“Pa?”

The little boy’s voice was unusually timid, and it cut through the haze to capture his father’s attention. Ben raised an eyebrow and pointed at Little Joe’s plate. “You haven’t cleaned your plate,” he said. Before his pa’s thoughts could drift away again, Joe laid down his fork and turned to face him.

“I don’t want to be excused,” Little Joe said. He looked at his big brothers and then back to Ben. “I—I was just thinking—”

“Thinking what?” asked Ben when his youngest son stopped.

“I was thinking—Christmas is gonna be here real soon—and we gotta get ready.” Just saying the words seemed to banish the boy’s timidity, and a smile spread across his face as he continued at increasing speed, “We gotta get out all those—those—things you put on the tree an’ make popcorn an’ put lots of pine around an’ get ready for the party an’—”

“Joe—slow down, boy.” Lord almighty, he loved the child with everything he had, but there were times, like tonight, when he couldn’t fathom how Marie had managed. He almost laughed aloud as he recalled how he used to think that he worked so hard. He’d had no idea what hard work was until that awful day last summer.

He’d known what it was like to be a father to children who had no mother, of course, but Adam and Hoss had been far, far different from their youngest brother. Adam had always been a quiet, serious boy. It wasn’t until much later that Ben understood what a gift this child had been. Hoss had always been eager to help out anybody, human or animal, who seemed to need assistance, and few things brought a bigger smile to the boy’s round face than praise for his efforts. Neither boy had been perfect, of course, but they’d certainly been more help than hindrance as the little family had made their way across the country and settled here.

But Little Joe . . . Ben couldn’t imagine what traveling with this high-spirited child would have been like. Knowing what he knew now, he had a suspicion that he probably would have thrown up his hands and settled down before they ever got out of Massachusetts.

Now, with Marie gone, it was all up to him. Adam and Hoss were still an enormous help, but now that Hoss was back in school, life was a constant balancing act. At times, it just seemed to be far more than one person could reasonably be expected to handle, running the ranch while chasing after a small, energetic boy with a seemingly limitless capacity for causing trouble. Not intentionally, of course—Ben had no question that Little Joe’s intentions were excellent. The results, though. . . . Four months after Marie’s death, Ben found himself wondering if the boy was getting into more mischief now or if Marie simply hadn’t told him everything that went on during the day, while he was out building the ranch and she was at home raising their sons.

“Y’know, Pa, this is about the right time,” Hoss offered. “Mama used to start takin’ all her special stuff out right about now.” His eyes, blue as a summer sky, shone at the memory. Inger had died when he was a baby, and Marie was the only mother he’d ever known. Although Adam had had difficulty accepting this new stepmother when Ben brought her back with him from a business trip to New Orleans, Hoss had fallen in love with her instantly, and the feeling had been quite mutual. Even though Marie was a city girl through and through, she’d had an immense respect for Hoss’ knowledge of animals and nature, and she’d listened raptly as he told her about the different critters.

Ben turned to Adam, expecting his eldest to join in, but Adam was watching him. Typical. Adam was always watching. Nothing slipped by him. He saw, he did, and he didn’t talk about it.

In the first weeks after Marie’s unexpected death, Ben’s grief had so crippled him that he barely noticed the needs of the ranch. It wasn’t until several days after the accident that he awoke to hear voices out in the yard. He looked out his bedroom window to see his seventeen-year-old son calmly assigning men to various tasks. Later, he discovered that Adam had assembled the men on the morning after Marie’s funeral and had informed them simply that, for the time being, he would be giving the orders and anyone who had a problem with that was free to pick up his wages at the house. To a man, they stayed and they listened, at first from respect for the Cartwrights and their loss, but then out of respect for the boy who had essentially become a man overnight.

But all this had cost Adam, and Ben knew it. The boy hadn’t mentioned college since the day Marie’s horse fell. Ben knew that he should raise the subject and encourage Adam to go ahead with his plans, but when he thought of running the ranch and raising his younger boys without his eldest son to lean on, the enormity of the load was overwhelming, and so he stayed silent.

Ben forced his thoughts back to the topic at hand. Little Joe and Hoss were chattering now about all the things Marie had done to make Christmas special. And she had made it special, there was no question. The truth was that, before Marie, Ben had had little experience with Christmas. His own parents, austere New Englanders, had seen the day more as a religious observance than a holiday to be celebrated with joy. He and his elder brother, John, had received gifts, but they were useful items—a muffler or a hat, or perhaps a pair of socks. They would also receive a stick of peppermint or an orange in their stockings, but that was the extent of the festivities. Christmas dinner was like any Sunday dinner, served after the family returned from church. His parents felt that a Christmas tree was a frivolity, and so Ben saw such decorations only at the homes of his friends.

The one Christmas he shared with Elizabeth was similar to those he’d had with his parents, because neither knew anything different: her father had often been at sea on Christmas, and so she’d had no one to decorate or cook for. After Elizabeth’s death, as he and baby Adam headed west, celebrating was the farthest thing from Ben’s mind. Even after he and Inger married, Christmas was a Spartan affair, because life in a wagon train simply did not lend itself to extravagant holiday festivities. After her passing, when he and his two sons arrived in what was then western Utah, neither their funds nor their strength nor their imaginations afforded much in the way of Christmas celebrations.

But then came Marie. She swept into their lives, and along with laughter and light and love, she brought Christmas. The first year, she’d set them all to work tying pine boughs into garland and stringing popcorn and berries. A barrel which had been shipped from New Orleans contained special Christmas dishes that she’d collected over the years. Crates arrived from San Francisco and Denver and New York, and she opened them with great fanfare, digging through sawdust and crumpled paper to unearth exquisitely fragile ornaments she had ordered. Under her eagle eye, Ben and the boys hung decorations on the tree that she’d chosen personally. The living room, which had always been quite comfortable, if a bit unadorned, was transformed into a fantasy world of pine boughs, red ribbons, candles, sparkling crystal and celebration. On Christmas Eve, friends had gathered at the Ponderosa to feast on delectable treats and raise their glasses as they sang Christmas carols.

Even more incredible were the gifts. Marie did not believe that Christmas presents should be useful and practical. Christmas presents, she declared, should be what people wanted, not just what they needed. There was plenty of time later to knit new socks. “Besides,” she’d whispered, her breath warm against his ear, “you never know what kind of miracles can come on Christmas.”

And so, on that first Christmas morning, Adam opened a leather-bound edition of Paradise Lost, and Hoss found a whole big bag of candies of all different types sitting next to a carved figurine of a horse so lifelike that its wooden mane and tail seemed to blow in the wind.

Ben would have been quite content simply to watch his sons’ delight in their gifts, but Marie presented him with a large box. The boys gathered around as Ben opened his gift—an exquisite crystal decanter and matching glasses. “Oh, and there’s one more thing, cheri,” Marie added. She reached beneath the tree to hand him another box. When he opened it, his jaw dropped. What she had spent on this bottle of brandy, he couldn’t imagine, but he knew from his travels in his seafaring days that it was of the finest quality. Silently, he blessed Paul Martin, who had taken him aside weeks earlier and quietly mentioned that Marie had told his wife, Rose, of her plans to make Christmas on the Ponderosa a celebration they would never forget. And so, with his sons grinning broadly behind him, he put his hand over Marie’s eyes and led her out to the barn, where she squealed with delight at the sight of the little black mare.

Yes, Marie had made Christmas come alive for them.

Ben returned to the present to see all three of his sons looking at him. Little Joe’s excitement had faded into something approaching apprehension. Hoss looked as if he were ready to step in and distract the boy if need be. Adam was watching.

“You need to clean your plate and get to bed, young man,” said Ben to his youngest son with a touch too much heartiness. “It’s getting late. Now, finish up.”

“But, Pa—” A hint of a whine was starting.

“You heard Pa,” said Hoss hastily. “You finish up, an’ I’ll tell you all about them pups I saw over at Red Malick’s place. There was five of ’em, jest a few weeks old, and one of ’em had spots all over him!”

