Summary: Early one morning, Ben finds a baby left at the kitchen door of the Cartwrights’ home. In Sacramento, meanwhile, Adam and his family receive devastating news.

Rating:  MA/R  For language, violence, and graphic descriptions of physical abuse of a minor

WC  91,143

All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are property of the author. The author is not in any way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise, and makes no money from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.

Bloodlines Series
Bloodlines (by pkmoonshine)
The Lo Mein Affair (by pkmoonshine)
The Wedding (by pkmoonshine)
Sacrificial Lamb
Poltergeist II
Independence Day
Virginia City Detour
The Guardian
Li’l One
Young Cartwrights in Love
San Francisco Revisited
There But for the Grace of God
Between Life and Death
Orenna
Clarissa Returns
Trial by Fire
Mark of Kane

 

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 Prologue

In the dark early morning hours, she crept from the barn and empty stall, where she had made her bed for the last three nights, and shambled across a yard of frozen mud, heavily favoring her left leg.   She gently cradled her tender burden in her arms, wrapped in the brilliantly hued quilt snatched from the darkest, farthest corner of the old armoire, where Grandmother had always kept the blankets and other bed linens.   It was the only thing left to her that had belonged to a mother who had died suddenly in a Virginia City street accident when she was but a small child.   She took cover amid a thicket of sapling trees and a tangle of scrub brush and vine growing near the back of the log house, keeping the kitchen door well within her sight.  

“Soon, Little One . . . .” she whispered very softly to the tiny bundle, now stirring.   “Soon.”

Little One. 

All she gave him, all she COULD give him, was life.   She couldn’t even give him a proper name, this tiny being she loved with a ferocity, and a passion that sometimes frightened her.   Bitter tears welled up, stinging her eyes.   She quickly buried her face against the edge of the quilt, to stifle the sounds of her sobbing.   A thin, high pitched wail rose from the little one’s open mouth, as he sensed his mother’s distress.

“Shhh, Little One, don’t cry,” she whispered, her voice breaking.   “Please . . . PLEASE . . . don’t cry . . . .”

Not now.

Not just yet.

She hugged him closer, greedily savoring the memory of the warmth of his tiny body next to hers, the way he moved, his gentle weight resting in her arms.   She began to rock back and forth slowly, her eyes never straying from the kitchen door.   “It’s going to be all right, Little One, I promise,” she crooned very softly, “everything’s . . . going to be . . . all . . . right ”

Part One

Ben Cartwright, dressed and ready for a full day’s work, stepped out onto the porch, with a mug of freshly made coffee, and drew in a long, slow breath of fresh, cold morning air.   Overhead, the brilliant oranges, pinks, and gold, heralding the sunrise, had begun to fade into clear blue sky and the bright yellow light of day.

Though the cold of winter yet remained, small, subtle signs of spring had begun to manifest.   The temperature more often than not climbed above freezing during the day, melting the thin sheen of ice that had formed on the ponds overnight, and forcing the snow’s retreat from all but the highest mountain peaks and places in the forests cast in deep shadow.   New leaf buds, still tightly wrapped, had begun to appear on some of the trees, and tiny purple crocus buds had pushed their way up through the soil in the flower garden Joe’s mother, Marie, had planted many years ago.

“ ‘Mornin’, Pa.”   It was Hoss.   He strode briskly from the barn toward the house, bundled up in an old jacket and scarf, the pants he generally wore when tackling the dirtiest jobs life a ranch had to offer, and his oldest pair of boots.

“Good morning, Hoss,” Ben returned his middle son’s greeting and warm smile.   His eyes dropped slowly to what remained of a filthy, tattered garment, loosely clasped in the big man’s hand.   “What’s that?”

“Proof positive someone’s been sleepin’ in our barn last two or three nights,” Hoss replied, his smile fading.   He held up the garment in hand for his father to see.   It was the remnant of a green and yellow plaid flannel shirt, its colors faded to pastel as a result of many washings and exposure to the sun.   “I’m . . . pretty sure this ain’t one o’ OURS.”

“No . . . it’s not,” Ben agreed.   An anxious frown deepened the lines and furrows already present in his brow.   “Where’d you find it?”

“In that empty stable by the door . . . just under the straw.”

“Anything missing?” Ben anxiously pressed.

“No, Sir,” Hoss replied.

“You checked?”

Hoss nodded with an amused grin tugging hard at the corner of his mouth and a wry roll of the eyes heavenward.   “Yes, Pa . . . I checked.   All the animals’re present ‘n accounted for—”

“None of them have been harmed in any way?”

“Nope,” Hoss replied.   “None of our tools are missin’, ‘n the tack room’s just the way Li’l Brother ‘n I left it when we got through stablin’ our horses last night.”

“Any sign of trail?”

Hoss shook his head.   “Whoever our, ummm . . . ‘guest’ is . . . always seems t’ get himself up ‘n out before the sun’s had a chance t’ thaw out the mud.   Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Son?”

“I . . . could be wrong about this, but my gut tells me the man who’s been sleepin’ in our barn last couple o’ nights doesn’t mean us any harm,” Hoss ventured as he and his father turned and ambled slowly back toward the house.   “He hasn’t taken anything, ‘n he could’ve with the way he moves so quietly in ‘n out, ‘n nobody’s been hurt.   I think he’s more ‘n likely some poor fella down on his luck.”

“You’re probably right, Son,” Ben had to agree, “but all the same, I’D feel a lot better if we knew who our star boarder was and a little something about him, especially since Doctor Martin’s finally given your sister the go ahead to ride a couple of days ago, which reminds me . . . did Stacy—?!”

Hoss grinned.   “You betcha, Pa,” he chortled.   “Li’l Sister was almost done saddlin’ Blaze Face when I came out t’ do the barn chores.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Ben sighed, inwardly relieved that, in all likelihood, his daughter didn’t encounter the man who had been sleeping in their barn the past few nights.   “I just hope she didn’t ride all the way out to Ponderosa Plunge, not after being sick as she was nearly all winter.   If she HAS . . . I’ll have her hide, so help me.”

“You needn’t worry none ‘bout THAT,” Hoss quickly assured his father.   “Stacy told me she was just gonna ride out t’ that li’l meadow that’s about half way between here ‘n Ponderosa Plunge.”

“The one with that little stream running through it?”

Hoss nodded.

The anxious frown on Ben’s face deepened.   “That’s a little MORE than halfway between this house and Ponderosa Plunge,” he said curtly.   “I hope she bundled up well.”

“She did, Pa.   I saw t’ that,” Hoss replied with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Did she give you any trouble?”

“Ohhh, she muttered somethin’ under her breath about knowin’ what one o’ them wrapped up mummies in a museum feels like,” Hoss replied with a chuckle, “but she did what I told her.”

“Thank you, Son,” Ben murmured softly, relieved by the knowledge that Stacy was dressed properly, even if she had ventured out further this morning than he would have liked.

“Well . . . I’d best get this thing out t’ the trash heap,” Hoss declared, as he favored the tattered shirt he still held in hand with a grimace.   “Hop Sing’d have my hide if I brought it in the house.”

“He would indeed,” Ben agreed.   “I’ll see ya inside.”

As father and son parted company, a thin, high pitched wail broke the early morning stillness.

Hoss immediately froze in his tracks.   “Pa?” he queried, as he turned once again to face his father.   “What was THAT?!   I’d almost swear it sounded like a newborn kitten.”

“One way to find out.”   Ben stepped down off the porch and made his way around toward the kitchen door.   “The sound seems to be coming from around this way.”

Hoss silently fell in step behind his father.   The wailing grew steadily in volume, and seemed to be coming from within the shelter of a wild bush that had taken root a few feet beyond the kitchen door.   “Careful, Pa,” he warned, as he watched his father kneel down and gingerly part the dried leaves and branching stems.

Inside the bush was a basket, covered over by a quilt.    Ben braced himself, then slowly lifted the edge of the quilt and peered inside.   He smiled upon seeing the pale cherubic face, with fat pink cheeks, and a downy covering of light brown across the top of the head.   “Well, who have we here?” he murmured as he reached inside and gently lifted the squirming bundle from the basket into his arms.

“Pa?!”  Hoss stared down at the bundle nestled in his father’s arms with an almost comical look of disbelief.   “Is that—?!”

Ben smiled.   “Yes, Hoss, this IS a baby.”

Hoss bent down and retrieved the basket out from under the sheltering bush.   It was old and worn.   Some of the reeds used in its making were broken, opening up a large gaping hole on one side.   “Hey, Pa . . . .”

“Yes, Son?   What is it?”

“There’s a note in the bottom o’ this basket,” Hoss replied.   “It says . . . ‘Dear Cartwrights . . . please love my baby . . . ‘n look after him . . . ‘n give him a good home.   He has no name . . . just Li’l One.   Please don’t think me bad.’ ”

“Dear God . . . .” Ben murmured softly, shaken to the core of his being.   He unconsciously hugged the baby lying in his arms a little closer.

“I . . . I can’t believe this,” Hoss muttered.   “Somebody left a baby . . . right here . . . at OUR back door?!”

“It would seem so,” Ben said quietly.   “He’s still warm, thank the good Lord.   That tells me he’s NOT been out here by himself all that long, but we’d still better get him inside pronto.”

“ ‘Morning, Pa!   ‘Morning, Big Brother!”  Stacy greeted Ben and Hoss with a cheerful smile and wave as she walked Blaze Face into the yard.

“Hey!   ‘Mornin’ yourself, Li’l Sister,” Hoss waved back, and returned her smile.

“Good morning, Stacy.”

Stacy dismounted, then crossed the yard on an intercept course toward her father and big brother, leading Blaze Face behind her.   “Wha’cha got in that bundle, Pa?” she asked.

Ben turned toward his daughter and smiled.   “Come see for yourself, Young Woman.”

Stacy kept a firm hold of her horse’s lead with one hand, while carefully parting the thick folds of the quilt with the other.   “It’s a baby!” she exclaimed in surprise.

“Um hmm,” Ben responded.

“Boy or girl?”

“Boy.”

“Figures!” Stacy quipped.   “Where’d he come from?”

“Hoss and I found him in a basket under a bit of scrub brush around the side of the house.”

“Pa, that’s not the answer you gave ME the first time I asked you where babies come from . . . .”

Ben turned and found his youngest son standing at his elbow, wearing his green jacket over his nightshirt.   His eyes sparkled with impish delight and there was a naughty grin on his face.

“As I recall,” Joe continued, falling in step alongside Hoss, “it was some long, convoluted story about pink and blue cabbage leaves.”

Ben halted mid-stride, and drew himself up to the very fullness of his height as he turned to face his youngest son.   “Joseph Francis, I’ve never . . . EVER . . . not in all my born days told you, or your brothers either, a . . . a ridiculous story like that,” he returned, outraged and highly indignant.

“I, umm . . . think your memory’s a mite faulty, Li’l Brother,” Hoss chuckled.   “PA didn’t tell ya that story . . . .”

“Surely not Mama or Hop Sing?!” Ben queried, horrified at the very thought.

“Nope.”   Hoss shook his head.   “Ross Marquett[i] did the night, we . . . uhhh . . . that we . . . .”   His voice trailed off into strained silence upon feeling the rush of blood to his face.   His eyes shifted very quickly from his father’s face to his own feet.

“Was it the night you, Adam, and Ross took Joe to that burlesque show . . . when you were supposed to be at home watching him?” Ben asked, turning to his middle son with face set into an impassive mask, and left eyebrow slightly upraised.

Hoss’ jaw dropped.   “Huh-huh-huh-how . . . how’d ya find out about THAT?!” he demanded.

“Let’s just say I have my ways, and leave it go at that,” Ben said with a complacent smile.

Hoss swallowed nervously.

“Aw, Hoss, you’ve got nothing to worry about,” Joe quipped.   “The statute of limitations has to’ve run out on that little incident a long time ago, and besides . . . you’re ’way too big for Pa to be dragging out to the barn for a necessary talking to.”

“Don’t be too sure of THAT, Young Man.”   The impish gleam in Ben’s dark brown eyes gave lie to his stern tone of voice.

“Pa, I SWEAR . . . the ONLY things I remember about that night’s the music and the sparkly costumes,” Joe said very quickly.

“I believe you, Son.”

“You do?”

“Of COURSE I do.   After all, you WERE only about six or seven at the time,” Ben said with a chuckle.

“Pa?” Stacy ventured.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“What’re we going to do with him?   The baby, I mean.”

“First thing I’M going to do is take him inside and get him cleaned up,” Ben said.   “I . . . think . . . this young man’s in need of a change.”

“Hooooo-wheee!   He sure ‘nuff is, Pa!” Hoss declared, wrinkling his nose.

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“How soon can you be ready to ride into town?”

“Not long . . . just give me five minutes to throw on some clothes and splash some water on my face,” Joe replied.

“I want you to go and fetch Doc Martin,” Ben said.   “Tell him about the baby and ask him if he can come out and give the little guy a once over.”

“Pa . . . I’m ALREADY dressed, and Blaze Face is still saddled,” Stacy protested.

“I don’t want YOU overdoing things, Young Woman,” Ben admonished his daughter sternly.   “It’s only been a couple of days since Doctor Martin told you that you could ride.”

“But, Pa . . . .”

“No buts!   I’m not taking ANY chances on you suffering a relapse, heaven forbid,” Ben succinctly nipped her protest in the bud.   “You WERE pretty sick this past winter . . . .” he added, his tone softening.

“. . . and speaking for myself, it’s a heckuva lot easier trying to live with an ornery, cantankerous, fire breathing ol’ mule than it is trying to live with YOU, especially when you’re on the mend,” Joe teased.

“You of all people teasing me about that’s like the pot calling the kettle black, Grandpa,” Stacy immediately returned, then stuck out her tongue.

Joe returned the gesture.

“Alright, Joe, YOU need to get going,” Ben exhorted his youngest son.

“Yes, Sir,” Joe murmured softly.   He turned, with the intention of heading back toward the house, then paused.   “Pa?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Should I ask Doc Martin about a wet nurse?   That little guy’s gonna be hungry after you get through cleaning him up.”

