond that nothing could shatter.  Not even pain, or separation, or death.

Now, as the big man finally broke down, the one he had comforted so long and so well reached out to him and drew him close.  “It’s all right, Big Brother,” Joe whispered.  “I got you.  You just let it out.  I’m right here.”  He repeated the soft words, over and over, rubbing Hoss’s broad back as his brother’s hot tears dampened his nightshirt.  He rested his cheek against the wispy brown hair, holding tightly to brace them both against the shuddering grief.  And the younger brother rocked the older ever so gently, while outside the bedroom window, horses neighed and birds chirped and the sun climbed higher in the blue spring sky.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Maggie.”

It was all he could do not to reach for her, to stroke that beautiful, pale cheek with just a hint of a blush, to tuck that strand of fine blond hair behind her ear.  So many times they’d sat here on the settee, in front of the fire, easy and comfortable and romantic.  And now. . . .

“How long have you known?” she asked in a strangled voice.

“A few weeks,” he admitted.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He laid his hand on hers.  “I didn’t know how,” he said.  “And I didn’t want to be the one to put that look on your face.”

“What look?”

“This one,” he said, touching her cheek.  “This look that says you’re hurting and it’s all my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault, Joe,” she said quietly.  She knew about the drinking and how Doc said that had probably caused his heart problems.  “You didn’t do it on purpose.  You didn’t know.”

“Small consolation now,” he said wryly.  He took a deep breath.  “You know how much you mean to me, Maggie,” he began.

“You mean a great deal to me, too,” she responded hesitantly, as if she weren’t certain what he was asking.

“Maggie, I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have,” said Joe.  “I think-I think we should stop seeing each other.”

She stared at him.  “I don’t understand.”

“I’m not going to get better,” he said.  “This is going to get worse before I die.  A lot worse.  And–well, I won’t do this to you.  I won’t put you through it.  I just won’t.  Believe me, it’s better this way.”

The tears made her eyes look even deeper violet.  Joe could feel his own tears threatening.  Almost against his will, he took her hand.  “You have to believe me,” he repeated.  “It’ll be better for you this way.”

“Don’t you think I’m the best judge of what would be better for me?”  Her voice trembled, but then held steady.  “I’ve known since the first time I walked into this house that you were sick.  I’m the one who went with you to the doctor when you had your first attack.  I’ve sat by your bed for months, watching to make sure you kept breathing.  I know what to expect by now.”

“No, Maggie, you don’t,” said Joe.  “That’s the hell of it.  You think you know, but you have no idea.  There’s nothing like losing the person you love.  Nothing even comes close to comparing to this.  How do you think I got this way in the first place?  Robin died.  And if you’d asked me the night before she got shot, I’d have said I could handle it.  I knew about losing people.  My mother died when I was just a kid.  I’ve heard my father talk about losing three wives–three, Maggie.  Sure, I was young when Robin died, but I was a tough kid.  I’d already left everything, even my family, and I’d handled it.  I’d created a whole new life, a whole new identity.  I’d have sworn I was man enough to survive even a loss like that-but instead, I drank myself into a stupor so that I wouldn’t have to feel what it was like to live in a world without her.  And as a result of that–I’m dying.  And I’m not going to put you through what I went through.  I won’t do it.”

“Joe, don’t you understand?  No matter what pain you think you’re sparing me, it’s nothing compared to the pain I’ll have, knowing that you’re here and I’m there, and I can’t be with you.  Knowing that you’re in pain, and suffering and dying, and I can’t be there.  Not getting to say goodbye to you.”

“There’s nothing beautiful about dying, Maggie,” Joe said.  “I held Robin while she died.  There was so much blood–her blood–all over her and all over me.  It wasn’t glamorous or dignified or peaceful.  It was horrible and violent and I felt like I was being ripped in half.  Believe me–being here when I die isn’t going to make it any better for you.  Now is what matters.  Remember what I look like now, when I can still sit up and look back at you.  Talk to me now, while I can still talk back.”  He swallowed hard.  In a low voice, he said, “Say goodbye to me now, before I’m so sick that I can’t even hear you.”

He could see her struggling.  At last, she said, “What does the doctor say?”

“He says that last attack did more damage than he expected,” said Joe.  “Before, he thought that not doing ranch work would mean a lot more time, but it doesn’t look like it’s going to work out that way.  He thinks I have something like six months left–if I’m lucky, maybe I could last as long a year.”

“And you’d throw away a year we could have together, just because you’re afraid to have me watch you die?”  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I’m not afraid of you seeing me die,” said Joe.  He took her hand and held it against his chest.  “I’m afraid of what will happen to you after I’m gone.  The longer we’re together, the harder it’s going to be for you.”

“You once got angry with me because I made a decision that was rightfully yours,” she reminded him.  “Don’t go making my decisions for me.  If I’m willing to take that chance, don’t you take it away from me.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, just as gently.  “You don’t know what it’s like to be on the other side of it.”

“But I know that I love you,” she said.  “I know, proper young ladies don’t say that type of thing until the gentleman has said it first.  Well, we all know that I’m not that proper, and I don’t think it’s coming as any big surprise anyway.”