“Spots? I ain’t never seen a dog with spots! Pa, can I go see the dog with the spots?” Little Joe was bouncing in his chair, his dinner quite forgotten.

Hoss meant well, Ben reminded himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hoss’ chagrin, and he knew that the boy understood his error. Now, all they would hear about would be the dog with the spots, and Little Joe would pester everyone within earshot to take him over to Malicks’ to see the spotted dog until they were tempted to paint the blasted animal a solid color just to get some peace and quiet.

“You can finish your dinner and go to bed,” Ben said. He only meant to sound firm, but his stirred-up feelings were getting the better of him, and he saw from his little boy’s expression that he’d been a whole lot closer to fierce. He considered tempering his statement, but when Joe turned his reluctant attention to his plate, Ben decided not to push his luck.

Finally, dinner was finished and the younger boys were in bed. Ben knew that he should work on the ledgers, but instead, he dropped into his armchair and put his head back, exhausted. Adam took his usual place in the blue velvet chair Marie had placed by the rifle rack, and for a while, the only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the occasional whisper of a page turning.

“What do you want to do about Christmas?”

His son’s voice startled Ben. He opened his eyes to see Adam watching him. “What do you mean?” he asked, more to buy time than because he needed an explanation.

“We can get Marie’s decorations out if you want.” It was neither an offer nor a suggestion. It was simply a fact. He might just as well have stated that Christmas would come on December 25.

“I don’t know,” Ben admitted. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

Adam nodded. The notion of thought before action—any action—was one with which he was well-acquainted. “Hoss and Little Joe are going to expect Christmas,” he commented.

And what about you? Ben was tempted to ask. He knew that, whatever he did, Adam would stand by him. If he said that they should bring out every last one of Marie’s trimmings, Adam would put down his book and begin the trek to the storeroom. And if he chose not to decorate at all, Adam would be the one to take Hoss aside and enlist his help in trying to keep Joe occupied so that he didn’t spend too much time asking questions that had no answers. Adam knew, almost as well as his father, that this would be a hard, hard Christmas, no matter what the house looked like.

“I know,” Ben said in answer to his son’s statement. “You boys all deserve Christmas the way—the way she used to do it.” He met Adam’s gaze squarely. “But I don’t know if I can stand it—seeing all her things. I just don’t know.”

If he lived to be a thousand, he would never forget waking up that first morning after her death. In the split second before he remembered, his hand reached across to her side of the bed, seeking the glorious softness of her body. When he felt only an empty pillow, he jerked awake, and memories flooded through him even as his heart begged someone, anyone, to make what he knew to not be true. He rolled over to her side—the vast, empty space where she would never again sleep—and he buried his face in her pillow, breathing in the light, sweet scent of her as his heart broke yet again.

It was the littlest things that tended to trip him up. He had to put Little Joe to bed without his bath that first Saturday night, because he’d forgotten to heat the water. As Hoss was about to leave for his first day of school, Ben walked into the kitchen to discover Adam hastily assembling a lunch pail for his brother. One evening, as Adam sat reading by the fire, he took off his boots, and Ben saw that a hole in the boy’s white sock had been mended with large, awkward stitches of green thread. The weeds were overtaking the vegetable garden. Furry coats of dust accumulated on the furniture. Marie’s once-sparkling copper pans began to dull.

Only four months, but it felt like forever. Agonizing, lonely, exhausting forever.

They were learning, bit by bit. Little Joe learned to pick up his toys without being told too many times. Hoss learned to sit himself down at the table after supper and struggle through his sums and his spelling, not asking for help until he was well and truly stumped. Adam learned how to head into town alone and hire a cook for the roundup. Ben learned how to listen to his boys even when his grief threatened to drown him. And slowly, so slowly, they all began to learn how to get through the day without this incredible, vibrant woman to draw them together and cast her love over them like a fine golden net to hold them close.

But now, it was Christmas.

“I can’t think about it right now,” Ben said, rising. He patted Adam’s shoulder as he headed for the stairs. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“I’m going up now,” said Adam, carefully inserting the bookmark where his finger had held his place. Before Marie’s death, his father would simply have told him to go to bed, but not now. The boy had proven himself capable of running a ranch. He could decide for himself when he was going to bed.

* * * * * * * * * *

The scream split the air. Ben sat bolt upright before he was even awake, his heart pounding. He grabbed the dressing gown at the foot of the bed and put it on as he flew out the door.

“Mama! Mama!” The little boy’s shriek echoed in the small room. Adam was already seated on the side of the bed, trying to catch the child’s flailing arms as Hoss lit the lamp on the bureau.

“It’s okay, Joe, Papa’s here,” said Ben as he moved hastily to the other side of the bed. He caught the child in his arms and held him close. “It’s okay, son. Hush, now. It was just a bad dream.”

“She’s dead!” sobbed the little boy against Ben’s broad chest. “Mama’s dead!”

“I know, son,” murmured Ben. He gathered Little Joe into his lap and held him securely as the storm raged again. “Ssssh, it’s all right,” he whispered over and over, even though it was most definitely not all right and they all knew it.

When the child’s sobs had reduced themselves to hiccups and his voice was little more than a croak, Adam rested his hand on his little brother’s forearm. “You think maybe you want a drink?” At Little Joe’s nod, Hoss poured a cup of water from the pitcher that sat out of Joe’s reach on the bureau, and he handed it to the child.

“Here you go, Little Brother,” Hoss said.

Sniffing deeply, Little Joe accepted the cup. Teary green eyes looked up at Ben as the boy drank. At Ben’s nod, Adam rose and poured a bit of water into the washbowl and moistened a washcloth. He returned and handed it to Ben, who wiped the tears from his son’s eyes.

“Feel better?” asked Ben, smoothing the boy’s unruly damp curls.

“I dreamed Mama was dead,” said Little Joe. Tears welled up again as he said the words. “I don’t want her to be dead. I want her here.”

Ben held the boy tighter. He didn’t have to look up to know that Adam’s face had assumed that no-expression expression that meant he was holding back everything. Hoss was suddenly very interested in pouring another cup of water.

“I know,” Ben said finally. “I want her here, too.”

“It’s not fair.” The tears began to spill down Little Joe’s cheeks.

Ben couldn’t have agreed more. He knew what he was supposed to say—that it was God’s will and God doesn’t make mistakes. That was what a good father, a godly father, would have said. But sitting in that room with his little son’s tears dampening his nightshirt and his other two sons struggling to hide their own pain, Ben didn’t feel like a godly father. He felt betrayed. He’d been so afraid to try again, but he’d finally let himself believe in love and happiness and the great glorious gift of a beautiful, loving wife, only to be left in tatters when she was snatched away. Now, he felt as though there was a jagged, gaping hole where his heart had once been.

In the next moment, anger crashed over him as he looked from one grief-stricken son to another. What had they done to deserve this kind of pain? They were such good boys. They worked so hard—even Little Joe, who gathered eggs and picked up sticks for kindling and swept the main floor of the barn. His sons had always been close, but since their mother’s death, they had banded together, looking out for each other in a way that made him proud. They deserved better than heartache and loss. They deserved a mother.

A quiet hand on his arm startled Ben. He looked up to see Adam nodding toward Little Joe, who nestled half-asleep in his arms. The thought of Adam going off to college flashed through his mind before he could stop it, and he closed his eyes. Adam, my son, what ever would I do without you? Maybe it was selfish of him, but he just couldn’t spare his eldest son. Not now, with Marie gone. Maybe someday, he told himself in an effort to settle the conscience that was suddenly wide awake.

He banished such thoughts as he eased Little Joe under the covers. “Time to go back to sleep,” he whispered.

“Can Hoss sleep with me?” the little boy asked sleepily.

“Hoss is going to go back to his own bed,” said Ben. “And you’re going to go to sleep, and you’ll get to see Hoss in the morning.”

“That’s okay, Pa,” said Hoss. “I’d just as soon stay here. Scooch over, Little Brother.” He lifted the blanket as Little Joe obligingly scooched closer to the other edge, and the bigger boy climbed into the bed.