“Yes, absolutely,” Ben said gravely.

“While you’re gettin’ yourself dressed, Li’l Brother, I’ll g’won in the barn ‘n saddle Cochise,” Hoss promised, “and I’ll stable Blaze Face, too, whilst I’m at it.”

“Thank you, Hoss, but I can take care of Blaze Face,” Stacy protested.

“I know y’ can, Li’l Sister, but right now y’ need t’ take care o’ YOURSELF, just like Pa said,” Hoss gently reminded her.

“You guys are gonna spoil me rotten!”

“GONNA spoil you rotten, Stace?” Joe quipped.

Stacy stuck her tongue out at Joe once again.

Joe grinned and this time thumbed up his nose.

“All right, Children, settle down,” Ben admonished his youngest son and only daughter with a big smile.   “Joe . . . .”

“Yes, Sir.   I’m going,” Joe replied.   He, then, turned, and beat a straight path across the yard to the front door.

“As for YOU, Young Woman . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Before you know it, Doctor Martin’s going to give you his official clean bill of health,” Ben said.   “When he does, you’ll be expected to fend for yourself.   So my advice to YOU in the meantime is sit back and ENJOY being spoiled rotten while you can.”

“Yes, Pa,” Stacy acquiesced reluctantly.

“Besides . . . I could use some help getting THIS little one cleaned up.”

Stacy blanched, and for a moment appeared to be unsteady on her feet.   “I, uhhh . . . sure hope YOU know what to do, Pa,” she said nervously.   “Because I don’t know anything about taking care of babies . . . HUMAN babies, that is . . . .”

“You needn’t worry about a thing,” Ben hastened to assure his daughter.   “My skills may be a little rusty, but I’ve had plenty of experience in looking after human babies.”

“Breakfast ready two minutes,” Hop Sing greeted father and daughter as they entered the house together.   He scowled upon catching sight of the old, well-worn basket Stacy carried.   “Hey!   What you do?!” he demanded, pointing an accusing finger at the basket.   “Hop Sing just put that on trash heap . . . and . . . where Mister Hoss?”

“Hoss will be right in,” Ben replied, “just as soon as he’s finished stabling Blaze Face and saddling Cochise.”

The scowl on Hop Sing’s face deepened.   “Saddle Cochise?!” he echoed, unable to quite believe his ears.   “Why Mister Hoss saddle Cochise?”

“So I can ride into town and fetch Doc Martin,” Joe replied, as he sauntered down the stairs, with face washed and wearing the clothing he had worn the previous day, donned in haste.

The tirade sitting right on the very tip of Hop Sing’s tongue died a quick and sudden death.   “Doc Martin?!” he queried, then groaned.   “Uh oh!   If Miss Stacy have another relapse—”

“You needn’t worry about THAT, Hop Sing,” Stacy said very quickly.   “I’m fine.”

“Then who—?!”   Hop Sing’s anxious gaze moved from Stacy to Ben, then over to Joe.

A high pitched wail rose, as if in answer, from the soft bundle of quilt nestled in the arms of the Cartwright family patriarch.

Hop Sing started violently, jumping backward about three feet.   “What make all that racket?” he demanded, glaring murderously at the quilt.

“Oh, come on, Hop Sing.”   Joe, his eyes twinkling with pure, unadulterated mischief, moved toward his father and gently pulled back the edge of the quilt.   “See?   It’s a baby.”

“Baby!?   First it stray cat, then it stray puppy, next bird with broken wing, then stray raccoon that get out of cage and make mess of Hop Sing’s kitchen!   NOW it stray baby!   Mister Cartwright, when you gonna tell Mister Hoss . . .  NO MORE STRAY?!”

“I’M the one who found this little one,” Ben freely admitted, “but, it’s not like he wandered onto the place like the stray cat . . . puppy . . . and raccoon.”

“Ok, so baby have help!” Hop Sing growled.   “But no matter.   Baby STILL stray . . . and stray baby need diaper.   Lots and lots and lots of diaper.   Lots of diaper for baby mean lots of laundry for Hop Sing!   Too much laundry!   Hop Sing quit!   Go to San Francisco.   Help number six cousin in restaurant!”   With that, he stormed back into the kitchen muttering under his breath in Cantonese.

“All things considered, I’d say THAT went very well just now,” Joe said quietly, after Hop Sing had returned to the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

“Yes, it did . . . all things considered,” Ben agreed.   “. . . uhhh, Stacy?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Would you mind going out to the kitchen and asking Hop Sing to boil some water so I can get this young man cleaned up properly?” Ben asked.

Stacy looked over at her father through eyes round with horror.   “Pa . . . y-you want me to walk right out into that kitchen and ask Hop Sing to boil water after . . . after all THAT?!   That’s like asking me to walk into a lion’s den!”

“Would you rather walk into a lion’s den or change this guy’s diaper?” Ben asked.

“Walk into a lion’s den, Pa,” Stacy immediately replied, almost without thinking, “any day of the week.”

Ben grinned.   “I kinda thought so . . . .”

“Pa?”

“Yes, Dio?”

“Has Aunt Elena had the baby yet?”

Adam Cartwright turned to his young daughter and shook his head.   “I haven’t heard,” he replied.

“I sure hope THIS time Aunt Elena and her baby will be ok,” Dio murmured softly.

“Until I hear something definite, I’m going to assume that no news is good news,” Adam said.   “In the meantime, Princess, YOU need to get yourself dressed and ready for school.   Mrs. Cortez told me a few minutes ago that breakfast is almost ready.”

Dio groaned.   “Do I HAFTA go to school?”

“Of COURSE you do,” Adam replied, taken aback by her question.

“But, Pa . . . I was kinda hoping  . . . that you ‘n Ma’d let me stay home until we hear about Aunt Elena and her baby.”

“I know you’re worried, Princess,” Adam replied, his tone and manner softening, “we ALL are.   However, you’re not going to do Aunt Elena, her baby, or yourself any good by staying home from school and worrying yourself sick.”

“Would it be ok for me to say a prayer for Aunt Elena, Uncle Miguel, and the baby when we have chapel today?” Dio asked.

Adam smiled.   “Yes . . . that WOULD be all right,” he replied, “and very much appreciated.”

After eating breakfast with his son and daughter, named respectively Benjamin Eduardo and Dolores Elizabeth for their grandparents, Adam prepared their lunches while the children gathered together schoolbooks, pencils, paper, and their homework assignments due that day.   He took them to school along with Ramon and Joachim Mendez, the sons of the man who worked for him as gardener and handyman, as was his custom.

“Hullo, Mister Cartwright,” Juan Mendez greeted Adam upon his return home with a big smile after his employer had set the brake on the two-seater buckboard and jumped down.   He was a short, stolidly built man, aged ten years Adam’s senior.   Juan had married late in life to a woman much younger, who had died not long after the birth of their youngest son, Joachim.   “Any word about Mrs. Elena and the baby?”

“I’m sorry, Mister Mendez,” Adam replied, shaking his head.   “I haven’t heard a thing.   Did Mrs. Cartwright by chance return home while I was taking the kids to school?”

“No,” Juan shook his head.   “Need a hand stabling the horses?”

“Yes, thank you,” Adam replied, grateful for the offer.   “I’ve been meaning to ask you . . . how’s your mother doing?   I’d heard she was ill this past winter.”

“Fine . . . just fine, Mister Cartwright, thank you for asking,” Juan replied, as he and Adam set to work unhitching the horses from the buckboard.   “In her last letter, my sister said that Mama’s up, ‘n around, issuing orders like an army drill sergeant, driving them all CRAZY.”

Adam chuckled softly.   “Your mother sounds a lot like my father when HE’S on the mend,” he observed lightly.

Juan threw his head back and laughed out loud.   “Speaking of your papa . . . how’s HE doing these days?”

“He’s doing very well,” Adam replied as the two men led the horses into the stable, and there set themselves to the task of giving them a thorough brushing.   “When we visited Pa and the rest of the family last summer, he . . . well, he was looking a mite older and grayer around the edges, but from what I can see, he’s not slowed down any.”

“He’s got that young brother of yours to keep him on his toes,” Juan reminded with a wry chuckle.

“. . . and my young sister does HER part in keeping Pa on his toes, too,” Adam added.   He led Sinbad, a big black even tempered gelding, to his stall.   Juan placed Sinbad’s brother, Agamemnon, Aggie for short, into the adjoining stall.   Aggie was big like his older brother, black, with four white socks reaching nearly to his knees.

“Speaking of your brothers . . . and sister, too . . . when’s your papa going to bring THEM for a visit?” Juan asked.   “That big brother of yours owes me a rematch throwing horseshoes.”

“Next time I write, I’ll be sure to tell HOSS what you said,” Adam promised.   “THAT’LL get him here like a shot.”

“. . . uhhh . . . Adam?”

He turned and found his wife, Teresa, standing at his elbow.   Her red, swollen eyes and cheeks stood out in stark contrast against her pale, drawn face.   “Oh no,” he murmured softly.   “The baby . . . . ?”

“A boy,” Teresa replied, her voice catching.   “He . . . he died a few minutes after birth.”

Juan immediately crossed himself and murmured a quick prayer for the repose of the young soul who had taken leave of this life so soon.

“Miguel was able to baptize him before he died[ii], and . . . and when the priest came, he gave him the last rites,” Teresa continued.

“I’m glad . . . for Elena and Dolores’ sake,” Adam said softly.   His wife’s young sister-in-law and her mother were the only remaining devout members of the family these days.

“Mrs. Cartwright?”

“Yes, Mister Mendez?”

“I’m very sorry to hear about Mister Miguel and Mrs. Elena’s baby,” Juan very solemnly offered his condolences.   “I know she wanted this baby so badly.”

“Thank you,” Teresa responded, while very sadly shaking her head.   “Yes.   Poor Elena . . . she’s yearned for a baby of her own since she was a small child playing with dolls.”

“You be sure to tell them if there’s anything I can do . . . anything at ALL . . . .”

“Thank you, Mister Mendez, I’ll be sure to let them know,” Teresa promised.   “Adam?”

“Yes, Teresa?”

“I’m going to g’won in and lie down for a while,” Teresa said.   “I’m so exhausted . . . it’s a wonder I’m not falling asleep on my feet.”

“You go ahead in,” Adam said.   “I’ll be along as soon as Mister Mendez and I finish taking care of the horses.”

“Mister Cartwright, please.   You g’won in . . . see to Mrs. Cartwright.   I’ll finish stabling these two . . . . ”   He inclined his head toward Sinbad and Aggie.   “. . . and I’ll see to Sunshine over there, also.”   This last he added with a pointed glance over at the placid buckskin gelding still hitched to Teresa’s buggy.

“Mister Mendez, I—”

“I can manage,” Juan hastened to reassure.   “Now you g’won.   Mrs. Cartwright needs you.”

“Thank you,” Adam said gratefully.   Leaving the care of their horses in Juan Mendez’s capable hands, he left the stable and crossed the back yard to the kitchen door.   He found his wife standing before the large bay window in the family room that faced out onto the formal flower garden that was the absolute pride and joy of the Mendez family, father and sons.   He wordlessly crossed the room, gently slipped his arms around her waist, and held her close.

Teresa closed her eyes and for moment of time leaned against him, drawing upon the loving strength and comfort he offered.   “Oh, Adam,” she murmured at length, her voice tremulous, “it’s . . . it’s NOT fair!”

“No,” Adam heartily agreed.   “It’s not.”

“I-I can’t understand it,” Teresa continued, as one tear, then another slipped down over her eyelids and began to flow down her cheeks.   “Why do people who . . . who already h-have more children than they want or . . . or c-can possibly care for . . . why do THEY go right on h-having child . . . after child . . . after child every year, while . . . while a woman like Elena . . . who yearns s-so desperately for a child . . . is denied?!”

“I wish I knew the answer to that myself,” Adam replied . . . .

“. . . everything appears to be in order, Mister Lindsay,” Alpheus McKinley, Esquire, said quietly, as he placed the last page of the contract he had just read on the table before him.   He reached his pudgy hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew an envelope.

“This is the thousand dollars we agreed upon up front, plus reimbursement for all of your out of pocket expenses to date,” Alpheus continued.   “Upon delivery you’ll be paid the remaining nine thousand dollars owed you, plus any other expenses incurred between now and the date final delivery is made to my clients.”

Tobias Lindsay took the proffered envelope and placed it securely in the inside pocket of his own jacket.

“Mister Lindsay . . . .”

“Yes, Mister McKinley?”

“Mister and Mrs. Cunningham are very anxious as you might imagine,” Alpheus said.   “I realize there’s no way of knowing the exact date, but can you give me a reasonable estimate as to when they can expect delivery?”

“I’m told it’ll be any day now,” Tobias replied, with a smug, triumphant grin.   He rose.   “It was a pleasure having lunch with you, Sir.   Thank you.   I’ll be in touch . . . .”

“Of COURSE you will, you greedy, cold hearted, self-serving son-of-a-bitch!” Alpheus silently responded, as he watched Tobias Lindsay’s retreating back with a glare filled with angry, self-righteous contempt.   Procuring infants who had been orphaned, or who had come from families too poor to adequately care for them was one thing.   But a man of obvious means, like Tobias Lindsay, selling his own flesh and blood . . . .

Alpheus shook his head and grimaced.

Tobias made his way back to the Grand Victoria Hotel, savoring the fruits of his hard won victory.   He was a big man, tall, with broad shoulders tapering down to a trim narrow waist, a head full of thick, blonde, wavy hair and piercing grayish green eyes.   He might have been looked upon as a very handsome man, with his wide face, even features, and cleft chin, had it not been for the rigidly set jaw and scowl permanently etched into his brow.

“Good afternoon, Mister Lindsay,” the concierge greeted him politely, as he stepped up to the desk.   “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to see whether or not there’s any messages for me,” Tobias said.