Joe’s fingertips caressed her cheek.  He wanted so much to tell her the truth–that he loved her desperately–but he didn’t have that right.  Not now.  Expressions of love were for the living.  But she nodded as if she knew what he was thinking.

“Joe, listen to me,” she said.  “I’m a big girl.  I know what I’m saying.  And what I’m saying is that I’d rather have six months with you than a lifetime without you.”

Joe closed his eyes against the pain of her words.  “Don’t you understand?” His voice was hoarse with tears.  “With me, that’s exactly what you’d get–six months, or maybe a little more, with me, and then a lifetime without me.  You deserve so much more, Maggie.  You deserve someone you can spend your whole life with.  Someone you can make love to without having to worry that it’s going to kill him.  Someone you can have children with, who’ll be there with you to watch them grow up.  All I can promise you is that if you marry me, someday soon, you’ll be a widow.”  His tears spilled over.  “I won’t do that to you, Maggie.  I just won’t.  I love you too much for that.  I won’t put you through that.”  He pulled her close, and she clung to him as they cried together.

Eventually, they were quiet.  She sat up, and with infinite tenderness, he wiped the tears from her face.  “Are you all right?” he asked.

“No,” she said.  “Are you?”

“No,” he echoed.  They sat together, not speaking, until at last, she stood.

“This isn’t over,” she said.  “You’re not rid of me, Joe Cartwright.  No matter what decisions you think you’re making for me.”  She brushed his cheek with her fingertips and walked to the door.  He watched as she put her shawl around her shoulders.  She opened the door and turned back.  “I mean it,” she said.  “This isn’t over.”  With that, she walked out the door.  As it closed behind her, Joe sank back on the settee, the bitter taste of loss in his mouth.

When Adam came in two hours later, Joe was still lying on the settee.  “Hey, Little Brother,” he said, tossing his gunbelt onto the credenza.

“Hey,” said Joe lifelessly.

“You all right?”  Adam peered at his brother.  The kid didn’t look right.  He moved around to the other side of the settee and sat down on the table, resting a hand on Joe’s forehead.  Joe’s breathing sounded as normal as it ever did any more, and his color wasn’t bad.

So whatever it was, it wasn’t physical.  Only part of Adam was relieved.  The physical was serious, but at least he knew how to handle that.  He’d kept two of the hands back from the drive, just in case he needed to send somebody for the doctor.  But as for the rest of it-suddenly, he wished like hell that he was in Carson City instead of Pa and Hoss.

It had been clear to the brothers that Pa desperately needed a break, even if it was only for a couple of days.  They knew, though, that he would never just go off and leave Joe–not now.  So, Joe suggested one evening that Pa go to the Carson City horse auction.  Privately, Adam thought his little brother overdid it just a bit, sighing dramatically about how he wished he could have gone and how much it would mean to know that Pa was choosing the Ponderosa’s horses personally, but Pa didn’t appear to think anything was amiss.  Even so, it had taken all three of them, plus Doc Martin, to convince Pa that Joe would be fine in his absence.  To be sure that Pa actually went all the way to Carson City, rather than turning around an hour down the road, Adam persuaded Hoss to go along.  “You could use a break, too,” he told his larger brother generously.

Now, Adam bitterly regretted his magnanimous gesture.  Pa and Hoss were the ones who could talk about how somebody felt, and that was plainly what Joe needed.  As much as Adam loved his little brother, he just wasn’t any good at that type of talking.

But there was nobody else here, and clearly, something was seriously wrong.  He had to try.  So, he rested his hand on Joe’s shoulder and asked, “What happened?”

“I said goodbye to Maggie,” said Joe tonelessly.

“You did what?  Why?”  Adam was stunned.  He’d have bet his last book that Joe and Maggie were headed for the altar.

“She’s in love with me,” said Joe.

“I can’t say that’s the biggest surprise I’ve ever had,” Adam said, trying to coax a smile out of his brother.  “What’s wrong with that?  Don’t you love her?”

“More than I’d ever have thought I could,” said Joe.  “But I’m dying.  I can’t ask her sit here and watch that.  Bad enough the rest of you are gonna have to.”

Part of Adam understood Joe’s thinking:  his little brother was a proud man, and he probably thought he was protecting the girl.  But the larger part was rolling its eyes at the idea of his brother being so foolish as to walk away from a woman who loved him that much, and that was the part that spoke.  “So you ended things with Maggie because someday, you’re going to die?”  He wasn’t trying to be snotty, but Joe glared at him.

“I know it sounds stupid to you, but believe me, Adam, it’s not,” snapped Joe.  “I know, we’re all gonna die someday.  It’s just that I’ve got a pretty good guess about when my someday is gonna be, and I’m not standing by and letting her get into this deeper and deeper, just to have the rug pulled out from under her.  I won’t do that to her!”