Ben was half-ready to tell Hoss he needed to go back to his own room, if only so that Little Joe could learn to sleep through the night by himself, but all at once, he was just too tired. If his younger sons could find comfort in sharing a bed, so be it.

He rose and tucked in the covers on Joe’s side even as Adam did the same on the other. “Can’t have you falling out,” he said as Hoss started to protest. He winked at his middle brother, and the boy grinned.

“Good night, boys,” said Ben. He blew out the lamp, and Adam followed him out of the room, drawing the door closed behind them. “Good night, son,” Ben said. “And thank you.”

Adam looked perplexed for a second, as though he couldn’t imagine what his father could possibly be thanking him for. Then, with the tiniest of shrugs, he said simply, “Night, Pa.”

Ben watched as his eldest son headed down the hall to his room. No, there was just no way that he could ever run this ranch without Adam. He couldn’t even handle a child’s nightmare without this dark, quiet young man. It was a good thing Adam hadn’t gone off to college.

* * * * * * * * * *

Even before Ben opened his eyes, knowledge flooded his consciousness. That first moment was always the hardest—the moment when he opened his eyes and she wasn’t there. Sometimes, he tried to pretend that she’d simply gotten up ahead of him and was already downstairs, singing as she prepared breakfast. She’s still here, his heart pleaded, as though begging would make it so. But always, the truth dropped over him like a fishing net, ensnaring him in its reality, preventing his escape.

He drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. A wave of grief broke over him, threatening to drown him in its tumult. He forced himself to sit up, breaths deep and controlled. You’re all right, he told himself. One foot in front of the other, that’s all. He tried to focus on little things: which vest to wear, how many men should be breaking horses and how many should be riding fence, whether he’d remembered to send someone into town for the mail yesterday. He could hear Hoss calling to Little Joe to put his boots and socks on, and he pushed back the covers.

If it weren’t for his sons, he might not get out of bed in the mornings, he reflected. Granted, the ranch needed him, but some days, that just wasn’t enough. What got him out of bed was the thought of his boys. Seeing them, listening to them, touching them—somehow, life was more bearable.

As he dressed, he thought of Little Joe’s comments last night about Christmas. Lord have mercy, he hadn’t even thought about the holiday until the boy had brought the subject up. He sat on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots. How on earth could he hope to give his boys a proper Christmas? He didn’t even know where in the storeroom she’d put her decorations and ornaments, much less how to tie those pine boughs that she’d attached to the banister and mantle. And as for his ability to put together a Christmas dinner—well, the boys hadn’t yet been poisoned by his cooking, but he certainly wasn’t about to win any prizes at the fair.

He’d been thinking lately about hiring house help. A cook, and maybe a housekeeper. Maybe even someone to handle the laundry so that he wouldn’t have to take it into Virginia City every week. Someone to see to all the tasks Marie had taken care of—tending the garden, darning socks—and, if they were lucky, keeping an eye on Little Joe. They’d had a woman coming in to help Marie for a while, but Mrs. Watson had moved to Genoa in the spring. Somehow they’d never gotten around to finding someone new, and Marie had managed through the summer. Then, after the accident—well, the truth was that Ben never thought about it until the lack made itself known, such as when Hoss climbed into the buggy for church, his shirtfront dotted with the gravy from last Sunday’s roast beef.

He smiled at the tap on his door. Little Joe just couldn’t walk past his closed door without stopping to visit. “Come in,” he called.

“Morning, Pa!” The boy’s smile could melt ice in the middle of winter. He climbed up on the bed next to Ben and looked up expectantly.

“Morning, Joseph,” said Ben. “Did you sleep well after your dream?”

“Uh-huh,” said Joe, nodding vigorously. Sunlight bounced off his curls. Marie had been so loathe to cut the boy’s hair, but the time was definitely coming. If they left it much longer, people were going to start thinking their youngest was a girl.

“So, young man, what are you going to do today?” Ben stood, and Joe immediately slid off the bed.

“I wanna go to school with Hoss,” Little Joe announced.

“Not yet,” said Ben. He checked his hair in the mirror over the washstand, smoothing it into place. Then, he tilted the mirror so that Joe could so the same. “Have you gathered the eggs yet?”

“Huh-uh.” Hoss would have been apprehensive, but Little Joe was utterly matter-of-fact about not having done his chores.

“Think maybe you should get to it?” Ben suggested.

The little boy pursed his lips as he thought. “I guess so,” he agreed finally, and Ben put his hand over his mouth to hide his smile at the child’s response. “Can we have flapjacks for breakfast?” Little Joe added.

“We might be able to manage that,” said Ben. With this morning’s eggs still in the henhouse, it was a pretty good bet that Adam was making flapjacks. “But not until you’ve finished your chores.”

“But, Pa!” Little Joe looked up at him with a plaintive expression, and suddenly, Ben couldn’t catch his breath. Until then, he’d never realized just how much Joe resembled his mother. But there it was—the same puppy dog eyes and tiny pout that Marie had used successfully on dozens of occasions. For a moment, it was as though she stood before him again. His heart pounded, and he clenched his jaw to fight back tears.

“Pa?”

His youngest son looked frightened. Ben swallowed hard, trying to force a smile. He knelt and hugged the child, burying his face in the wild curls. Then, he took a deep breath and rose. “Let’s go gather those eggs,” he said, holding out his hand, and Little Joe took it proudly as they left the room Ben and Marie had shared for all too short a time.

* * * * * * * * * *

The truth was that Ben wasn’t really listening when Hoss and Little Joe started talking about the Christmas decorations at breakfast. Perhaps if he had, he’d have handled the whole thing differently. Because he wasn’t paying attention, though, he merely grunted as his younger sons talked about stringing popcorn and strewing pine boughs through the house.

Even though it was Saturday, Adam had already headed off to the north pasture with some of the men by the time Ben rose from the breakfast table and addressed his younger sons. “I have to go into Virginia City, but you know what you need to do while I’m gone,” he said with what he thought was the proper degree of firmness. He ticked the chores off on his fingers: sweep the floors in all the bedrooms, clean out the chicken coop, and replace the soiled hay in the horse stalls with fresh. “By the time you finish all that, I should be back,” he concluded. “If I’m not back by lunchtime, Hoss can start making the sandwiches.” A question flashed through his mind as to whether there was any bread, but before he could address it, his middle son spoke.

“Pa, if we finish early, can we start getting ready for Christmas?” Hoss sounded at once excited and tentative. “We gotta get out all the decorations an’ start makin’ stuff for the party an’—”

“An’ we gotta get ready for the Christmas miracle,” Little Joe added as though he knew what he was talking about.

Ben suppressed a sigh of impatience. “We’ll talk about Christmas when I get home,” he announced. In the meantime, the boys would be well occupied with their chores. If the day went smoothly, that would be miracle enough for him.

Early winter darkness was starting to fall by the time Ben rode into the yard. It had been an exhausting day with relatively little to show for his efforts. The land records office was closed because Seth Callahan was sick. The amount due on the Ponderosa’s account at the mercantile hadn’t been calculated correctly, and Ben had to wait while Martha Sebastian labored over her figures. The mail, which hadn’t been picked up in more than a week, included a letter from Rodney Stanger, a businessman from San Francisco with whom Ben had discussed a possible timber contract. Stanger’s letter had requested a response by yesterday, and Ben had to send a hurried wire to apologize for the delay and promise a response within the week.

The bitter wind bit through his gloves as he dismounted. The lights from the house looked warm and welcoming, and for a moment, Ben could believe that Marie was inside with the boys. He would walk through the door, and his beautiful wife would greet him with a loving embrace. The aromas of a sumptuous meal would waft through the house while Hoss did his homework and Little Joe played on the rug, and all that would remain for him to do was to relax and enjoy his peaceful household.

He shook his head to rid himself of such fantasies. As he tended to his horse, he mentally reviewed the contents of the pantry to see what he could put together for supper. Adam’s horse wasn’t back yet, so it would be up to him. He tried to recall whether there was enough bread for sandwiches for supper, but he was too cold and tired to think clearly.