“Yes, Sir.   There is,” the concierge replied.   He turned and withdrew the plain envelope addressed to “Mister Lindsay, Room 326,” from that room number’s mail slot.   “The Western Union man delivered it about an hour or so after you left for your appointment with Mister McKinley.”

“Thank you.”   It took nearly every last ounce of will Tobias Lindsay possessed to keep from snatching the envelope right out of the hand of that prissy little man standing behind the desk.

“You’re welcome, Sir.   I hope it’s GOOD news.”

“She’s had the baby . . . finally!” Tobias silently mused, nearly salivating in anticipation as he flipped up the unsealed envelope flap and withdrew a piece of paper neatly folded in half.   His elation, however, was very short lived.   The message was short and to the point:

“Tobias Lindsay, Esq.,                                                                                                                                           Grand Victoria Hotel,                                                                                                                                         San Francisco, California

Cara missing.   Ran away from home.   Reported to sheriff.   Search underway.   Any instructions?

Vivian Crawleigh,                                                                                                                                             Carson City, Nevada.”

“That bitch!   That damned stupid little BITCH!” Tobias swore under his breath.   The scowl on his face deepened, and he crumpled the message and envelope together into a tight ball.

“M-Mister Lindsay?   Is . . . everything all right?” the concierge ventured warily, then mentally braced himself.

“Fine,” Tobias snapped.   He immediately straightened his posture and took a deep breath.   “Sorry,” he apologized through clenched teeth, laboring valiantly to keep his voice calm and even.   “A business matter has come up at home requiring my immediate attention,” he continued.   “I’ll be checking out within the hour.   If you would be so kind as to make arrangements for my luggage to be delivered to the Overland Stage depot and prepare my bill?”

“Yes, Sir.”

Doctor Paul Martin carefully placed the baby down into the bassinet, borrowed from one of the married ranch hands whose young son had recently outgrown it.   The Cartwright offspring stood together at the head of the bassinet, while their father sat down on the edge of his bed.   “He seems to be perfectly healthy, Ben.   I don’t have a scale, but he feels good and solid when I pick him up.   No sign whatsoever of any kind of disease, sickness, or physical abuse.   He doesn’t appear to be malnourished, although the little one IS hungry.”

“Speaking of hungry, were you able to find a wet nurse?” Ben asked.

Paul nodded.   “Irma Fielding,” he replied.   “She had a baby girl within the last couple of months or so.   She’s able and willing to provide for this little one along with her own.   I sent Lily in my buggy to fetch Mrs. Fielding at the same time I rode out here with Joe.   They should along any minute.”

“Thank you, Paul,” Ben said gratefully.

“Any idea who the mother is?”

“None.   I was hoping that YOU might be able to tell ME.”

“Sorry, Ben.”   Paul shook his head.   “I’d say this little guy was born sometime in the past four or five days . . . a week, perhaps at the very outside.   The last babies I helped deliver were Irma Fielding’s and Eleanor Keene’s . . . both girls, both born six and eight weeks ago, respectively.”

“No one due to give birth any day now?” Ben pressed.

Paul shook his head.   “I have only two patients at the moment who are expecting,” he replied.   “One’s due sometime within the next six months, the other in three or four.”

“So there’s no possibility of those two patients being this li’l one’s mother?”

“None.”

“Paul . . . .”

“Yes, Ben?”

“I’d like to find the baby’s mother . . . if possible,” Ben said quietly.   “I think SHE needs help every bit as much as that li’l one lying in the bassinet in front of ya.”

“You’re probably right,” Paul agreed.   “You think maybe you CAN help her and this little one here?”

“I don’t know,” Ben replied.   “But, I’d sure like to try . . . .”

“Father Brendan, that’s another thing I’m going to miss when I leave for Saint Jo,” Mother Catherine Margarita said with a wistful smile, gesturing with a broad sweep of her right arm toward the magnificent vista of mountain, sky, tree, and field that stretched out before them.

She and the semi-retired monsignor had taken their mid-day meal together every Wednesday, since her elevation eleven and a half years ago to mother superior of the nursing order that served Saint Mary’s Hospital.   Friends and colleagues, both had been exiled to the wild western frontier by their respective bishops; he for choosing to err on the side of mercy, and she for following the spirit of the law, rather than the letter.   They were a pair of not-so-young idealists, passionate and zealous in their service of the God both of them worshiped, blessed with an abundance of vim and vigor . . . “and chock full of piss and vinegar,” as Father Obadiah Kramer, present monsignor of Saint Mary’s and the man to whom both answered, oft times wryly observed.

“That’s one of the things that’s KEPT me here,” Father Brendan Rutherford said quietly, with a beatific smile.

“You also have good friends here,” Mother Catherine observed, “like the Cartwrights, for instance.   Interesting thing that . . . .”

“How so?”

“They’ve NEVER been members of Saint Mary’s . . . nor do I recall ever having seen them attend Mass.   How in the world did you ever become such good friends with them?”

Father Brendan smiled.   “Actually, two of the Cartwrights WERE regular attendees in years past,” he replied.

“Oh?”

“Ben’s late wife, Marie, and their son, Joe,” the priest said.   “She was born and raised as a Catholic.   She left the church for a time, then returned soon after Joe was born.   She started  bringing Little Joe as soon as he learned to walk.”

“That, of course, was a bit before my time here at the convent.   He must’ve been a real holy terror back then,” Mother Catherine said, remembering some of the stories her late older sister, Hazel Gibson, Joe’s teacher up through the eighth grade, had told.   “Hazel said on many occasions that boy couldn’t sit still for five minutes if his life depended on it.”

“That was true most of the time,” Father Brendan agreed with a chuckle.   “Still is.   But in church, that boy was good as gold.”

“Somehow, I find that very difficult to believe.”

“I might also, had I not seen for myself.”

“How do you account for that, Father?”

“I don’t know,” the priest said thoughtfully.   “Maybe it had to do with the Mass itself . . . the bells, the incense, the guilt work, the pictures in the stained glass windows at each Station of the Cross, our robes, the Latin.   Then again, it may have been Marie’s influence.   Little Joe Cartwright’s always been a rough and tumble youngster, very rambunctious, always sticking his hands into everything, but while Marie was still alive, he was more settled somehow.”

“MOTHER!   MOTHER!”   A young woman, garbed in the white habit of postulant, bolted out through the French doors, standing wide open.   “MOTHER, YOU’VE GOT TO CO—” She stopped abruptly, mid-sentence upon seeing the priest.   “I’m sorry, Mother,” she meekly apologized, “I did not know Father Rutherford was here.”

“It’s quite all right, Bridget,” Mother Catherine said, rising.   “What’s the matter?”

“Two men just came in with a young girl, Mother.   They found her along the side of the road barely conscious.”

“Where are they now?”

“Sister Anne took them to one of the hospital rooms.”

“Thank you.   Tell Sister Anne I’ll be there directly.”

“Bobby and I found her lying by the side of the road, Ma’am,” Mitch Cranston, one of the Ponderosa ranch hands, said.   He held his hat in front of him, its rim clasped tight in both hands, and nervously shifted from one foot to the other, and back again.   “We were out along the main road, headin’ back from takin’ fence supplies to Candy, one of our foremen.   I . . . . ” He looked over at Bobby Washington, standing beside him stiffly erect with hands clasped in front of him.   “I thought she was dead, ‘cause she was lyin’ so still.   But when Bobby an’ I jumped down to make sure?   She moved her head, ‘n kinda groaned, too, like she was in pain.”

“She was alone when you found her?” Mother Catherine asked.

“Yes, Ma’am.   Bobby ‘n I . . . when we saw she was alive . . . we brought her here straight away, knowing you have a place to care for her.”

“Thank you . . . you did the right thing,” Mother Catherine said quietly.

“Mother?”

“Yes, Sister Anne?”

“May I speak with you . . . .”   Her eyes darted over toward Father Brendan and the two Ponderosa ranch hands, standing together at the foot of the girl’s bed.

“Mother Catherine, do you have further need of either of these gentlemen?” Father Brendan asked.

“No, not at the moment.”

“If you DO need us for anything, Ma’am, you can reach us at the Ponderosa,” Mitch said.

“Thank you.”

“If you wish, Mother Catherine, I can see these gentlemen out,” Father Brendan offered.

“Thank you, Father.”   After the men had gone, Mother Catherine turned her attention to Sister Anne.   “All right, Sister, you may speak freely.”

Sister Anne swallowed nervously.   “The girl’s entire body is like ice, Mother, and her feet are severely frostbitten,” she began.   “We’re trying to warm her with that fire in the fireplace, and the extra blankets.   She’s drifting in and out of consciousness, calling for a little one.”

“A little one?”

“A baby, I think.   HER baby, Mother.”

“HER baby?!”  Mother Catherine echoed, incredulous.

“Yes, Ma’am.   She’s just given birth . . . sometime within the past few days, I think.   She shows no sign of hemorrhaging, at least nothing that I can see from a cursory exam, and she is lactating.”

Mother Catherine turned to Sister Wilhelmina, a young novice, who was assisting Sister Anne in caring for their new patient.   “Sister, if you hurry, you might be able to catch Father Brendan and the two men from the Ponderosa.   I would like you to send one of them to find Doctor Martin.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“. . . the good news is, she’s expelled the afterbirth.   There’s no hemorrhaging, no sign of infection or other complications related to childbirth,” Paul Martin reported upon completion of his examination.

“. . . and the bad news, Doctor?” Mother Catherine wryly prompted.

“The bad news is . . . she’s suffering from hypothermia . . . both feet are badly frostbitten . . . she’s malnourished . . . and she’s running a low grade fever,” Paul replied.   “I . . . trust you and the sisters caring for that poor child have seen the wounds under her clothing?”

“Indeed we HAVE,” Mother Catherine replied, her brows coming together, forming a dark murderous scowl.   “Whoever was responsible ought to be taken out and horsewhipped within an inch of his . . . or her life.”

“I agree with you one hundred percent,” Paul replied.   “I cleaned out the open, infected stripes on her back and bandaged them.   They should be cleaned again and the bandages changed this evening.   Beginning tomorrow morning and continuing for the next week, I recommend cleaning the wounds and changing the bandages at least twice a day.”

“We will, Doctor.”

“I’m deeply concerned about what appears to be a severe burn on the back of her left leg, below the knee,” Paul continued.   “I opened the wound, drained it, and cleaned it out as best I could, but the infection goes deep.   Between that and the severe frostbite in the toes of the same foot . . . .”   His voice trailed away to an ominous silence.

“That poor, poor child,” the mother superior moaned softly.   “I knew the toes on her left foot were a foregone conclusion the minute I saw them, but . . . are you also saying there’s no chance at all of saving her leg?”

“A slim one, perhaps,” Paul replied.   “I instructed Sister Anne and that young novice assisting her . . . .”   He frowned, trying to recall the name of the latter.

“You must mean Sister Wilhelmina.”

“Yes . . . Sister Wilhelmina,” Paul replied.   “I gave them complete instructions as to how to drain and clean the leg wound.   I’ll be around to see the patient again later on tonight.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“In addition to following my instructions for treating her leg and the infected wounds on her back, keep up your efforts to gradually warm her, try to get some liquids in her, as much as you can . . . as OFTEN as you can.   Water . . . weak tea . . . chicken broth . . . anything!” Paul said.   “Has she given you her name?   Told you where she’s from?”

“No.”   The mother superior shook her head.   “Though she stirs from time to time . . . she’s not yet roused to full awareness.   Doctor Martin . . . . ”

“Yes, Mother Gibson?”

“About that leg wound . . . to be blunt, Sir, it is MY considered opinion that it was no accident, but was inflicted intentionally.”

Paul frowned.   “If you’re asking me whether or not I agree . . . I do.   There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever that burn on her left leg was inflicted on purpose,” he said curtly.

“Doctor Martin?”

He turned and found Sister Anne standing at his elbow.   “Yes, Sister?”

“The girl was wearing these when the men from Ponderosa brought her in,” Sister Anne reported, holding up a pair of brown pants, threadbare, with ragged cuffs, and a hole in one knee, along with what appeared to be an oversized heavy flannel shirt.   “She also had a large pair of woolen socks on her feet that seemed to be in one piece, and rags wrapped tight around the socks.   I . . . instructed Sister Wilhelmina to throw the socks and the rags in the trash bin.   Both were soaking wet and filthy.”   She grimaced upon uttering that last.

Paul Martin took the shirt from Sister Anne and silently studied it for a moment, noting that although filthy, it seemed to be in one piece.   “This shirt’s miles too big for that young girl,” he quietly observed.   “This HAD to have been taken from a clothes line somewhere along the way . . . and the pants, more than likely, removed from someone’s trash heap.”

“Doctor, are you saying this girl’s a runaway?” Sister Anne queried with a frown.

“Taking into account these ill-fitting garments AND her grievous injuries, I’d say THAT’S a pretty foregone conclusion,” Paul replied, “and to be frank, Sister, I can’t say as I blame her.   I have no way of ascertaining exactly how long she’s been out there fending for herself, but if I were to hazard a guess?   I’D say she more than likely left home BEFORE giving birth.”

“That poor child!” Sister Anne murmured softly as she stole a quick glance over her shoulder at their mystery patient, who had just sunk back into unconsciousness.

“What of her baby?” Mother Catherine asked.   “Dear God, I . . . I hope she didn’t simply abandon it somewhere . . . .”

“No, Mother . . . .” Paul said slowly, thoughtfully.   “She DIDN’T abandon her baby, leaving it somewhere to die.”   He favored the nuns with a weary smile.   “In fact, I think I know EXACTLY where her baby is.”

“Hey, Pa . . . I . . . I think he likes me,” Stacy murmured, awestruck, as the baby lying safely ensconced in her arms reached up and touched her chin.

Ben glanced up from the ledger lying open before him on his desk, and smiled.   “Of COURSE he likes you,” he said.   “He’s warm, he’s had a nice bath, his belly’s full thanks to Mrs. Fielding, and right now, he feels very secure.   What’s NOT to like?”

“He didn’t seem so fond of me earlier this morning when we were trying to get him cleaned up.”