Adam resisted the urge to try to lighten the mood by teasing Joe about his mixed metaphors.  That kind of joke never went over well with his brothers.  “What you’re saying doesn’t sound stupid at all,” he said at last.  “Believe it or not, I think I have an idea how you feel.”  At Joe’s furrowed brow, he said, “Remember Laura Dayton?”

“Of course,” said Joe.  Laura and Adam had been engaged when Laura fell in love with their cousin, Will.  Laura and Will had been on the verge of confessing to Adam when Adam was injured in a fall from a ladder.  For several weeks afterward, he was confined to a wheelchair while the doctor tried to determine whether he would ever walk again.  Ultimately, it became clear that Laura was staying only because Adam was in a wheelchair.

“I remember hearing about how you stood up out of that wheelchair and told her to go to Will,” said Joe.  “Pa said you got up, and then you walked into the house–and then you just about passed out as soon as Pa closed the door.”

“I paid dearly for that little stunt,” agreed Adam.  “Doc figured I set my recovery back at least two or three months.  But it was what I had to do to let her know that I didn’t need her, and she should go with the man she loved.  I didn’t want her to watch him ride away and feel as if she had to stay here with me in that chair.”

“But what does that have to do with Maggie and me?” asked Joe.

“Well, Little Brother, it’s this way.  I had to be strong enough for Laura to leave if that was what she truly wanted to do.  Yes, it hurt, and it cost me, but I had to do it.  The way I see it, maybe you need to see if you’re strong enough to let Maggie stay.  It’s going to hurt you, because you’re going to see her in pain, and you know better than anybody what she’s going to go through afterward, but maybe you need to be strong enough to stand back and let her make her own choice.”

“But she doesn’t know, not really. . . .”

“No, she doesn’t,” agreed Adam.  “And maybe that’s a good thing.  Tell me this:  would you have married Robin if you’d known how it was going to end?”

“Of course.”

Adam smiled.  “Then just maybe, you need to let Maggie do the same thing if that’s what she wants,” he suggested.

“I don’t want her to get hurt any more than she already will,” said Joe.  “There’s not much left that I can do for her.  At least I can protect her a little bit.”

“What if she doesn’t want to be protected?  Shouldn’t that be her choice?”

“That’s what she said.”  Joe’s voice faded.  The pain in his eyes was so raw that Adam wished again for Pa, with his gentle words of wisdom and his strong arms to hold a hurting son.

“You think maybe you want to go upstairs and try to get some sleep?” Adam suggested after a while.  “Pa always says that things look better in the morning light.”

Joe was silent for so long that Adam began to worry that the strain was taking its toll.  He reached out, ostensibly to brush Joe’s hair back from his forehead, but actually to see if his brother was running a fever.  “I don’t know,” Joe whispered finally.  “It all keeps swirling around in my head like some big sandstorm out in the desert.  I can’t even make sense of anything.”

“Then play it through,” said Adam.  This, at least, was familiar territory, the idea of working through a problem with music.  At Joe’s perplexed look, he said, “Come on.”  He helped Joe to his feet and laid his arm around his brother’s shoulders, shepherding him over to the piano.  He pulled out the bench, and Joe sat down, almost dazed.  Adam opened the keyboard cover and rested his hand on Joe’s shoulder.  “Just play what you’re feeling,” he said.

Joe touched the keys, then drew back.  “I don’t know,” he said.  “I don’t even know how to start.”

“I’ll start you,” said Adam.  He picked up his guitar and drew up a chair.  Slowly, he plucked the individual notes of an E minor chord.  When Joe didn’t move, he plucked the E minor again, and then an A minor and a B minor.  Joe watched as Adam moved through a sequence of chords, mostly minor, the delicate arpeggios vibrating in the silence.

After a minute, Joe struck a key.  One mournful note, singing alone above the guitar’s quiet constancy.  He played another note, and another, and slowly, a melody line emerged.  Adam repeated the chord sequence, over and over, and Joe began to pick it up in the bass.  The guitar stilled as the piano line became sharper and more intense, as jagged as broken glass.   The music swelled, violent with anger and fear, stubborn and passionate and lashed with grief.  Adam closed his eyes, trying to absorb his brother’s pain, surrounded by the song of love and death.

The last notes faded away.  Joe’s hands were shaking.  Adam set down his guitar and moved to sit on the bench, next to his brother.  He wrapped his arm around Joe’s shoulders, and the two men sat in silence.  After a long while, when the grandfather clock struck nine o’clock, Adam rose.

“Come on,” he said quietly.  “You need to get to bed.  I’ll bring you some soup after we get you settled.  You didn’t have supper before I got home, did you?”

Joe looked up at him.  His eyes were dark with that sad, haunted look, but for the moment, the storm had stilled.  He closed the keyboard cover.  “Thanks, Older Brother,” he whispered, and Adam knew that his brother’s words had nothing to do with the offer of food.

For a moment, Adam wondered how to respond.  You’re welcome?  My pleasure?  It was nothing?  I love you?  Pa or Hoss would have known just the right thing to say, he thought.  As he supported Joe up the stairs, Adam reflected that, sometimes, all a Yankee granitehead could do was trust that his little brother already understood everything that mattered.