It had been easier when they were coming west, because he was with the boys most of the time. Leaving them at the house while he rode hither and yon to try to provide was harder. It left him feeling fragmented, as though no part of his life ever got his full attention: when he was at home, he was thinking about the cattle and the timber and the business, and when he was out and about, he was thinking about the boys.

Well, no matter now. He would find something for them all to eat, get everyone bathed and into bed, and tomorrow after church, they would have a chance to relax before everything started again on Monday. Not that Ben Cartwright would ever have quarreled with the wisdom of the Lord, but these days, it did feel as though only one day of rest each week wasn’t quite enough.

He opened the door to his home and stood stock still.

The living room was strewn with sawdust, crumpled paper, and open crates of all sizes. Marie’s decorations were piled on the long, low pine table in front of the settee. His leather chair held stack of pine boughs as high as Little Joe. As he stepped into the room, popcorn crunched under his boot.

Ben found his voice. “Hoss! Joseph!”

Two heads popped up from amid the chaos. “Pa! We’re decorating!” Little Joe announced unnecessarily. He ran over to Ben, waving a blown-glass ornament in greeting.

“Joseph!” Ben thundered. Stunned, the little boy stopped in his tracks, and the ornament slipped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a delicate crash.

The room went eerily silent as Ben approached the place where his youngest son stood. He knelt, and he felt something twist inside him at the sight on the floor.

Even in pieces, the ornament was recognizable. Gold and blue and white—it was the one with the dove. Marie loved that ornament. Ben picked up the largest piece, the part with the dove’s beak and the gold olive branch. He turned it this way and that, but it was no use. There was no way to salvage it. It was gone.

“Pa?” Hoss’s voice was barely audible.

Ben drew a deep breath, but he did not look up from the broken glass. In the steadiest voice he could manage, he said, “You two go up to your rooms and wait for me. Now.” The small boots disappeared from his line of sight, and moments later, he heard two doors close.

By the time Adam returned an hour later, Ben was just coming down the stairs. He’d left Hoss and Little Joe lying on their stomachs, sniffling as their empty bellies growled and their ears undoubtedly rang with their father’s shouts. Now, as his eldest son bit his lip, Ben cleared the pine boughs from his chair and poured himself a brandy.

He felt Adam’s eyes on him as he sat down heavily, but he couldn’t meet his son’s gaze. He knew he should say something, but his mind and heart were so jumbled that no words made any sense. Nothing made sense, none of it. Marie, the boys, Christmas—none of it made any sense at all.

He never looked up as Adam hung up his jacket, hat and gun. The boy went upstairs, and Ben heard first one door open, and then another. The murmur of voices barely reached him. He drained his glass and laid his head back, closing his eyes against the disaster that surrounded him.

Eventually, he heard Adam’s boots descending the stairs. He kept his eyes closed and didn’t speak until Adam picked up the pile of pine boughs now strewn on the floor.

“Leave it,” said Ben, not moving. He could feel his son watching, appraising. After a minute, he heard Adam leave the room and head toward the kitchen.

He couldn’t have said how long it was until his son spoke. “You should eat something.”

Ben opened his eyes. The boy stood before him, a dish of beans in his hand. A sardonic smile tipped the corner of Ben’s mouth as he muttered, “No bread?” Adam shook his head, and Ben took the dish not because he was hungry, but because his son had tried.

“This is good,” he said as he ate.

Adam smiled slightly. “No, it’s not.” The two chuckled, and then Adam’s eyes grew serious. “They didn’t mean any harm. They just wanted to help.” He waited, and when his father didn’t speak, he finished, “They’re little boys. They want Christmas.”

“I know.” Ben closed his eyes against the scene before him, so different from what it had been last year. Then, he opened them and met his son’s gaze directly. “And what about you? What do you want?”

Adam startled. With unexpected passion, he began, “I want—” But then, his customary self-control returned, and he amended his statement. “It doesn’t make a difference to me. It’s not going to be the same, no matter what we do.” He sat on the corner of the pine table. “I remember the year Ma died,” he reflected. “Hoss was six months old on Christmas Day. We’d stopped in that little town in Wyoming—I don’t remember the name—and the people who ran the boarding house had a Christmas tree that took up almost the whole front room.”

“It wasn’t a very big room,” Ben reminded him gently.

Adam smiled. “It seemed enormous to me,” he said. “Hoss and I were the only children there, and I remember the lady—”

“—Mrs. Watson—”

“—Mrs. Watson trying to tell me that we had to go to sleep so that Santa Claus could come.”

“And you told her that Santa didn’t know where to find us this year, but that was all right because you’d gotten a baby brother that year, and he was the best Christmas present you could have asked for anyway,” Ben recalled. He hadn’t had two nickels to rub together, but he’d spent the week before Christmas working nights at the saloon while Mrs. Watson kept an eye on the boys, and he’d ended up with just enough extra to buy a tablet and a pencil for Adam. He’d carved a crude wooden horse for the baby, and that had been their Christmas.

His heart had ached with missing Inger, but somehow, in a strange place with practically nothing of their own around them, it had been easier. Mrs. Watson made a Christmas dinner for the boarders, and she insisted that they all wash up before coming to the table. If the soup seemed a bit thin, as though it had been watered down so that it would stretch farther, and if the chicken was a tough old bird, nobody said. Instead, Ben held the baby as he and Adam sat on long benches with a group of rough men who watched their language in observance of the day. Nobody talked about other Christmases they’d shared with loved ones or why they weren’t with those people this year. Instead, the boarders praised the meal in the most eloquent terms they knew, and when Mrs. Watson brought out slivers of fruitcake that she’d made, all of them—even Adam—raised their tin cups in a toast to her.

Ben hadn’t realized that they’d fallen silent, remembering, until Adam said, “I asked Mrs. Watson if she believed in Christmas miracles.”

“Really? Why did you do that?” It seemed a strangely whimsical notion from his immensely logical son.

Adam met his gaze squarely. “Because I wanted to know if it was worth asking for one.” He nodded slightly at the question in his father’s eyes. “She said it depended on what kind of a miracle I was asking for. I told her I wanted Ma to come back, and she said that that wasn’t the kind of miracle Christmas was about. She said that sometimes Christmas miracles were about getting what you wanted, but sometimes, they were about realizing that you already had everything you needed.” His smile softened as he added, “She said that Ma would be with me as long as I remembered her, and then some, and if I could just remember that, it would be a Christmas miracle of its own.”

Ben swallowed hard. “She was a very wise woman,” he managed finally. He surveyed the decorations and packing materials strewn around the room. “I suppose we’d better get some of this cleaned up.”

Adam rose. “What do you want to do with it?”

“I’m not sure,” Ben admitted. “But for now, let’s try to the glass out of the way so that nothing else gets broken. After that, I suppose we’ll have to figure something out.” But I have no idea what that is, he reflected as he and Adam began putting the room to rights.

Several hours later, the room was presentable, the breakable items secure, and Adam had headed off to bed. Ben knew that he should go up as well, but instead, he found himself at his desk, sorting idly through papers as though they might hold some answers.

Gradually, he became aware that he was not alone. He looked up to see Little Joe at the top of the stairs. The boy made no sound; he simply watched, just as his big brother might have done. It was so unlike Joseph that, instead of sending the boy back to bed, Ben found himself saying, “Son, come down here, please.”

Not taking his eyes from his father, the little boy descended the stairs. As he did, Ben rose from his desk. At the bottom of the stairs, Joe stopped. No trace of his usual sunny smile graced his face. His eyes were large and wary. His too-long curls seemed incongruously cheerful as they tumbled over his forehead.

Ben’s heart ached. Without a word, he reached for Joe—and the boy drew back.

For a moment, the two stood, frozen in fear and grief. Then, Ben knelt before his little boy. Their eyes met, and Ben felt tears beginning in his own even as he saw them in his son’s. He pulled the boy into a fierce hug, feeling the small body trembling through the flannel nightshirt. “Oh, my boy,” he whispered, and he felt Little Joe’s arms go around his neck, hanging on as if for dear life.