“That’s because you weren’t real sure of yourself, and he could sense that,” Ben explained.   “Now, you know a little more about what you’re doing.”

“. . . and he can sense that, too?”

“Um hmm.”   Ben nodded.

“All right, Li’l Sister, YOUR time’s up!” Hoss declared as he strode from the kitchen, through the dining room, and on into the great room.   Joe trotted briskly at his older brother’s heels, wiping his wet hands on his shirt.   “MY turn to hold the li’l one.”

“YOUR turn?!” Joe echoed.   “Whaddya mean it’s YOUR turn?”

“You sat right there . . . .”   Hoss inclined his head toward the blue chair, “all mornin’ long holdin’ the li’l one . . . leastwise ‘til it was time for Mrs. Fielding t’ give him his breakfast.”

“Yeah!” Joe growled.   “THAT was all of FIVE minutes!”

“That was five minutes more ‘n the rest of us got,” Hoss immediately returned.

Ben laid the pencil in hand down on his desk next to his ledger, then rose.   “Boys . . . and you, too, Stacy.   I’M gonna settle this matter in a fair and impartial way,” he said, as he crossed the room toward the fireplace where his three younger children were now gathered.

“Whaddya gonna do, Pa?” Hoss asked.   “Have us draw straws?”

“Nope,” Ben replied.   “I’m invoking ‘Pa’s Privilege.’ ”

Joe frowned.   “. . . uhhh . . . what’s ‘Pa’s Privilege’ . . . exactly?”

“ ‘Pa’s Privilege’ means . . . it’s MY turn to hold the li’l one!” Ben declared, as he held out his arms expectantly toward Stacy.

“Um hmm!   Yep!   That’s real fair ‘n impartial,” Hoss observed with a grin and tongue very firmly planted in cheek.

Stacy gently placed the baby into Ben’s outstretched arms with a doleful sigh, then sat down on the settee.   “He’s a cute li’l one isn’t he?”

“Aww, he sure is,” Hoss agreed, with a big smile.   He waited until his father had settled himself comfortably in the big red chair, before leaning over and gently chucking the baby’s chin.   “Oochie, woochie, coochie, coo,” he cooed, his voice rising to a near melodious high falsetto.   “Oochie, woochie, coochie, coo-ooo-oooo . . . .”

“Oochie . . . w-woochie . . . coochie coo?!” Joe echoed, before dissolving into peal after peal of uproarious laughter.

Hoss turned and glared murderously at Joe.   “Dadburn it, Li’l Brother!    If you don’t quit that cacklin’ like a hysterical hyena . . . you’re gonna end up scarin’ this poor li’l one outta ten years growth, ‘n givin’ him nightmares t’ boot.”

“Oochie . . . w-woochie . . . .”   Joe rolled right off the settee, with tears of mirth streaming down his face.

Acting purely on animal instinct and a potent rush of adrenalin, Stacy leapt to her feet less than a heartbeat from being dragged down to the floor along with her brother.   “Hey!   Watch it, Grandpa!” she growled.

“As I recall, Joseph Francis . . . I distinctly heard someone who sounded an awful lot like YOU cooing something along the lines of ‘oohh da widdy biddy boo’ just before you left to get Doctor Martin earlier,” Ben said quietly.

Hoss threw back his head and roared.

“I’ll have the lot of ya know THAT happens to be one hundred percent, pure, honest-to-goodness genuine baby talk,” Joe immediately retorted.

“. . . and how, exactly, does ‘oohh da widdy biddy boo’ translate into plain English, Grandpa?” Stacy asked.

Her question elicited another peal of laughter from their biggest brother.

“. . . uhhh . . . Mister Cartwright?”

Hoss immediately sobered upon glancing up and finding Irma Fielding standing in their midst.

“It’s time for me to give him his lunch and put him down for a nap,” Irma said as she reached down to take the baby from Ben.

“Didn’t you just get through feeding him?” Ben asked with a puzzled frown.

“That was breakfast . . . nearly three hours ago,” Irma said primly.   “I’m . . . sure I needn’t tell YOU how important it is to keep babies on schedule.”

“She’s right about that, Little One,” Ben said quietly, as he surrendered the baby lying peacefully in his arms over to the wet nurse.   “You have yourself a good lunch and a nap.”

“Pleasant dreams, Little One,” Stacy said wistfully.

Irma Fielding settled the baby in her arms, then turned and started for the stairs.   “Oh!” she exclaimed, as she stopped suddenly and turned.   “Mister Cartwright . . . .”

“Yes, Mrs. Fielding?” Ben responded.

“I, umm . . . know it’s not MY place to tell you how to . . . to, ummm run your household, but . . . my daughter . . . well, she’s not exactly used to . . . to high spirited family members . . . not while she’s, ummm . . . trying to take her nap?!” Irma ventured, hesitant and unsure.

Ben smiled.   “We’ll do our best to be quiet, Mrs. Fielding,” he promised, “won’t we?”   This last was uttered with a pointed glare at his two younger sons and only daughter.

“ ‘Course we will, Pa,” Hoss immediately promised.   “Sorry, Ma’am.   I hope we didn’t disturb ya too much just now . . . .”

“It’s quite all right,” Irma replied.

Stacy seated herself on the arm of the red chair next to her father, and watched as Irma carried the baby boy upstairs.   “Pa?” she ventured, after the wet nurse and baby had disappeared from view.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Why would a mother stick her helpless newborn in a basket half falling apart and just leave him on some stranger’s door step?” she asked, perplexed and bewildered.   “Mrs. Fielding seems to think she’s some kind of cold hearted, selfish . . . uhhh . . . sorry, Pa.   If I told ya exactly what Mrs. Fielding said, I have a feeling you’d be hauling me out to the kitchen to wash my mouth out with soap.”

“It’s all right, Stacy . . . I think I have a pretty good idea of what Mrs. Fielding might have said,” Ben replied.   “Do YOU have any thoughts on the matter?”

“I think I can understand where Mrs. Fielding’s coming from . . . a little,” Stacy said slowly, thoughtfully.   “But, I don’t think she’s right.   Not after reading that note.”

“I agree with YOU, Young Woman . . . one hundred percent,” Ben said very quietly.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“What are YOUR thoughts about whoever left the li’l one upstairs out on our doorstep?” Stacy asked.

“After reading that note, I’m inclined to think that li’l one upstairs was left by s-someone . . . who . . . who loved him so much, she . . . she w-was willing to give him up so that h-he might have a better life than she’s . . . than she feels able to g-give him,” Ben replied, his voice all of a sudden unsteady.   He was astonished at the depth of emotion he felt welling up inside.

Stacy quietly reached down and took Ben’s hand in both of her own.

“She?” Hoss queried as he placed his hand on his father’s shoulder and gently squeezed.

Ben swallowed and took a shallow breath.   “She,” he reiterated.   “The more I think about it, the more I’M convinced that the baby’s mother’s the one who left him with us.”

“How do you figure, Pa?” Joe asked.

“I think all three of ya read the note found in the baby’s basket.”

Hoss, Joe, and Stacy nodded.

“She could barely write . . . but she knew our names,” Ben continued.   “I’ll betcha anything she’s been out there . . . watching us . . . making sure we’re the kind of people who could be trusted to give her baby a good home.”

“. . . ‘n I’LL just betcha anything SHE’S the one who’s been sleepin’ out in our barn the last few nights,” Hoss said slowly.

“That baby was warm, too, when I lifted him out of that basket,” Ben continued.   “She must’ve been waiting out there near the back door, holding him in her arms to keep him warm, until she was sure we were up and about.”

“Sounds to me like she needs help, too . . . every bit as much as her baby does,” Joe observed quietly.

“That’s why I’D like to find her,” Ben said.

A knock on the door brought the conversation between the members of the Cartwright family to a halt.

“I’ll get it,” Stacy said, as she slid off the arm of the red chair.

The caller was Doctor Paul Martin.   “Good afternoon, Stacy,” he said after she had invited him inside.   “I’m delighted and pleasantly surprised to see you following doctor’s orders for a change, and taking things easy.”

“Between Pa, Hoss, Joe, and Hop Sing, I’m afraid I don’t have much choice,” she said with a long suffering sigh and a wry roll of her eyes directed  heavenward.

“Good for them!” Paul declared with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Pa’s right over there . . . next to the fireplace,” Stacy said.

Ben and both of his sons rose as the doctor made his way across the room to the fireplace, around which the family was gathered.

“Please . . . sit down, Paul,” Ben invited.   “Hop Sing’ll be serving lunch soon, if you’d care to stay.”

“Thank you, Ben, I will,” Paul eagerly accepted the invitation.

“Stacy . . . .”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Would you mind going out to the kitchen and asking Hop Sing to set an extra plate?” Ben asked.

Stacy nodded, then turned heel and headed for the kitchen.

“So . . . what brings ya back OUR way, Doc?” Hoss asked.

“I think I know where that baby’s mother is,” Paul Martin said coming straight to the reason for his return visit.   He sat down on the settee next to Joe.

Ben turned and favored the sawbones with a sharp glare.   “Where?”

“She’s at the convent hospital under the care of Mother Gibson and two of the sisters,” Paul said quietly.   “Seems a couple of your men found her out along the road somewhere between here and Virginia City.”

“How is she?”

“She was half frozen to death by all accounts when your men found her and took her to the convent, Ben.   By the time I arrived, the nuns had her stabilized and resting comfortably enough, but she’s still in a very bad way.”

“You’re certain this girl is the mother of that li’l one upstairs?” Ben pressed.

Paul nodded.   “Reasonably,” he replied.   “Based on what the mother superior and the other nuns told me, this girl HAS given birth within the past week.”

“Any idea who she is?” Ben asked.

“Strange thing that . . . .” Paul murmured softly.

“Oh?”

“I can’t for the life of me recall ever having ever met her before, but . . . .”   Paul sighed.   “I can’t quite shake the feeling I know her or that I’ve seen her around somewhere.”

“Has she been able to tell ANYONE her name, or where she’s from?” Ben pressed.

“Mother Gibson said that she stirs from time to time, but hasn’t fully regained consciousness,” Paul explained.   “I asked the mother superior to send me word when she does.”

“Say, Doc . . . y’ think it’s possible this gal’s a runaway?” Hoss asked.

“I’m reasonably certain she IS a runaway, Hoss,” Paul replied, “though as I told Mother Gibson, I have no way of knowing how long that girl’s been out fending for herself and that baby.   Given her physical state however, I’m of the mind she left home BEFORE her baby was born.”

“You mean to say that she had that baby out along the road somewhere?!” Ben demanded, appalled, frightened, and angry at the very thought.

Paul nodded.

“I don’t understand it!   What in the ever lovin’ world could she have been thinking of . . . running away from home . . . knowing full well she was so close to giving birth!” Ben exclaimed.

“There’s no doubt in MY mind it was an act of desperation,” Paul said in a grim, somber tone of voice.   He, then, shared with Ben, Joe, and Hoss the details concerning the girl’s injuries.

“Doc . . . are you sayin’ that gal’s ma ‘n pa . . . .?!”

“If NOT her parents, Hoss, then someone else close to her . . . someone who’s more than likely a member of her family,” Paul replied.

“I . . . I can’t believe it!” Hoss murmured softly, while slowly wagging his head back and forth.   “H-How can ANY Ma ‘n Pa turn on their own flesh ‘n blood like that?”   His face was nearly white as a sheet and he had drawn his hands together into a pair of tight, rock hard fists to quell their trembling.

“Unfortunately . . . I’m afraid such is all too common,” Paul said sadly as he reached out and placed a comforting hand against the big, sensitive man’s forearm.

“Can’t you do somethin’ about it?” Hoss demanded, appalled and very angry.

“I wish I could,” Paul replied.   “I wish to high heaven I could, but the law looks upon children as being little more than their parents’ possessions.   The thought of a man going to the gallows for stealing a horse, but walking away scot free for beating his own child to death . . . because in the end it all comes down to being HIS word against his wife’s . . . or the doctor’s . . . infuriates me like nothing else can, Hoss.”

“Makes ME appreciate all the more that we . . . Adam, Hoss, Stacy, and I . . . were brought into this world and raised by a real good man like our pa,” Joe said soberly.

“You took the words right outta my mouth, Li’l Brother,” Hoss agreed whole heartedly.

“Thank you, Boys . . . for your vote of confidence,” Ben said quietly, still feeling sick at heart over everything Paul Martin had just shared with them.   “Paul?”

“Yes, Ben?”

“Would it be possible for me to see this girl?”

“You’ll have to get permission from Mother Gibson, of course, but I don’t see any reason why she wouldn’t allow you a brief visit at least,” Paul replied.   “I told her I was reasonably sure the girl had left her baby here with you and your family.   However . . . . ”

“What?” Ben demanded.

“I think it might be a good idea for you to bring Stacy along,” Paul suggested.

“Stacy?!” Ben echoed, incredulous.   “I . . . can half-way understand this girl’s reluctance to talk to me . . . and perhaps the nuns as well, since they’ve, more than likely, never been married or had children . . . but I’d think someone like Mrs. Fielding, or better yet, your wife, Lily, would be more appropriate.   Stacy . . . .” he paused for a moment to cast a quick glance over his shoulder in the direction of the dining room and kitchen door, “Paul, my daughter’s NOT much more than a child, for heaven’s sake.”

“Neither is that girl,” Paul declared.   “I’m guessing, Ben . . . but my gut tells me she’s Stacy’s age, maybe a year older at the very outside.”   An exasperated sigh escaped from between the sawbones’ lips, thinning now with his rising anger.   “If I could have but one wish . . . it would be that EVERY young woman out there was as fortunate as your daughter . . . AND mine.”

“I-I’ve always tried to protect Stacy as much as I could,” Ben stammered, taken aback by Paul Martin’s sudden burst of anger, “and I know you and Lily have done the same for Janie.”