He carried Joe to the leather armchair, settling the child in his lap. His son shuddered as flights of sobs broke loose, and it was too much. His own tears spilled over into the unruly curls. Father and son clung to each other as they faced again all they had lost.

Little Joe’s sobs had quieted to sniffles when Ben heard a step. He looked up to see Hoss standing uncertainly on the landing, his own anguish plain on his round face. Ben held out his hand, and his middle son ran down the stairs and into his father’s embrace. With Little Joe cuddled in one arm and Hoss held tightly in the other, Ben felt fresh tears start as this stalwart young boy laid his head against his father’s shoulder to mourn the loss of his mother.

At last, three tear-stained faces regarded each other. Little Joe reached up to touch his father’s wet face, wonder and sadness shining in the teary green eyes. With one small finger, he wiped the tears from beneath his father’s eyes. “Papa?” he said tentatively.

Papa. Little Joe hadn’t used that name for him since the day Marie died. Ben’s voice cracked only slightly as he said, “Yes, boy?”

“I don’t want Christmas,” his child said.

“What do you mean?” It would have been a startling statement from anyone, but from a five-year-old boy, it made no sense at all.

“I don’t want to you to be sad,” said Little Joe. “Christmas is making you sad. I don’t want Christmas.”

“He’s right, Pa,” said Hoss. “We can just skip all that fuss. It ain’t that big a deal.”

Ben looked from one boy to the other. Shame warred in his heart with pride and awe. Little boys willing to give up their Christmas just so that their pa wouldn’t be sad. He wanted to tell them not to be silly, that they’d have the biggest doggone Christmas the Ponderosa had ever seen, but he didn’t know if he could make good on such a promise. Still. . . . He cupped Hoss’s chin with one hand as he pulled Little Joe closer with the other. “Don’t you worry,” he managed. “We’ll have Christmas. I don’t—I don’t know if it’ll be quite like—like your mother would have done it, but—we’ll have Christmas.” He watched as the joy spread over both their faces, and he closed his eyes as he pulled them close. He didn’t know how, but he was going to have to do this.

“Doesn’t anybody go to bed around here any more?” came a wry voice from the stairs.

“Adam!” squealed Little Joe. “Pa says we’re gonna have Christmas!” Tears still glistened on his cheeks even as radiance shone through.

Adam descended to the main room, his eyes questioning, and Ben nodded. Unfazed, Adam said, “Well, if that’s so, then we’re going to need a lot of help from whatever boys we can scrounge up around this place. Pa, you know of any boys who might want to help us get ready for Christmas?”

“Me! Me!” shouted Little Joe, nearly sticking a finger up Ben’s nose as he waved his hands high.

“Hey, me, too!” added Hoss. He poked his little brother in the belly, and Little Joe laughed as he grabbed at Hoss’ finger.

“I think we’ve got a couple of volunteers,” said Ben. “But I don’t know how much good they’ll be to us if they don’t get to bed. We can’t have them falling asleep in the middle of the popcorn!”

Little Joe giggled at the idea. “Hey, Hoss, you gonna fall asleep in the popcorn?”

“I’m gonna eat the popcorn!” retorted his brother.

“Well, before you start eating any popcorn, you need to get back to bed,” said Ben. Still holding onto Little Joe, he stood to shepherd his sons back up the stairs. He caught Adam’s wink over Hoss’ head. He started to lean over to put his youngest son down, but Little Joe held onto his neck, and Ben straightened, not bothering to hide his smile. He tightened his arm around the boy as the tear-damp face nestled into his pa’s neck. Ahead of them, Hoss was chattering excitedly, and Adam was smiling in a way Ben hadn’t seen in a long time.

He didn’t know if he could really do this, but by the good Lord almighty, he was going to try.

* * * * * * * * * *

One foot in front of the other, Ben reminded himself a week later. Granted, they’d burned more batches of popcorn than they’d popped, and the tied-together boughs had a tendency to become untied, but they were making progress. He had a pretty good idea which tree would stand in their living room this year. Next week, he’d go out with a couple of the hands to cut it and haul it back to the house. Then, he’d see if he couldn’t leave Hoss and Little Joe with one of the ladies from church for an afternoon so that the ornaments could be hung with minimal breakage.

One foot in front of the other. Take your time. Don’t try to do it all at once.

For the life of him, he didn’t know how Marie had managed, but he was starting to feel as though he was going to make it through Christmas. He still didn’t know what he wanted to do about gifts for the boys, but hopefully, an afternoon in Virginia City would give him some ideas. Maybe he should ask the schoolmaster, Mr. Tweadle, about books that Adam might enjoy. But that was only one son; he had no ideas about gifts for the younger boys.

He had just purchased three bags of assorted candies and was coming out of the candy store when he heard his name. “Ben, I think I got somethin’ here that belongs to you,” came the gruff voice of Roy Coffee. Ben wheeled to see the sheriff heading toward him, holding Little Joe firmly by the hand as Hoss trailed along.

“I thought I told you two to stay with Adam!” Ben glared fiercely, and the boys exchanged guilty glances.

“Sorry, Pa,” mumbled Hoss.

“Sorry, Pa,” chirped Little Joe, flashing his most bedeviling smile.

“Ben, I sure am glad to hear that you’re havin’ your party this year,” continued the sheriff. “You can count me in!”

“Party? What party?” Dread dropped over him like a noose. He looked from one son to the other. “What party?” he intoned.

“Well—Pa—you said we was gonna do Christmas!” Hoss was squirming the way he often did when he figured out that he’d gotten something wrong.

“We asked everybody to the party!” announced Little Joe with the triumphant air of a job well done.

“You did what?” People halfway down the street stopped at the exclamation. Hoss hung his head. “Where’s your brother?” Ben demanded. When he got his hands on the one who had let these two slip their lead ropes. . . .

“At the general store,” said Little Joe, who clearly still didn’t see any problem. “He found a book.”

“That figures,” muttered Ben.

“Uh, Ben? Did these boys get a little confused, maybe?” Roy suggested.

“A little confused,” Ben repeated. He turned to his sons. “Hoss, you take Joe—and don’t let go of his hand, no matter what—and find Adam.”

Hoss didn’t need to be told twice. He grabbed his little brother and half-dragged him down the sidewalk toward the general store.

“Ben, I admit, I was a mite surprised when the boys said about the party,” said Roy. “I didn’t figger you was quite ready for that yet.”

“I’m not,” said Ben flatly. “But—I said we’d try to do Christmas the way Marie did.”

“And to those two, that meant her big shindig,” finished Roy.

“I never even thought about that,” admitted Ben. “I figured I’d be doing well to decorate a tree and cook a ham.”

In an uncharacteristic display of solicitude, Roy laid his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I’ll put the word out that the boys got mixed up and there ain’t gonna be a party,” he said. “Don’t worry. Folks’ll understand.”

Ben shook his head. “It’s not ‘folks’ I’m worried about.” He glanced down the street toward the general store. “Any idea how many people those two invited?”

“Nope,” said Roy. “But I seen ’em stoppin’ pretty much everybody that walked past ’em. If I were you, I’d be figgering on the whole town, and mebbe few stragglers.”

Ben closed his eyes. “I don’t suppose they mentioned when this party is supposed to take place, did they?”

“Well—Christmas Eve, just the way Marie always did it,” said Roy uncomfortably. “Ben, don’t worry, we’ll get it cancelled. You got enough to think about.” He started to turn away, but his friend’s voice stopped him.

“Don’t,” said Ben. “Don’t do anything yet. I—I need to think about this.”

“Well, don’t think too long,” Roy warned. “You ain’t got but a few days ’til Christmas Eve.”

“It’s nearly two weeks!” snapped Ben. “There’s plenty of time!”

Roy raised his eyebrows. Whistling softly under his breath, he said, “Whatever you say, Ben.”

Ben watched the sheriff saunter down the sidewalk. He turned around to see his three sons heading toward him. Adam looked apprehensive, Hoss guilty, and Little Joe as jubilant as a Christmas angel.

What in tarnation am I going to do now?