“It’s MORE than simply protecting them, a LOT more,” Paul said vehemently.   “It’s loving them, respecting them, treating them as valuable, cherished members of the family, and most important accepting them as they are.   If you knew how many people . . . even people we’re well acquainted with who try and force their daughters into being something they’re not—”   He broke off suddenly, and favored his old friend with a contrite, sheepish half smile.   “Sorry.   I didn’t mean to climb up on my soapbox just now.”

“I understand, Paul . . . NOW,” Ben said quietly.   “I don’t think I would have if Stacy hadn’t come to live with us, however.”

“Are you still willing to try and help this girl?” Paul asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Adam?”

He turned from the half completed house plan spread out on the drawing table before him and wordlessly held out his hand to the woman standing framed in the open door to his study, clad in nightgown and robe.

Teresa immediately and without hesitation stepped over the threshold and crossed the room.    Sleep had been fitful at best, filled with strange, disturbing dreams.   Though the images and content fled from her memory upon waking, the vague uneasiness invoked by those dreams remained.

“I was just about to g’won out to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Cortez if she might fix me a sandwich,” Adam said, as he took hold of his wife’s hand.   “Would you care to join me?”

“I’m . . . not really hungry, Adam,” Teresa replied, punctuating her words with a yawn.

“Even so, you need to eat something, Sweetheart,” Adam gently admonished her.   “Mrs. Cortez came to the door and reminded me in no uncertain terms that here it is well into the afternoon and YOU haven’t had so much as a bite to eat.”   He paused briefly, then added, “She’s worried.”

A tiny, wry smile tugged hard against the corner of Teresa’s mouth.   “Bless her heart,” she murmured softly, then sighed.   “I . . . guess I can manage a couple slices of toast and a cup of tea.”

“Mrs. Cartwright, I’m so sorry to hear about your brother and sister-in-law’s baby,” Adela Cortez said very quietly, as Teresa and Adam ventured into the kitchen.   “How are they . . . uhhh . . .?!”

“The doctor gave my sister-in-law a sedative . . . a very strong one,” Teresa replied, her voice filled with sadness and deep concern.   “Hopefully she’ll sleep the rest of the day and through the night.   Poor Miguel . . . . ” she sighed and dolefully shook her head.   “He’s devastated of course, and . . . very concerned about Elena.”

“Such a terrible shame,” Adela murmured softly.   “Will you be returning to your brother’s home?”

Teresa nodded.   “Later . . . this afternoon . . . after Benjy and Dio return home from school.   Mother and Elena’s sisters are there now.”

“You and Mister Cartwright seat yourselves at the dining room table,” Adela said briskly, as she dabbed her eyes against the sleeve of her cornflower blue blouse.   “I’ll serve up lunch— ”

“Mrs. Cortez, I’m not very hungry—” Teresa started to protest.

“Chicken soup . . . a slice of toast, and a good strong cup of tea,” Adela said.   “You need something more substantial than a just slice of toast, Mrs. Cartwright.”

“She’s right, Teresa,” Adam said quietly.   “If you’re going to be any kind of help to Miguel and Elena, YOU need to keep up YOUR strength.”

“Mister Cartwright and I . . . well, we don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, but on THIS, we agree,” Adela said firmly, before shooing them out of her kitchen.

Adam dutifully escorted his wife out to the dining room.

“Oh, Adam . . . .” she moaned very softly, then buried her face in her hands.

Adam immediately gathered Teresa in his arms and held her close while she wept.   “That’s right, Sweetheart,” he murmured softly, his own voice breaking as he reached up and stroked her long, coal black hair.   “That’s right . . . let it out.   I’m here . . . I’m right here.”   He felt her arms encircling his shoulders, her fingers tightly grasping the material of his shirt.

Adela Cortez nodded with approval as she turned and very quietly closed the door between the kitchen and dining room, leaving the Cartwrights to their grief.

In the meantime, she would see to keeping the chicken soup warm.

“Adam . . . after . . . after the priest left?” Teresa said haltingly much later, when the two of them at long last sat down to a light repast of hearty chicken soup, buttered toast, and hot tea.   “The doctor told Miguel, Mother, and me that . . . .”   She fell silent, upon feeling again the acrid sting of tears in her eyes.

Adam placed his hand over top hers and patiently waited for her to continue.

Teresa closed her eyes for a moment, and swallowed.   “The d-doctor said that . . . that Elena . . . that in all likelihood she’ll NEVER bring a healthy . . . l-living baby into this world,” she said, her voice shaking.

For a moment, Adam felt as if he had just been sucker punched below the belt.   Had he not already been sitting, he was almost certain he would have fallen.   “Oh no, no,” he murmured softly, his head wagging slowly back and forth.   “Teresa, is he . . . is he sure?”

Teresa vigorously nodded her head.   “After all the miscarriages . . . and . . . and t-two babies now . . . carried to . . . t-to full term, yet born still as if . . . as if they’d come too early . . . h-he’s sure,” she replied.   “He did tell Miguel that h-he . . . that he knows of a specialist in S-San Francisco, if . . . if they want another opinion . . . .”

“I guess it’s much too soon for them to decide whether or not they want to see a specialist.”

“I don’t think either one of them should be making that kind of a decision right now,” Teresa said.   “They need time, Adam.”

“Yes, indeed,” Adam voiced his whole hearted agreement.   “Teresa?”

“Yes, Love?”

“When the children come home from school . . . do you want me to break the news to them?”

Teresa silently thought the matter over, then slowly shook her head.   “I think BOTH of us need to tell them,” she decided.

“You sure you’ll be up for it?” Adam gently pressed.

“Yes . . . I will,” Teresa promised.   “I just need some time on my own to pull myself together.”

“You’ve got it,” Adam replied.   He leaned over and planted a chaste kiss on her forehead.   “If you need me . . . .”

“. . . I know exactly where to find you,” Teresa said.

The following morning, right after breakfast, Ben and Stacy left for the convent hospital to see the young woman Paul Martin strongly suspected to be the mother of the baby boy left at their kitchen door.

“Mister Cartwright, please come in.”   Mother Catherine stood in the open door to her private office and gestured for Ben and Stacy to enter with a broad sweep of her arm.   “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Thank you,” Ben said politely as he stepped into the spacious office, sparsely furnished.   Stacy quietly followed close at her father’s heels.   “Mother Gibson, I’m sure you remember my daughter, Stacy.”

“Yes, of course,” Mother Catherine responded with a warm smile.   “Good seeing you again, Stacy.   Your friends, Molly O’Hanlan and Susannah O’Brien, told me you’ve not been well this past winter.”

“I was down with a cold over Christmas, but I’m doing much better now,” Stacy replied, deliberately omitting that her illness had worsened as the result of a mad ride into the cold and snow to search for her brother, Joe.   Just after the first of the year, her cold had gone into pneumonia.   She grinned.   “In fact, Doctor Martin told me a couple of days ago I can go out for short rides on Blaze Face.”

“I’m very glad to hear that you’re doing so much better,” the mother superior said, returning Stacy’s smile.

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Stacy said politely.   “Molly and Susannah told me that you’re . . . leaving Virginia City?”

“Yes.   My sister, Louisa, is very ill . . . too ill now for her husband and daughter to care for her properly,” Mother Catherine replied, her smile fading.   “Since I am the only one in the family with nursing skills, it makes sense that I should go to her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mother Gibson.”

“Thank you, Stacy.”

“As am I,” Ben said, as he and Stacy seated themselves on the tall, straight back chairs facing Mother Catherine’s desk.   “If there’s anything we can do, please . . . don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright, but apart from prayer, there’s nothing much anyone can do.   Louisa’s in God’s hands now,” Mother Catherine said quietly, “and as Father Brendan observed yesterday afternoon, she’s in the best place she CAN be.   I . . . presume you’ve come about the girl your men found along the road?”

Ben nodded.   “Yesterday morning, I found a young baby, no MORE than a week old, left just outside our kitchen door.   Paul . . . Doctor Martin . . . is of the opinion that your patient may be the baby’s mother.”

“Mister Cartwright, may I speak frankly?” the mother superior asked, casting a sidelong glance in Stacy’s general direction.

“Yes, please . . . feel free,” Ben replied, hoping the mother superior hadn’t noticed the sarcastic rolling of Stacy’s eyes.

“Our young mystery patient upstairs has INDEED given birth,” she began, “within the time frame corresponding to the age of the baby in YOUR custody.   Sister Anne, the nurse in charge of the young woman’s care, told me that from all indications, the birth was largely without complications.   Doctor Martin’s examination confirmed this.”

“Thank the Lord for that,” Ben murmured softly, his voice filled with a mixture of gratitude and deep, profound relief.

“Amen,” Mother Catherine whole heartedly agreed.

“Has the girl yet regained consciousness?” Ben asked.

“Yes, though she sleeps a great deal,” the mother superior replied.   “Sometimes, in her sleep, she cries out for a little one.   We assume this little one is her baby.”

Ben and Stacy exchanged troubled glances.   “There was a note with the baby left on our door step,” the former said, reaching into the inside pocket of his vest.   He withdrew the folded slip of paper and handed it to the mother superior.

Mother Catherine accepted the proffered slip of paper, and carefully unfolded it.   She read over it once, then once again.   “Mister Cartwright, it would appear that my mystery patient is, indeed, the mother of the baby presently in your care.”   She carefully refolded the note and handed it back to Ben.   “I’m very relieved to know for certain now that she didn’t simply abandon the child somewhere.”

“Has your patient told you her name?   Where she came from?” Ben asked, as he took the note from Mother Catherine and returned it to his vest pocket.

“No,” Mother Catherine shook her head.   “She refuses to tell us.   When we press, she becomes very agitated, insisting she can’t tell us . . . that her baby’s safety depends on her silence.”

“Have you asked her about her little one?”

“Yes.   The only thing she’ll tell us is that he’s safe, that no one can harm him where he is now.”   She closed her eyes for a moment, then sighed.   “I can’t blame her for not wanting to say where she came from, however.   Mister Cartwright . . . . ”

“Yes, Mother Gibson?”

“What . . . exactly . . . did Doctor Martin tell you about the young patient in our care?”

Ben shared with the mother superior everything that Paul Martin had told him the day before, when he had returned to tell them about the girl their own men had found lying by the side of the road.   This included the doctor’s theory about the girl being a runaway, and the reasons that drew him to that conclusion.

Stacy, upon hearing this for the first time, was visibly shaken by this revelation.   She quietly reached over and took hold of her father’s hand.

“Sorry, Young Woman,” Ben murmured ruefully, as he gave her hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.   “We should have talked about this yesterday, after Doctor Martin left.”

“ ‘S ok, Pa.”

“Mother Gibson,” Ben said, returning his attention once again to the mother superior, “if you’ve been expecting us, as you say . . . then you must know why my daughter and I are here.”

“Doctor Martin told us that you’d probably want to do something to try and help this girl and her baby,” Mother Catherine said.

“I do . . . if she’ll let me,” Ben said quietly.   “Would it be possible for us to see her?”

“We’ll need to check with Sister Anne.   She’s the one largely responsible for the girl’s care,” the mother superior said, rising.   The Cartwrights followed suit.   “If you’ll both follow me?”

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I . . . I think I KNOW her,” she whispered, stunned, shaken to the very core of her being.

“Y-You do?”

Stacy nodded.   She and her father stood just beyond the threshold of the mystery patient’s room.   The girl they had come to see was in the bed, lying on her back, propped up by three large downy pillows.   Her head was turned toward the door just enough to allow Stacy to see her face.   Mother Catherine and Sister Anne stood between the open door and their patient, conferring in low voices, darting occasional glances at the patient, who appeared to be sleeping, and the Cartwrights.

“Who is she?” Ben asked, sotto voce.

“Cara.   Cara Lindsey.”

“Cara,” Ben murmured very softly.   “Cara . . . Cara Lin—!!”   He abruptly broke off and looked over at Stacy.   “Tobias Lindsey’s daughter?!” he queried, taken completely by surprise.

Stacy nodded.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Pa, I’m sure.”

A decade ago, Tobias Lindsey was a bright young man, a lawyer, who had just won a stunning upset in the court room, clearing Mitch Devlin[iii], a close friend of Joe’s, of a murder charge.   The evidence against Mitch, though largely circumstantial, was nonetheless very compelling and damning.   Tobias had worked diligently to unearth the truth, risking not only his reputation and future, but his life as well.   His diligence paid off very handsomely.   He not only succeeded in clearing his client of all charges, but found out who the real guilty party was in the process.

Hailed by the Territorial Enterprise as a brilliant young lawyer with a very promising future, Ben’s own lawyer, Lucas Milburn, offered Tobias Lindsey a junior partnership in his own law firm.   Tobias, desiring to link with Lucas’ rock solid reputation and prestige, already well established, had eagerly accepted the offer.

Three years later, Tobias Lindsey drowned that bright promising future at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, on the heels of his wife’s sudden, tragic demise.   Their only child, Cara, had turned almost overnight from a bubbly, outgoing little girl to a child shy to the point of withdrawn.   A few months after Ben and his sons had brought Stacy home with them from Fort Charlotte, Tobias’ mother, Matilda Lindsay, took her son and granddaughter to live with her in Carson City.

“Mister Cartwright . . . Stacy . . . you may see the girl now.”   It was Mother Catherine.   Sister Anne stood behind her with a sour look on her face and arms folded tightly across her chest.

“Thank you, Mother Gibson,” Ben responded politely.   He gestured for Stacy to enter the room first.

“Just a moment,” Sister Anne said curtly, as she moved to block the door.

“Yes, Sister?” Ben queried.

“Mister Cartwright, I’m sure you and your daughter mean well,” Sister Anne continued in a tone of voice ever so slightly condescending.   She focused her entire attention on Ben, ignoring Stacy as if she weren’t there.   “But . . . well, to be blunt, Sir, if the matter were left entirely to MY discretion, I would NOT allow you to visit the girl at this time.”

Her words drew a sharp glance from the mother superior.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Sister Anne said, defiant, yet very much on the defensive, “but I would be less than honest if I didn’t say so.”

“Is there any reason why I should NOT allow Mister Cartwright and his daughter a short visit?” Mother Catherine demanded, with hands firmly planted on her hips and left eyebrow slightly up raised.

“The patient is still VERY weak,” Sister Anne replied.   “It’s a chore just to get her to take broth and water, as YOU well know.   Because she’s still so weak, she sleeps a great deal.   More often than not, she falls asleep in the middle of prayer or conversation.”   This last she said with a pointed glance in Ben’s direction.   “She’s also depressed . . . distressingly so.   One wrong word . . . one wrong look, the child bursts into tears and weeps for . . . for hours, sometimes.   A couple of times, we’ve had to sedate her.”

“Sister, as a nurse, I’m sure you know that . . . sometimes . . . though not always . . . a new mother will fall into a bout of depression,” Ben said very quietly.   “More often than not, it passes after a few weeks, but occasionally those bouts can be very severe.”

“This girl seems to be growing WORSE,” Sister Anne said bluntly.

“It could be ONE reason she’s depressed is because she loves her baby, but feels she HAS to give him up,” Stacy quietly observed.

“I think Stacy makes a valid point,” Mother Catherine immediately interjected, upon taking due note of Sister Anne’s sarcastic roll of the eyes heavenward.   “Sister Anne . . . .”

“Yes, Mother?” she responded in a sullen, angry tone of voice.

“Please bear in mind that Mister Cartwright and his family want to HELP this girl and her baby,” the mother superior said in a very quiet, yet very firm tone of voice.

“I . . . I’m sure Mister Cartwright and his family MEAN well—”

“Sister,” Ben interjected, “my daughter and I are well aware that your patient is still very weak and that she tires easily.   I promise you that we’ll keep our visit brief . . . and we’ll do our best NOT to upset your patient.   I can see very clearly that you care about this girl a great deal.”

“Well, of COURSE I do,” Sister Anne said brusquely.   “I see this girl . . . and any other patient given to my care as a trust from my mother superior and from God as well.”

“By the same token, that young lady placed her baby into OUR care,” Ben continued to press his case.   “The members of my family and I see that li’l one as a trust also.   A trust given to us by his mother and by the God who watches over all of us, too.   The best way for my sons, my daughter, and I to honor that trust is to do what we can to help that baby AND his mother.”

Sister Anne silently mulled over Ben’s words for a moment, then sighed.   “All right, Mister Cartwright,” she said, as she reluctantly stepped aside, “you and your daughter may see the girl.”

“Sister Anne and I will be right here if you should have need of us,” Mother Catherine said, her glance taking in father and daughter as she spoke.

Stacy entered the room a few steps ahead of her father.   As she approached the bed, Stacy saw the patient as she was a little more than five years ago, with a big, thick mane of chestnut brown hair, matted from having gone many days without benefit of brush or comb, framing a thin, pale face, with delicate elfin features and sharp chin.   Stacy was eleven years old at the time, and Cara, twelve.

“Cara?” Stacy said the girl’s name very softly, as she placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

The girl gasped upon hearing her name spoken.   She turned from the wall, and she gazed up at Stacy through round, terror filled eyes.

“It’s all right,” Stacy said quietly.   She was dismayed to find the girl’s entire body trembling.   “Cara, I’m Stacy Cartwright.   You may not remember me very well, since you and your pa left Virginia City not long after I came . . . . ”

“Stacy.”   Cara exhaled a soft sigh of relief, then closed her eyes.   “Yes.   I DO remember you,” she said sadly, “I . . . I remember you very well.”

“R-Really?” Stacy queried, taken aback by this revelation.

“I remember the very first day Mister Cartwright brought you to school as if . . . as if it were yesterday,” Cara said wistfully.   “I remember because M-Mister Cartwright looked at YOU that day the same way . . . the s-same way Mama used to look at ME before . . . before she—”   Cara abruptly broke off, unable to continue.

Stacy sat down carefully on the edge of the bed and took Cara into her arms and held her just as Pa did whenever she was troubled, upset, or frightened.   Cara tensed for a moment, then with a very soft sigh allowed her head to drop down onto Stacy’s shoulder.

“Every night . . . until Grandma came . . . I’d go to bed, wishing on the first star I saw that I’d wake up the next morning . . . and I’d be YOU,” Cara confessed.   “Seems kinda silly now, I s’pose . . . .”

“You . . . really . . . wanted . . . to be ME?” Stacy ventured, shocked by Cara’s revelation.   “Why?”

“You were loved,” Cara said simply.   “Stacy?”

“Y-Yes, Cara?”

“You . . . you never knew my mama . . . did you?” Cara asked, as tears began to well up in her eyes.

Stacy shook her head.   “She died before Pa, Hoss, and Joe brought me home from Fort Charlotte,” she replied.

“Things were so different when . . . when M-Mama . . . when SHE was alive,” Cara said, her voice tremulous.   “She . . . oh, Stacy, she was beautiful . . . so beautiful . . . and Papa loved her very much.   They were happy together.”   A wistful smile pulled at the corner of her mouth, as tears began to slip down over her eyelids and flow down her cheeks.   “Papa used to smile all the time.   H-He . . . he had such a nice smile . . . and every morning?   I’d hear him sing while he . . . while he washed and shaved.   After M-Mama died . . . Papa . . . P-Papa stopped singing, and . . . and I never saw him smile again either.   Not like the way he . . . the way he d-did before Mama—”

“I’m sorry, Cara,” Stacy whispered, wincing against the sting of newly formed tears filling her own eyes.   “I’m so sorry . . . .”

“Sometimes . . . s-sometimes I wish that I h-had been the one who died that day,” Cara continued, sobbing piteously.   “I . . . I know PAPA would’ve been happier if . . . if h-he’d had MAMA, instead of . . . instead of me, and they c-could’ve always h-had another little girl, or . . . or m-maybe the BOY Papa always w-wanted . . . .”

“Cara, no!” Stacy protested, all of a sudden feeling as if she had just been dumped into the deepest part of Lake Tahoe, with a huge millstone tied to her feet.

“It was MY fault you know . . . .”

“What was your fault?”

“My mama dying the way she did.   It w-was . . . it was all . . . MY fault.   I . . . I . . . oh, Stacy,” she sobbed, “I killed her!   M-My own mama . . . and I KILLED her!”

“Cara . . . .”

Upon hearing her father’s quiet voice issuing from the other side of the bed, Stacy slowly exhaled a sigh of deep, profound relief.

“Cara, please?   I want you to look at me,” Ben continued, laboring mightily to speak calmly in the face of the fury now swiftly rising within him . . . not toward the sad, wounded child-woman his daughter still held clasped within her arms, but toward the father who, in his own mind, had never bothered to set the girl straight with regard to the circumstances surrounding her mother’s tragic, untimely death.

Cara swallowed nervously, then clutching Stacy’s hand tight in both of her own, forced herself to turn and meet Ben Cartwright’s eyes.   Where she expected to see censure, disdain, and condemnation, she saw, much to her astonishment, kindness and compassion.

“. . . I want you to listen very closely to what I have to say,” Ben continued, as he pulled up a chair alongside Cara’s hospital bed.   “I was in Virginia City that day . . . .”

. . . the sound of a child’s carefree laughter and the rhythmic beating of the patent leather soles of her high buttoned shoes echoed once again in his ears, invoking images one after the other after the other . . . .

. . . a young girl running up the board walk, fast as her legs could carry her, with her mother, growing more annoyed and exasperated with each passing moment, trailing behind, walking as briskly as decorum allowed . . . . 

“PAPA!   LOOK, MAMA . . . IT’S PAPA!   HI, PAPA!” 

“Hellfire ‘n damnation!” Roy Coffee groused.   There was a note of urgency mixed with his rising ire.   “If I told them Bonner boys once, I musta told ‘em a thousand times . . . .” 

. . . directly across the street, just outside the law office of Ben’s attorney, Lucas Milburn, a young man waved, just as Jeff and Rick Bonner[iv] came roaring around the corner on their horses, racing a loaded buckboard, driven by their neighbor, Mort McConnell.

 “That tears it!   THIS time, I’m gonna throw their sorry asses in jail for the next thirty—!!”   Roy’s words ended in a horrified gasp, when the running, laughing child, suddenly turned and darted out into the street right into the path of the Bonners’ horses and Mort McConnell’s buckboard.

 “CARA!”   The child’s mother cried out in horror.   She lifted her skirts and without hesitation, ran after her exuberant young daughter, who still seemed blissfully ignorant of the imminent danger bearing down upon her.

 More images . . . .

 . . . Mort McConnell, his face white as a sheet, eyes round with horror, jaw set with fierce, grim determination, trying his hardest to bring the team drawing his buckboard to a stop . . . .

 . . . Jeff Bonner’s horse rearing, toppling its rider to the dusty street, then plunging on, resuming its path toward the girl . . . .

. . . a mother pushing her child with all her might, with all the physical strength she could summon, the force of her own momentum toppling her down on her hands and knees before a street filled with onlookers, all of them paralyzed . . . .

 . . . a child half running, half flying, screaming with a mixture of outrage and astonishment, landing in an ungainly heap on the other side of the street, well out of harm’s way . . . .

 . . . Mort’s horses, frightened and startled by the child’s scream, suddenly bolting, moving now at a fast gallop, as Mort labored valiantly in vain to bring the animals under control . . . .

 . . . a mother rising to her feet, amid a huge collective sigh of relief, then tripping on the hem of her long skirt before she had gone a half dozen steps.

 A thick cloud of dust rose from the street, stirred up by the horses, obscuring the mother as she once again pitched forward.   When the dust finally cleared . . . .

“. . . I saw what happened,” Ben said, his own face a few shades paler than was the norm.   He clasped his hands tightly in his lap to hide their trembling.   “It was an accident, Cara,” he implored, “an ACCIDENT.   What happened that day WASN’T your fault.”

Cara stared up into Ben’s face for a moment through eyes round with astonishment and shocked horror.   Then, she began to wag her head slowly back and forth.   “Nuh-nuh . . . n-no . . . n-no one’s ever t-told me that . . . ever . . . .” she murmured softly, “n-no one.”   With a strangled gasp, she buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly.

A long string of colorful invectives passed through Sister Anne’s mind, words she had often heard her own mother use as a matter of course, though she refrained from giving them utterance.   “I was AFRAID of this,” she muttered, as she moved toward the open door to Cara Lindsay’s hospital room, with every intention of removing the Cartwrights, even if she ended up having to bodily eject father and daughter.

“Wait, Sister Anne,” Mother Gibson said very quietly, “please.”

“Yes, Mother,” she growled through clenched teeth, knowing full well the mother superior’s words, when spoken in that tone of voice, at that precise decibel, amounted to a strict order to be obeyed immediately, without explanation, discussion, or argument.

Ben, meanwhile, took Cara into his arms and held her as she wept.   Stacy, with tears streaming down her own cheeks reached out and gently placed her hands on the older girl’s shoulders.

“I . . . I WANT t-to . . . to believe you,” Cara sobbed, “I . . . I want more than . . . than j-just about ANYTHING to believe you . . . .”

“You CAN believe me, Cara, because I w-was there,” Ben reiterated, his voice shaking as much from anger as empathy with the troubled, grieving young woman he held in his arms.   “I saw everything.   Yes, your mother saved your life . . . and lost her own doing it . . . but YOU didn’t kill her . . . any more than my son, Adam, killed HIS mother because she died bringing him into this world.   What happened that day was an accident.”

“Y-You . . . you don’t hate Adam because . . . .”

The eagerness and intense yearning Ben saw in her eyes and face broke his heart.   “No,” he said gently, “Adam’s all the more precious because he was the very last gift his mother, may God rest her soul, gave me.   There’s so much of her in Adam . . . he’s got his mother’s eyes . . . her smile . . . that dimple in his right cheek when he smiles . . . her love of books and learning . . . her wry sense of humor . . . . ”

“N-No one’s ever said this to me before,” Cara murmured, awestruck, her voice barely audible.

“Cara?”

She lifted her head from Ben’s chest, and turned toward Stacy.

“My mother also died saving my life,” Stacy said.   “Somewhere in Pa’s Sacred Book it says the greatest act of love is when someone gives up their own life for someone ELSE.   Our mothers . . . yours and mine . . . must have loved us very much.”

“R-Really?”

Stacy nodded.

“I . . . remember Mama being . . . well, kinda mad at me that day,” Cara said sadly.

“Sometimes mothers and fathers DO get angry and exasperated with their children,” Ben quietly explained.   “I know I have . . . with all four of ‘em at one time or another.   But I’ve NEVER stopped loving them, and I KNOW your mother never stopped loving YOU.”

Cara knew he meant every word by the earnestness she saw shining with an almost blinding intensity in those dark brown eyes.   “No one’s ever said that to me . . . . ” she murmured softly, speaking more to herself than to either of her visitors, while shaking her head in bewildered wonderment of it all, “. . . not since that day . . . . ”   Fresh tears began to slip down over her eyelids and fall down her cheeks.

“Cara,” Stacy said, as she took hold of the older girl’s hand, “Pa and I want you to know your little one’s safe and doing very well.”

“Thank you,” Cara murmured, looking away, her cheeks flushed scarlet, “I . . . oh, Stacy . . . M-Mister Cartwright, I hope you . . . that you don’t think me bad f-for . . . .”   Her eyes dropped to her hands resting in her lap.

“No, Cara, none of us . . . Stacy, her brothers, Hop Sing, or me . . . haven’t for one minute thought of you as being bad or having done something bad,” Ben hastened to reassure the distraught girl.   “When I look at you, I see a mother who loves her baby so much, she was willing to give him up to someone she knows is able to give him all of the things she feels she can’t.”

“I g-gave him life . . . I b-brought him into this w-world,” Cara sobbed softly, “but I . . . I can’t give him anything ELSE . . . except love.   I . . . I c-couldn’t even give him a proper name.”