* * * * * * * * * *

A week later, Ben stood in his flour-covered kitchen, staring incredulously at the disaster before him. Every single pot, pan, bowl and spoon he owned was sitting unwashed on one table or another. Little Joe was using a drinking glass to cut biscuits out of the dough Adam had rolled out, unfazed by the stench of the burned batch that Ben had yanked too late from the oven. Right-handed Adam bore bandages on every finger of his left hand, but still he continued to peel potatoes and slice carrots, pausing every now and then to rebandage one finger or another.

“Where’s Hoss with that cornmeal?” Ben growled, not expecting an answer.

“Hey, Pa! Come here!” came Hoss’s voice from the yard at that moment.

“What the—” Ben wiped his hands on the towel tucked in at his waistband and yanked open the kitchen door to where his middle son stood with a short, slightly stocky Chinese man. “Can I help you?” He was aware that he didn’t sound particularly gracious, but with less than a week until Christmas Eve, he didn’t have time to chat.

“No, sir,” said the Chinese man. “Hop Sing here to help Cahtlights.”

“What?” Ben looked from the man to his son. “What’s going on?”

“Roy Coffee sent him,” said Hoss. “Go on, give him the note,” he urged the stranger.

Ben took the folded paper from the Chinese man. “This here’s Hop Ling’s son,” he read silently. “I thought you might need a hand getting ready for your party. Folks say he’s a real good cook. Merry Christmas, R. Coffee.”

Hardly daring to believe, Ben looked up from the note. “Can you cook?”

The little man straightened. “Hop Sing very good cook!” he announced indignantly. “Whatever Mistah Cahtlight want, Hop Sing make. Very, very good cook!”

“What do you think, Pa?” Hoss was beaming. Clearly, the thought of a very, very good cook was appealing, especially after months of his father’s meals.

Snowflakes began to drift down, settling on Hop Sing’s shoulders, and suddenly, Ben laughed. Even if Hop Sing was no better as a cook than Ben, they wouldn’t be any worse off than they were now. And if Roy was right and the man could actually cook. . . . “What exactly did Sheriff Coffee tell you?”

“He say Cahtlights have big party, no cook, need Hop Sing.”

Well, that pretty much summed it up. “Come on in,” said Ben. He led the way into the chaotic kitchen where Adam and Joe still labored.

Hop Sing stopped dead in the doorway, a look of horror on his face. “Out! Out! Everybody out!” he shrieked. “Hop Sing no work in messy kitchen! Everybody out! Hop Sing need make kitchen clean, then cook!”

“Pa, who’s that?” asked Joe from behind Adam, where he had darted when the yelling started.

“That’s our new cook,” said Ben. “Hop Sing, these are my sons, Adam and Little Joe.”

“Everybody out!” repeated the cook, who was clearly not interested in pleasantries. He made rapid shooing motions with his hands, and Ben laughed again.

“Come on, boys,” he said, herding his sons to the doorway. As they escaped, Ben looked back to where the little Chinese man had begun stacking dirty dishes. “Do you need—”

“Out!”

“I don’t know what’s—”

“Out!”

“Do you think you could manage supper, too?”

“OUT!”

Ben ducked out of the kitchen to where his sons stood in the living room. Little Joe still hid behind a perplexed Adam, but Hoss looked positively hopeful.

“Pa, is he gonna fix us supper, too?” Hoss whispered.

Ben shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.” Feeling better than he had in days, he rested a hand on Hoss’s sturdy shoulder. “If he doesn’t, maybe we can sneak into the kitchen after he goes to bed and I’ll rustle something up then.”

“But, Pa—that’ll be hours!” The boy looked so stricken at the notion that his older brother and father couldn’t hold back their laughter, and even Little Joe emerged from behind Adam to see what was so funny.

“Don’t worry, Hoss,” the little boy said earnestly. “I still got some lemon drops from when we were in town. I was gonna keep ’em for later, but I reckon I can share.”

“Good for you, Little Brother,” said Adam, hazel eyes twinkling. To Hoss, he said, “Let’s go take care of the stock. I have a feeling that by the time we’re done, there’ll be something to eat.” He draped his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and they walked together over to get their jackets.

“Wait for me!” Little Joe called, rushing to catch up.

Ben watched as his sons headed out into the dusk, their boots leaving dark prints in the new dusting of snow. Then, he closed the door and leaned against it, savoring the sound of clanging pots and pans.

* * * * * * * * * *

“I can’t find my tie!”

“Anybody seen the boot black?”

“Pa! Pa! I can’t make my buttons work right!”

Ben inspected his face in the mirror to be sure he’d gotten all his shaving soap off. The sound of his boys getting ready for the party was so blissfully normal that he could almost believe that this party was going to turn out all right.

Hop Sing had proven to be a godsend. On his first morning at the Ponderosa, he’d sent Adam into town with a buckboard and a note. At lunchtime, Adam had returned with a load of supplies and at least half a dozen Chinese men and women. Like a self-appointed general dispatching his troops, Hop Sing had set them to cleaning, laundering and assisting him in the kitchen. The Cartwrights had been shooed from the house with strict orders not to return until suppertime. The aromas that had drifted from the kitchen across the yard had drawn the attention not only of the Cartwrights working in the barn, but of the ranch hands who had stopped in the yard to raise their noses and sniff deeply. That night, after everyone else was in bed, Ben came into the now-quiet kitchen to see Hop Sing mixing up bread dough.

“I have a question for you, Hop Sing,” he said. The little man nodded without turning from his task, and Ben continued, “Would you be interested in continuing to work here after the party?” Hop Sing turned, his brow furrowed slightly, and Ben clarified, “I mean, not just that night, but permanently. Is that something you’d be interested in?”

Hop Sing looked around the kitchen, which was now immaculate. “Mistah Cahtlight need more than just Hop Sing.”

Ben nodded. “I know,” he said. “When—when Mrs. Cartwright was alive, she saw to the house, but now—I don’t even know what to tell you we need.”

Hop Sing regarded him for a long minute. “Hop Sing take care of things,” he said finally. “Mistah Cahtlight no worry. Hop Sing take care of everything.”

And it had proven to be so. In just a few days, the laundry was caught up, the house gleamed, the decorations were in place, and the pantry was well-stocked. Perhaps more important, Hop Sing had pressed Little Joe into service, enabling Ben and Adam to see to the ranch without having to worry about the youngest Cartwright running wild while Hoss was at school. The Chinese man seemed to have an innate sense of just what a five-year-old could do and how long his attention span lasted, and these days, Ben returned to the house in the evening to be met by a little boy who chattered about all the exciting new things he had learned to do that day—and was usually tired enough to go to bed without arguing.

It was almost enough to make him believe in Christmas miracles.

And now, Christmas Eve had arrived. Guests would begin arriving shortly. Everyone had bathed and dressed in shirts boiled by Hop Sing for the occasion. Plates and platters of delicious treats clustered on long tables, and the punch bowl was brimming. Hop Sing had even enlisted an extra cousin whose sole job was to keep the food safe from Hoss and Little Joe.

Ben tied Hoss’s tie, found the bootblack for Adam, and rebuttoned Little Joe’s shirt. Then, he surveyed the three of them and had to bite his lip. Marie would have been so proud of them.

Little Joe reached for his hand. “Mama would like us having the party, wouldn’t she? She’d come, wouldn’t she?”

What could he say? “She surely would,” Ben managed. “She’d be so proud of you boys.”

“I wish she was here,” said Hoss in a low voice.

“So do I, son,” said Ben, smoothing his middle son’s hair. He gave them all a moment, and then he said, “I think maybe we should go downstairs and see what Hop Sing’s made. What do you think?”

“I think so,” said Hoss, straightening. “Come on, Little Joe, let’s see what Hop Sing rustled up!” He took his little brother’s hand, and the two darted from the room.

Ben turned back to see Adam watching him thoughtfully. Ben raised a questioning eyebrow, and Adam said, “I think I need to sample the punch.” Ben raised both eyebrows at that one, but when Adam held his gaze, he relented with a grin.