“Cara . . . if you’ll let us . . . we want to help you,” Stacy said, “BOTH of you!   When you’re better, you can come back with Pa and me to the Ponderosa—”

“No!” Cara whimpered, as the blood drained right out of her face.   “Dear God, no!   I wish I could . . . with all m-my heart I wish I COULD, but I CAN’T.   After I’m better, I have go away . . . FAR away.   My baby’s life DEPENDS on it!”

“It’ll be all right,” Stacy insisted.   “If you’re in danger, my pa, my brothers, and I can and will protect you and the baby.”

“I can’t, Stacy, I can’t!   If . . . if HE finds us together—”

“If . . . WHO finds you together?” Ben asked.   “Cara, are you speaking about the father of your baby?”

“No, Gabe—!!!   He’d never—!   It’s MY father, Mister Cartwright!” she replied, her entire body trembling with fear.   “If he finds me, he’ll take my little one away from me and . . . and SELL him like . . . like YOU might sell a horse at an auction!”   She buried her face in her hands once again and wept.

“THAT DOES IT!” Sister Anne roared.   She charged into the room like a troop of cavalry men before Mother Catherine could even think of stopping her.   “OUT!”   She took hold of Stacy by the forearm and yanked the girl off the bed, eliciting a cry of pain and outrage.   “YOU, TOO, MISTER CARTWRIGHT!   GET OUT!   NOW!”

Stacy angrily wrenched her arm free and stood, with hands clenched into a pair of rock hard fists, ready to stand her ground.

“Stacy . . . easy!” Ben ordered in a very quiet, yet very firm tone of voice.

Stacy very slowly, one finger at a time, relaxed her hands.   “Cara, we’ll come back again,” she said, casting a defiant glare in Sister Anne’s direction.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Sister Anne angrily vowed.

Part Two

“Mother Gibson, I honestly don’t know WHAT to say,” Ben said, nonplussed, as he, Stacy, and the mother superior entered her office together.   “It certainly WASN’T our intention to upset her as we did.”

“Mister Cartwright . . . Stacy . . . first of all, I think you both need to understand that Sister Anne comes from a very troubled background,” Mother Catherine said quietly as she pulled out the chair from under her desk.   She also invited the Cartwrights to sit with a gesture.   “I can’t go into specific detail, nor WOULD I if I were allowed; but I feel I owe it to both of you to tell you that much so that you can perhaps try and understand . . . at least a little . . . where she’s coming from.”

Mother Catherine dropped heavily into her chair and began to slowly massage the bridge of her nose.   “She’s . . . .”   The mother superior fell silent for a moment, searching for the right word.   “Protective,” she murmured a moment later.    “Sister Anne is protective of the patients entrusted to her care . . . fiercely so . . . especially of mothers and their newborns.”

“I see,” Ben said slowly, thoughtfully.   “Sister Anne must feel especially protective of Miss Lindsay, knowing full well the abuse that poor young woman has suffered.”

“. . . AND what’s generally known about the girl’s father.”

Ben frowned.   “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Mother Gibson.”

“Mister Cartwright, I rarely venture into town,” Mother Catherine explained.   “But in the weeks and months following the death of that poor child’s mother, I heard from parishioners and from their children very disturbing things about Mister Lindsay and his daughter.   I discounted most of what was said in the beginning because I knew I was hearing things second . . . probably third and fourth hand.   But, as time passed, the stories not only continued, but had a certain continuity about them that I couldn’t entirely dismiss.”

“Mother Gibson?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I . . . don’t mean to be disrespectful or anything like that, but . . . if you and other people knew the terrible stories about Cara and her father were true, how come no one stepped in to help them . . . or at least help HER?” Stacy asked.

“I heard that people offered . . . your father and brothers among them,” the mother superior replied, taking no offense at the question Stacy had asked.   “He . . . Cara’s father . . . refused any and all offers of help.”   She sighed.   “Back then, I could say that I knew Mister Lindsay if I saw him, but that’s about it.   I . . . understand he had a great deal of pride about him.”

“Yes, he did,” Ben confirmed with a curt nod of his head.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Did Mister Lindsay have the same kind of pride my mother, Miss Paris, had?”

Ben very reluctantly nodded his head.

“Why didn’t anyone try to help Cara?” Stacy asked.

“Because Cara was, and still is under the age of majority,” Ben patiently explained.   “That means her father, for good or ill, has custody over her.   Though a lot of us WANTED very much to do something to help Cara, without her father’s permission, our hands were tied by law.”

“. . . and THAT, Mister Cartwright, now puts your family and my order between a proverbial rock and a hard place,” the mother superior said grimly.

“What do you mean?” Stacy demanded, all of a sudden feeling very much afraid.

“Because Cara Lindsay is still a minor, your father and I both are required by law to notify her father as to HER whereabouts and the whereabouts of her baby,” Mother Catherine ruefully explained.

“No!” Stacy cried out.   “Pa . . . Mother Gibson, you can’t!”

“Stacy, please believe me . . . sending that poor child and her baby back to her father is the very last thing in the world I want to do,” Mother Catherine declared.   “This business of him wanting to sell her baby . . . .”   She shook her head in grim wonder and bewilderment, then sighed.   “There’s no doubt in my mind whatsoever that Miss Lindsay believes it to be true, but I . . . to be frank, I just plain and simply can’t even begin to fathom such a thing.   However, I DID see the scars on her back.”

“If her father’s the one who put them there, couldn’t Cara press assault and battery charges against him?” Stacy ventured.

Ben sadly shook his head.   “No, Stacy . . . I’m afraid she can’t.”

“Why not?!” Stacy demanded, appalled and outraged.

“As Cara’s custodial parent, Mister Lindsay’s required by law to provide for his daughter as best he’s able, until she reaches the age of majority,” Ben replied.   “Part of that provision includes meting out discipline.”

“Unfortunately the letter of the law makes little or no distinction between what defines discipline and what defines cruelty,” Mother Catherine added with a dark, angry scowl.

“You two mean to tell me that the law can’t protect Cara?!” Stacy asked.

“No,” Ben replied, with a heavy heart.   “The law can’t protect her from a cruel, abusive father until she reaches the age of majority.”

“. . . AND, according to the letter of the law, Miss Lindsay’s father has legal custody over her baby as well,” Mother Catherine added.

“Oh no!” Stacy groaned.   “Pa . . . that’s not FAIR!”

“No, Young Woman . . . it’s NOT fair,” Ben heartily agreed.   “Mother Gibson?”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“A favor?”

“If I can,” Mother Catherine replied, as she mentally braced herself.

“It’s true that the letter of the law obligates us to inform Mister Lindsay as to the whereabouts of his daughter and infant grandson,” Ben said, “but are YOU aware of any law or provision that says anything . . . anything at all . . . about WHEN you and I hafta let Mister Lindsay know where his daughter and grandson are?”

“To be up front and honest, Mister Cartwright, I . . . don’t know,” the mother superior replied.   “I don’t think it would be wise to stretch things out indefinitely, however . . . .”

“I have no intention of stretching things out for an indefinite length of time,” Ben hastened to assure the mother superior.   “Two weeks, Mother Gibson.   Just give me two weeks to find out whether or not there’s substance to Miss Lindsay’s allegations, and find proof that will stand up in court if there IS.”

Mother Catherine mulled the matter over silently for a moment, then slowly nodded her head.   “All right, Mister Cartwright.   You have two weeks.   If Sister Anne or any of the others responsible for Miss Lindsay’s care are able to get any more information from her, I’ll see that it’s passed on to you.”

“Thank you, Mother Gibson,” Ben said as he and Stacy rose.

“I won’t ask what you intend to do.   To be honest, I’m half way AFRAID to ask,” Mother Catherine said with a touch of wryness, “but I’ll keep you in my prayers as you do . . . whatever it is you’re planning.”

“Thank you.   I would appreciate that very much.”

“Pa?” Stacy queried, as she and Ben climbed into their buggy.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Do you have some kinda plan in mind to find out whether or not everything Cara said about her pa really IS true?” Stacy asked.

“Umm hmmm,” Ben replied.

“Can you tell ME?”

“I think I can count on you to be discreet, Young Woman,” Ben replied.   “First thing I’m going to do is head straight for the Western Union office and send a wire to your brother, Adam.”

“How can Adam help us, Pa?”

“I hope Adam can tell us how to get in touch with a real good friend of his, who just so happens to be a Pinkerton man.”

“Really?”

“Um hmmm.”

“He any good?”

“One of the best, or so Adam tells me,” Ben replied . . . .

“Mister.   Cartwright.”

Adam set his pencil aside and looked up from the drawings of a house he was designing for a client who would soon be settling in the Sacramento area.   Ebenezer McCrumby, secretary and bookkeeper for the architectural firm of Cartwright and Ames, stood just outside the door of his private office.

“Yes, Mister McCrumby?” Adam queried.   “What can I do for you?”

Ebenezer pulled himself stiffly erect.   He was a thin, wiry man, standing all of five feet five and seven eighths inches tall.   He was neatly attired in what Adam’s partner, Eli Ames, referred to as his uniform of choice:  a black suit, with pants, almost painfully creased, jacket, and vest, white shirt, black string tie, and shoes, polished to a high glossy shine.   No matter what the weather, he never removed his jacket, unbuttoned his vest, loosened his tie, or, heaven forbid, rolled up the shirt sleeves.

“Mister Cartwright, there’s a man without,” Ebenezer reported in a tone of voice a child’s nanny might use to scold her charge of wrong doing.   “He CLAIMS he’s a friend of yours, but doesn’t have an appointment—”

“Hey!   Adam Cartwright, y’ old sea dog!   Long time no see!” a man roughly the same age as Adam pushed his way past the flummoxed secretary and sauntered into Adam’s office.

“Well, I’ll be . . . Jack Cranston, you sly ol’ son uva sea cook!” Adam rose and greeted the man with a broad grin.   “Mister McCrumby, it’s quite all right.   Mister Cranston IS an old friend of mine.”

“If YOU say so, Sir,” Ebenezer sniffed with haughty disdain, as his eyes slowly, reluctantly took in the big man, standing nearly a whole head taller than his employer, with huge barrel chest, a thick, unruly mop of dark brown hair and full beard, both liberally mixed with strands of silver.

“Can I get you anything?” Adam offered.   “A cup of coffee, perhaps?”

“No, thank you, Adam,” Jack replied.

“In that case, you may go back to your own work, Mister McCrumby,” Adam politely dismissed his secretary.

Ebenezer immediately turned heel and left the room, moving as fast as propriety and decorum allowed.

“So.   What brings you to Sacramento, Jack?” Adam asked, as he gestured for the man to sit down.   “Business . . . pleasure . . . or both?”

“Business, Adam,” Jack said as he pulled up a chair alongside Adam’s drawing table.   “My firm’s been hired by a couple out in San Francisco to investigate an attorney living in Carson City,” he explained.   “I’VE drawn the assignment.”

“. . . and what does a Carson City lawyer have to do with ME?” Adam queried, as he leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest.

“The lawyer’s name is Lindsay.   Tobias Lindsay,” Jack explained.   “You know him?”

“Yes, in that Tobias and I went to school together and you could say I had a nodding acquaintance with the man until I left Virginia City and the Ponderosa,” Adam replied, “but I can’t say he and I were ever friends.”

“Even though you went to school together?” Jack pressed.

“Tobias was two, almost three years older than me,” Adam explained.   “That small number wouldn’t make much difference now, I suppose, but when we were both school boys, it was a deep abyss almost impossible to cross.   Furthermore, the lives we led at the time, he was living in town with his family and me out on the Ponderosa, couldn’t have been more different.   Jack . . . .”

“Yes, Adam?”

“Can you tell me what this is about?”

“I can’t give you my clients’ names, of course, but the reason they’ve hired the Pinkerton Agency, and by extension me, to investigate Mister Lindsay is three years ago, they purchased goods from Mister Lindsay that they believed to be of the highest quality,” Jack replied.   “THEIR words, Adam, not mine.   What they actually received was . . . well, let’s just say what they got was ‘way less than perfect.”

Adam heard the wry, sarcastic note in Jack’s voice loud and clear.   “What kind of goods did Tobias sell the couple who’ve hired you?” he asked.

“Mister Lindsay’s a baby broker, Adam.”

“. . . a . . . what?!”

“A baby broker.   A lawyer who buys babies and sells them to wealthy families,” Jack explained, “same as black men, women, and children were bought and sold as slaves not so terribly long ago.”

“You’re sure about this?”

“As sure as I can be.”

Adam frowned.   He wasn‘t sure which he found most disturbing:  the charge itself or rock firm conviction he heard in the voice of one John Oglethorpe Cranston when he’d leveled so heinous an accusation against an acquaintance from his distant past.   “That’s a pretty serious charge,” he said quietly.   “You have any kind of proof to back that up?”

Jack ruefully shook his head.   “None that would hold up in court, I‘m afraid.”

“Then what makes you so sure—”

“. . . that Tobias Lindsay’s in the business of what amounts to peddling flesh?” Jack queried.

Adam nodded.

“At this point, all I have to go on is a real strong gut instinct,” Jack said grimly.   “As I just said, that won’t stand up as evidence in a court of law, but it’s never let me down, Adam.   Never!”

“How hard can it be to find proof that’ll hold up in court?” Adam asked.

“Very,” Jack replied.   “There’s a very fine line between a legitimate private adoption handled by a lawyer and what amounts to selling babies.”

“Are the babies in question orphans?”

“Adam, you ever hear about a case in Baltimore involving a nun, whose vocation name was Sister Augustine?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Adam replied.

“This happened . . . I think it would’ve been around the time you were getting yourself ready to go east to Harvard,” Jack replied, then grinned.   “I would’ve just finished my first year at Yale.”

“So . . . what about this Sister Augustine?” Adam asked.

“At the time she was a novice with a nursing order based in Baltimore called the Little Sisters of Mercy and Compassion,” Jack began.

“Same order that runs Saint Mary’s Hospital in Virginia City,” Adam said.

Jack nodded.   “The very same.   To make a very long, very sordid story short, Sister Augustine along with Sister Catherine, another novice, and a gorgon of a woman, by all accounts, whose vocation name was ironically Sister Mercy, headed up an institution called Our Lady of Charity Maternity Hospital.”