“Just watch yourself,” he warned as they headed out of the room. “We don’t know how strong Hop Sing makes it.” Adam chuckled, and Ben clapped him on the shoulder as they started down the stairs to the table where a slim Chinese boy was trying to stand between the food table and the younger Cartwrights.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Ben, that was one of the best parties I’ve ever attended,” said Doc Martin as he buttoned his coat. He lowered his voice as he added, “It was a fine way to honor her memory. She’d have been proud of the way you managed it.”

“Thanks, Paul.” He didn’t mention that nearly everyone had said something similar at some point during the evening. He’d heard her name so often that it was almost as though she was present.

The party had been surprisingly easy. He’d worried about acting as host with no hostess, but the laughter, the music and the companionship had drawn him in like a warm embrace from a good friend. Now, as the evening wound down and most of the guests had departed, he found that he didn’t begrudge them their celebrations with their families. He and his sons would have their own Christmas, and if it wasn’t the way they’d have chosen, at least they would be together.

“Pa!” Hoss was pulling at his sleeve.

“Just a moment, Hoss. I’m saying good night to Dr. Martin.” Ben started to turn back to his guest, but Hoss pulled harder.

“Pa, I can’t find Little Joe!”

All thoughts of good manners were forgotten. “When did you last see him?”

Hoss shrugged. “I dunno,” he admitted. “Caleb Anderson was showin’ me his new marble an’ we started playin’, and I didn’t even notice when Little Joe left.”

“Have you checked his room? Maybe he got tired and went to bed.” But it was a ridiculous notion, and Ben knew it. Joe had never voluntarily left a party early, no matter how tired he was. More than once, Ben had found the sleeping child sitting on the stairs, and still the little boy had protested drowsily as his father lifted him to carry him to his bed.

“He’s not in the kitchen,” Adam offered as he rounded the corner. “Hoss, did you check every place in the house? Under the beds and everything? Maybe he was trying to play a trick and he fell asleep.”

“I didn’t look under the beds.” The boy made a beeline through the remaining guests and up the stairs.

“Something wrong?” asked Roy Coffee.

Ben was trying to keep his concern from escalating into full-blown panic. “We don’t where Little Joe is.” He turned toward the door, and his heart began to pound at the sight of the empty peg on the wall. “His jacket is gone. Adam, did you check the barn?”

“Doing it now,” said his eldest son as he headed out across the yard, dodging between carriages.

“Now, don’t panic,” said Roy. “You know that young’un. He’s probably jest out pettin’ the horses or something.” But he was reaching for his coat even as Ben grabbed his own, and the two men headed out after Adam, who met them at the barn door.

“His pony is gone.” Adam’s face was grim.

“But—where would he have gone? And why?” For one horrible second, Ben tasted terror as he thought of losing his youngest son, Marie’s boy.

And then it came to him.

“I think I know where he is,” Ben said. “Adam, you stay here and take care of the guests.” He saw the protest in his son’s eyes, and he patted the young man’s shoulder. “It’s going to be all right,” he said, willing Adam to believe.

Minutes later, Ben and Roy were riding up the trail toward the bluff overlooking the lake. Hoofprints in the fresh snow told them that they were heading in the right direction, but it still seemed forever until they came around the last curve and saw Little Joe’s pony tied to a bush.

“Stay here,” said Ben in a low voice as he handed his reins to Roy. He dismounted and approached the place where they had laid Marie to rest on a hot, dry summer morning.

Now, the dark brown scar in the earth was covered in snow. Only the cold gray stone that marked the grave was visible, casting a blue shadow in the moonlight. Ben approached quietly, and in the shadow he saw the darker shape curled up at the base of the stone.

“Joseph,” he said quietly, fighting down panic. Please, God, let him be all right. Please, don’t let him have frozen here. . . .

“Pa.” The boy’s voice was drowsy, but it was enough.

“Come here, boy, you’re cold,” he said. Not too cold, though. Little Joe hadn’t been out here very long, and that was a miracle all on its own. Ben knelt and scooped the child up, holding him tightly. Then, he unbuttoned his coat and wrapped it around his son. “How’s that? Are you getting warmer?”

“She didn’t come.” The words were choked.

“What do you mean?” Ben stroked the child’s cold cheek and found it wet.

“I thought she’d come. We did everything just like she always wanted, and we had the party, and I thought she’d come, but she didn’t.” Little Joe was trembling, but whether from cold or crying, Ben couldn’t tell.

In any event, it was clear that there was a lot of talking to be done, and it needed to be done in a warm house. Ben stood and carried the child to where the horses and Roy waited. “He’s all right,” Ben said quietly, and even in the moonlight, he saw the vast relief on the sheriff’s face. He untied the reins of Joe’s pony and handed them to Roy. Then, he lifted the boy onto the back of his own horse and mounted behind him for the ride home.

Later, when the guests were gone and Little Joe had been tucked into bed with a hot brick at his feet, Ben poured whiskey for himself and Roy. The two men raised their glasses and downed their drinks in a single gulp. It could have gone so differently. If Hoss hadn’t noticed his brother’s absence, if Adam hadn’t checked the barn, if Ben hadn’t realized where the boy was likely to go, if the child had chosen to walk instead of ride, if there hadn’t been fresh snow on the trail to follow . . . a thousand little things, and any one of them could have meant the difference between life and death.

Ben poured another round. “After Marie died, I was afraid to let any of them out of my sight,” he admitted. “It happened so fast with her. For a while, I almost felt like if I kept a close enough eye on the boys, nothing could happen to them.”

“You know it don’t work that way,” said Roy with unexpected gentleness.

“I know,” Ben admitted. If anyone should have known better, it was a man who had lost three wives.

Roy nodded. “Mebbe that’s why the preachers always talk about how every day is a gift,” he ventured. “’Cause you don’t know what’s gonna happen. I been a lawman for more’n thirty years, and there ain’t a day I’ve put on that badge that I don’t wonder whether I’ll see nightfall. One of these days, I reckon I ain’t gonna get there, but I won’t spend all the days between now and then frettin’ about it. The way I see it, all we can do is jest give thanks for whatever we get an’ get on with the livin’ for as long as we got it.”

Ben swallowed hard at that one. “Marie told me once that you were a wise man.”

“She was a smart lady,” retorted the sheriff, and both men chuckled. Then, Roy got to his feet. “I reckon it’s time I got back to town and let Clem get some shut-eye. It was a fine party, Ben. Marie would have been right proud of you.”

“We couldn’t have done it without your gift—Hop Sing,” Ben reminded his friend. “He’s going to stay on with us.”

“I had a hunch he might,” said the sheriff. “You have yourself a merry Christmas, Ben.”

“You, too, Roy.” The old friends shook hands. Ben escorted him to the door and watched as he rode away. Then, he closed the door and turned back to see all three of his sons standing before him in their night clothes.

“What are you doing up, young man?” he demanded sternly as Little Joe yawned.

“You forgot to read the story,” his little son replied.

“The Christmas story from the Bible,” Adam supplied.

“You know, the way you always do,” Hoss added.

The way you always do. In the background, Ben could hear Hop Sing and some of his cousins in the kitchen, washing up. The living room furniture had been put back in its places. The candles still burned brightly, their reflections flickering in the glass ornaments. Most important, his family was safe.

Roy Coffee was right. He could fret about all he’d lost, or he could give thanks for what he had and get on with the livin’.

So, he nodded to Hoss, and the boy bounded across the room to the table where the family Bible lay. Proudly, he carried it to his father, and the boys gathered around as Ben settled into his leather armchair and opened the large book to the familiar place. Little Joe climbed up in the chair with him, Hoss perched on the hearth, and Adam seated himself on the pine table as Ben began to read, his deep voice resonating as the clock struck midnight.

“And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flocks by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

It would be a lie to say that everything went back to normal after that night. “Normal” had changed the day the horse fell, and life would never been the same again. But slowly, Ben and his boys began to work out a new version of normal, one that included the memory of a beautiful woman they would always love, but which allowed them to move forward into a different kind of future.

On Christmas morning, Hop Sing treated the Cartwrights to a feast of a breakfast that included platters of eggs, potatoes, steak, flapjacks, and sausage patties, as well as a coffee pot that never seemed to run dry. After breakfast, the family gathered by the tree to exchange gifts. Ben watched, his heart full, as Adam opened a stack of books and looked up at him in wonder.

“Mr. Tweadle said that you’d need those at college,” Ben said simply.

“But—” Adam’s voice trailed off, torn between his dream and his duty, but when his father simply nodded, the expression in the boy’s eyes reminded Ben of a sunrise. Later that night, when the younger boys were in bed, Adam tried to ask if he was certain, but Ben laid his hand on the young man’s shoulder.

“You stayed here this year, and I’m forever grateful to you,” he said. “I don’t know how I could have managed without you these past few months, but it’s time now. You need to follow your own dream. Your mother and I agreed on that,” he added with gentle firmness, and he pretended not to notice that Adam’s eyes were glistening.

Hoss’s gift had been the most difficult, because the boy was so easily satisfied and Ben had wanted so much to honor Marie’s tradition of giving each something special. Roy Coffee had had the answer, and on Christmas morning, Ben led them out to the corral to see a young colt. “He doesn’t have a mama,” Ben said simply. He held his breath lest Hoss or Joe ask her whereabouts, but Hoss was wiser than his father had suspected, and he nodded his understanding. Ben finished, “So, he needs someone who will care for him and raise him right.”

His middle son’s big blue eyes glowed. “I’ll raise him right, Pa,” he vowed.

Ben clapped the boy’s sturdy shoulder. “I know you will,” he said, and it was true.

Little Joe had been as patient as anyone could have asked, but now, he was practically dancing with excitement. “Did Santa bring me something, too, Pa?” he asked.

“Well . . . .” Ben drawled. “I suppose there might something left out in the barn. Why don’t you go and take a look?” He laughed as the boy took off, his brothers in hot pursuit. Moments later, squeals of joy mingled with the high-pitched barks of a puppy, and Ben entered the barn to see Joe with Red Malick’s spotted pup in his arms, laughing as the dog licked his face.

“Look, Pa, look! He’s got spots! Can I keep him, Pa?” It was hard to understand the words over the laughter and the yips, but the joy was unmistakable.

“I’d say that depends,” said Ben, squatting down beside the boy. “If you can come up with a name for this little guy, then I guess he’s got to stay with us, doesn’t he?”

Joe’s eyes got round. “I’ll name him, Pa! I’ll name him real good. His name is . . . Spotty!”

“You sure you don’t want to give him a real fancy name?” Adam teased as he stroked the puppy’s wriggling back. “Maybe you could name him after somebody famous, like Shakespeare or Washington.”

“You could name him after somebody famous around here,” Hoss interjected. “Like Mr. Sutter, or maybe one of them Indian chiefs or something.”

“Nah!” Joe was too busy trying to hold onto a squirming puppy to care about fancy names. “Look at him! He’s white, but he’s got all them black spots on him—his name is Spotty! Is that okay, Pa? Can I keep him now?”

Ben laughed—a deep, rich belly laugh. It was the first time in four and a half months he’d laughed that way. “Spotty Cartwright,” he said. “I think that sounds just fine. Welcome to the family, Spotty.” He rubbed the puppy’s head, laughing again at the rough tongue that bathed his hand.

The first Christmas was full of miracles in a barn, improbable and glorious. Hadn’t that Christmas come from a situation that appeared to be disastrous—a young woman, engaged to be married and found to be with child? And look how things had turned out—angels, shepherds, and the Savior of the world. As Ben watched his sons cavorting with a spotted puppy, he reckoned that while the Cartwrights’ miracles might not have been quite so earthshaking, they were no less marvelous. From life to death, and now they were edging toward life again. It was a miracle any way you looked at it.

“Mistah Cahtlight! Adam, Hoss, Li’l Joe! Lunch ready!”

Ben chuckled as he straightened. Hop Sing was another miracle, and no mistake about it. He had a feeling that, in the days to come, he would find out just how much of a miracle the young Chinese man was, but for now, he was content to let matters unfold in their own time.

“Come on, boys,” he said. He persuaded Joe to leave Spotty in his pen in the barn and shepherded his sons into the house for another of Hop Sing’s wonderful meals. He knew that he’d have traded every one of his miracles to have Marie with them for another day, but he knew, too, that he didn’t have that choice. His choice was simpler: accept the gifts he’d been given, or ignore them to yearn for something that could never be. And so, on that cold, crisp morning, Ben Cartwright made the decision he’d made twice before in his life. He straightened up, turned his back to the past, took his sons’ hands, and looked forward.

“Pa? Pa, we didn’t give you your gift!” Hoss sounded worried.

Ben smiled as he cupped his hand behind the boy’s neck. “I’ve got my gifts,” he said, and meant it.

“Maybe so, but there’s another one.” Adam’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, and Ben’s smile faded into concern as his son handed him a heavy box. “We all chipped in a little, but—” The young man bit his lip.

Ben sat in his chair as his sons gathered around expectantly. He took the lid off the box and caught his breath. “Boys, how . . . ?”

The box held three picture frames. Ben was no jeweler, but he knew gold when he saw it, and the frames were gold filigree. He looked from one son to another, and Adam nodded to let him know that he’d explain later.

“They’re—they’re beautiful, boys,” Ben said when he’d caught his breath. He replaced the lid on the box. “Come on, let’s have lunch.”

That night, Adam explained. “She’d been saving for months, and when the two of you were in San Francisco last spring, she made arrangements with a jeweler there to have them shipped. She was making the payments over time. After she—back in the fall, a letter came addressed to her. I knew I should give it to you, but I opened it, and it was from the jeweler. He said she only had fifty dollars left to pay and wanted to know if she still wanted them. So, I—I took my college money and sent it to him and told him to send the frames.”

“Adam.” Ben reached out to his eldest son, the one who had carried so many burdens over these months. There was so much to say—how proud he was of this young man, how grateful he was, how much he loved him—but for now, he settled on one thing. “Giving up your college money—she’d have had your hide for that.”

Adam bowed his head, chuckling with obvious relief. He wasn’t one for the kind of emotional displays the younger boys craved. “If she’d been here, she’d have told me to do it,” he countered.

“Probably,” Ben agreed. “But she’d have paid you back and told you to get yourself off to college so that you could read and study and do all the things you love.” His son looked skeptical, and Ben nodded firmly. “You’re going, Adam. I told you, she and I agreed. The money’s there, and your brothers and I can handle the Ponderosa.” Adam wasn’t one for physical affection, but now, Ben cupped the young man’s chin. He needed for Adam to hear him, and hear him well.

Ben remembered telling his father that he was going off to sea and how his father had argued with him, thundering that his place was at home in the family business. He’d never thought about it before, but he knew that he didn’t ever want one of his sons staying with him out of duty. The Ponderosa was his dream, but it would be up to each of his boys to decide whether it was theirs.

“You’re going,” he said to Adam now. “If you come back—if that’s the right thing for you—we’ll be glad to have you. But if your dreams take you someplace else, son, then that’s where you go.” He didn’t know whether Adam—or Hoss, or Little Joe—would take him at his word. He only knew that he was right.

In that moment, he saw what was undoubtedly another Christmas miracle. His eldest son—the one who had held the ranch together in those dark days, who had taken care of his brothers and dealt with the callers and done so much more than a boy should have to do—stood before him with tears rolling down his cheeks. As if his eldest was Little Joe’s age, Ben wrapped his arms around Adam and held him as finally, finally, his son wept for what he had lost and for what he had found as well.

“Pa?”

Hoss’s voice was tentative, and Ben looked over his son’s shoulder to see the younger boys on the landing, looking frightened. He smiled to let them know that all was well, and he held out his hand to beckon them. As he knew they would, Hoss and Little Joe ran to him, and they clung to Ben and Adam so tightly that it was nearly impossible to know where one Cartwright ended and the next began.

They were a family. And as it turned out, that was the greatest Christmas miracle of all.

The End