“Am I correct in assuming that the patients who entered this hospital were unmarried girls who found themselves in the family way?” Adam asked.

“Not entirely,” Jack replied.   “Its intention was to provide a place where poor women, married or not, could go to get proper care during the time they were with child and when the time came for them to give birth.   They would also give families, who wished it, assistance in putting their babies up for adoption.”

Adam’s thoughts drifted back to the terrible dark days immediately following Marie’s death and burial, and the cruel pressure “well meaning” friends and neighbors at that time brought to bear on his grief-stricken father to allow them to adopt his youngest brother, Joe.

“He’s young,” they insisted, particularly the wives.   “He needs a MOTHER’S love and care . . . .”

“You’re . . . thinking about that time, aren’t you.”   Though posed as a question, Jack’s words were a statement of fact.   “I know by that look on your face.”

“Pa almost relented,” Adam said in a tight, angry voice.

“Almost is as good as a mile in my book, Adam,” Jack quietly pointed out.   “Thank God he didn’t for Joe’s sake.”

“Amen to that,” Adam replied, his voice barely audible.   “Pa’s proved himself over the years to be not only a good father, but a good mother as well.   Joe thrived growing up on the Ponderosa with Pa, Hoss, Hop Sing, and me . . . and in MY opinion, he’s turned out a far better man than he would have had he been raised by any one of those people who were so bound and determined to take him off Pa’s hands.”

“Very few men, my own father among them, have the kind of strength your father does,” Jack said.   “For many facing calamity . . . death of the mother in childbirth, perhaps, and the burden of yet another mouth to feed . . . couple with that family and friends pressuring them same as they did your father, it’s a lot easier to give in and tell yourself later that it was best for the child.”

“You seem to speak as a man who knows,” Adam observed with a puzzled frown.

“Because I AM a man who knows,” Jack candidly admitted.   “I was young, barely nineteen years old, and my wife had just died giving birth to our son.   She had no family to speak of . . . my father, may God rest his soul, was sick and dying at the time.   As for my mother . . . all of HER energy was spent in caring for my father.   My older brother wanted to take him and raise him, but his wife was adamantly against it.   With no money and few prospects, I . . . well, at the time I felt I had no choice.”

“I’m sorry, Jack.   I had no idea,” Adam said quietly.

“It was a long time ago,” Jack said, suddenly brusque, “and though I don’t know who adopted my son, I’ve heard from sources I trust that the couple who took him in were very good, kind, and loving people.”

“Thank the good Lord for that,” Adam murmured with heartfelt gratitude.

“At any rate, getting back to Sister Augustine and the Our Lady of Charity Maternity Hospital,” Jack continued, “complaints were made against them by several women who claimed they had signed papers consenting to allow their infants to go up for adoption while still woozy from sedatives given during or right after childbirth.”

“Did anything come of those complaints?” Adam asked.

“Yes, miracle of miracles,” Jack replied.   “Thanks to testimony given by Sister Catherine—”

“She was the other novice nun working with Sisters Augustine and Mercy?”

“Yes.   Thanks to her testimony, the prosecuting attorney and the police found evidence supporting not only the cruelty alleged by Sister Catherine, but of coercing mothers to give up their children for adoption, and kidnapping local children as well,” Jack said.   “The hospital was forced to shut down, Sisters Mercy and Augustine were sentenced to fifteen years in prison, and I believed they were excommunicated from the church as well.   Sister Mercy died in prison not long after.   Sister Augustine escaped from prison a couple of years after she was incarcerated.   She’s not been seen or heard from since.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask this, but . . . what, exactly, happened to your clients’ baby?”

“She died of syphilis less than a year after they ‘adopted‘ her.”

Adam let out a long, slow whistle.   “Tobias sold your clients a baby born to, well, to put this politely, a woman who makes her living selling her charms?”

“It would appear so.”

“Isn’t that risky?”

“Absolutely, for obvious reasons.”

“Jack . . . .”

“Yes, Adam?”

“I received a wire from my father earlier this afternoon that I think may interest you.”   Adam removed the envelope from his drawing table and handed it to Jack.

The message read:

“Benjamin Cartwright                                                                                                                                    Virginia City, Nevada

Adam Cartwright                                                                                                                                     Sacramento, California

Adam,

Can you tell me how to get in touch with Jack Cranston.   Matter urgent.   Need to make inquiries about Tobias Lindsay.

Pa.”

“I’d say this is one hell of an interesting coincidence . . . IF I were a believer in coincidence,” Jack said as he refolded the slip of paper and placed it back into the envelope.   “Adam?”

“Yes, Jack?”

“Do YOU have any idea as to why your father wants me to investigate this Tobias Lindsay?”

“ ‘Fraid not, Jack,” Adam replied.

“I . . . can’t give your father my clients’ names,” Jack said slowly, “but since he’s ALSO interested in this Tobias Lindsay, I see no reason why I can’t share with him the same information I share with them, as long as their anonymity isn’t compromised.”

“Thank you.   My father, I’m sure, will appreciate that very much.”

Jack rose from his seat and stretched.   “If you’d tell me how to get to the telegraph office, I’ll send your father a wire, letting him know I’m willing and able to take the case.   After I take care of THAT little chore, you, uhhh . . . mind if I invite myself to your home for dinner?”   The ingratiating smile and great big sad puppy dog eyes immediately put Adam in mind of his youngest brother, Joe.

Adam chuckled softly for a moment, then turned serious.   “You’re certainly more than welcome to come for dinner, Jack . . . IF you can stomach MY cooking and you feel up to fielding questions from a couple of inquisitive kids,” he said.   “Mrs. Cortez left this morning for Placerville to care for an aunt who fell ill suddenly and my wife will be staying the night with her brother and sister-in-law.”

“Oh?”

“Teresa’s sister-in-law had a baby a couple of days ago. He died a few minutes after he was born.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, Adam,” Jack said somberly.   “If my coming for supper’s going to be too much of an imposition—”

“Not at all,” Adam hastened to reassure.

Jack grinned.   “Well THAT being the case, YOUR cooking sure can’t be any worse than the swill that swabbie used to serve up when we were mates aboard the ol’ Maggie Mae Brunner back in our seafaring days,” he chuckled.   “Lead on, MacDuff!”

Irma Fielding barely heard the grandfather’s clock downstairs in the great room strike the hour of three o’clock . . . in the morning.   She had spent what seemed like the last eternity and a half, walking up and down, back and forth, from one end of her room to the other . . . .

“. . . ad nauseum,” she silently, wryly mused . . . .

. . . with her baby daughter, Cicely Amelia, Cissy for short, cradled in her arms, her face beet red from screaming.   “Please, Lord . . . please, please, please, please . . . .” she silently, desperately prayed, “. . . ooohhh please!   Grant the members of the Cartwright Family the blessed miracle of sleep in the midst of all this terrible racket at this unholy hour of the morning.”

Irma Fielding’s heart and spirits sank when she heard the soft, yet insistent knocking on the fast closed door of her room.   She swallowed nervously, then with fatalistic aplomb, walked over and opened the door.

The Cartwright clan patriarch stood just on the other side of the threshold, clad in robe, nightshirt, and slippers, staring at her through eyes half closed.

“M-Mister Cartwright!   I . . . oh dear, I’m so sorry . . . so very sorry,” Irma immediately stammered out an apology.

“. . . ‘s aw’ride,” Ben half yawned, half groaned, “. . . bou’ duh colic?”

“No, Mister Cartwright, it’s NOT colic.   She’s teething,” Irma replied with helpless resignation, raising her voice in order to be heard above the wailing of the baby lying in her arms.

“She . . . whad ya say?” Ben asked, wincing against Cissy’s agonized cries, now rising steadily in volume.

“She’s TEETHING, Mister Cartwright,” Irma repeated.   Two irregular spots of scarlet blossomed upon her pale cheeks and began to spread.   “I’m sorry she woke you . . . .”

“Tee’din’??!” Ben queried.

“Yes.   Teething.”

“Y’ wan’ me t’ ask Hop Sing t’—??!”

“Oh no, no, no please, Mister Cartwright!   DON’T wake up Hop Sing!” Irma begged.   “She’ll quiet soon . . . .”

Eventually.

How eventually, she had no idea.

“Y’ sure y’ don’ wan’ me t’—??”

“No, Mister Cartwright, please don’t trouble Hop Sing.   I’ll have Cissy quiet soon . . . very soon.”

“Y’ need anything . . . lemme know,” Ben said, punctuating his words with a big yawn.   “. . . uhhh . . . s’cuse me . . . I . . . gonna g’won downstairs.   G’ nide, Miz Fieldin’ . . . . ”

“. . . sorry,” Irma meekly called after him, as he turned and started toward the stairs.

Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, Ben was surprised to find his three younger children and Hop Sing clustered together by the fireplace.

“Oh, uhhh . . . Pa!” Joe half snorted, half yawned upon catching sight of his father.   He sat on the coffee table, cradling the baby boy the family had come to affectionately refer to as Li’l One in his arms, clad in a pair of red and white striped pajama bottoms, robe securely belted and a pair of slippers.   He immediately straightened his posture and yawned again.   “G’ mornin’, Pa . . . .” he groaned softly, grimacing as if in agony.

The sharp, piercing whistle of a tea kettle on the stove out in the kitchen quickly roused a dozing Hop Sing from his lethargy.   He scrambled to his feet from his place on the settee, nearly losing his balance.   “Go now . . . in kitchen . . . Hop Sing make tea for crying baby . . . not care if baby mama like it or not,” he muttered under his breath, as he stumbled out from around the settee.

“. . . and how long’ve the lotta ya been down here?” Ben demanded as he collapsed heavily into  the big red chair.

“Ah dunno, Pa,” Hoss groaned.   He half sat, half slouched in the blue chair, clad in his green and white gingham nightshirt and a pair of slippers, with head resting against the back of the chair, and eyes closed.   “Feels like all night.”

Hop Sing passed through a few moments later, muttering a long string of unintelligible words under his breath, with a teaspoon in one hand and a mug of . . . something . . . in the other.

“How’s OUR Li’l One doin’, Gran’pa?” Stacy asked with a big yawn.   She sat curled up on the settee, wearing a warm pair of pajamas and robe, with her feet tucked up under her.

“I dunno HOW, but he’s fas’ asleep,” Joe murmured softly, his face and manner softening as he gazed down into the face of the sleeping infant he held in his arms.   “Say, uhhh . . . Pa?”

“. . . unnngh?” Ben grunted.

“How long izzat kid upstairs gonna be cuttin’ teeth?” Joe asked, as he turned and gazed at the steps and the environs above with an annoyed frown.

“I don’ remember,” Ben groaned.

“Y’ really don’ remember . . . or y’ don’ WANNA remember?” Hoss moaned.

“. . . uh ohhhh,” Stacy gasped.   “You guys hear THAT?”

“Hear WHAT, Kiddo?” Joe demanded, tired, sleepy, and irritable.   “I don’ hear a . . . .”   His voice trailed off into the near deafening silence that had all of a sudden descended upon the entire household.

“Wha’ happened?!” Hoss snorted, as he wearily straightened his posture and gazed around the room in complete bewilderment.

A moment later, Hop Sing appeared at the top of the stairs with a smug, triumphant grin on his face, humming softly.

“Hey, Hop Sing,” Hoss quietly called out to the Chinese man as he passed by, “you have anything t’ do with why it’s so quiet all uva sudden?”

“Hop Sing make special tea,” he explained, “Chinese mama give to baby cutting teeth.   Help make pain go ‘way, help baby sleep.   Help MAMA sleep, too.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Joe said with deep, profound, heartfelt gratitude.   “C’mon, Li’l One, wha’ say we g’won back t’ bed ‘n salvage wha’ we can uva good night’s sleep?” he cooed to the tiny bundle still sleeping soundly in his arms.

“Stacy?” Ben queried, noting that his daughter hadn’t stirred from her place on the settee.   “You coming?”

“In a little while, Pa,” she murmured softly.   “I promise.”

“Well, I’d best be goin’ up,” Hoss grunted as he hauled himself out of the blue chair to his feet.   “I gotta lot o’ work t’ get done t’morrow, so I’d best get what rest I can.   G’ night, Pa . . . Joe . . . Hop Sing . . . ‘n don’t you be stayin’ up too long, Li’l Sister, y’ hear me?   You need your rest, too.”

“You listen to what Biggest Brother say, Miss Stacy,” Hop Sing added his own two cents worth.   “Almost well, but not all the way well.   STILL need plenty lotsa rest.”

“I won’t stay up too long,” Stacy dolefully promised.   “G’ night, Hoss . . . Gran’pa . . . ‘n Hop Sing . . . .”

“You boys g’won up,” Ben exhorted his sons after bidding Hop Sing good night.   “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”   After the rest of the family had trudged back to their respective beds, Ben sat down on the settee next to his daughter.   “Everything all right?”

“I . . . .” Stacy sighed very softly and shook her head.

“You feel like talking about it?”

“Now?!”

“Now’s as good a time as any,” Ben replied.   “I couldn’t help but notice you were awfully quiet on our way home from Saint Mary’s Hospital this afternoon . . . .”

“It’s Cara, Pa.   I’m worried about her,” Stacy freely confessed.

“I really AM very sorry I didn’t talk with ya about the evidence of cruelty Doctor Martin and Mother Gibson found on her back and leg before we went to see her,” Ben said ruefully.

“I was shocked when I heard about it, but . . . that’s not what’s bothering me,” Stacy said.

“What IS bothering you?” Ben prodded gently.

“I keep thinking if I were in Cara’s place . . . having a baby without being married?   You might not be real happy about that . . . you might even be mad at first, but you’d still LOVE me . . . and the baby, too,” Stacy responded, her voice barely audible, “and I know YOU’D be there for us.   It can’t be an easy thing for a woman or a girl the same age as Cara and me to go through something like that, but knowing you have someone in your corner, who loves you and cares about you can make a terrible circumstance halfway bearable.   Cara doesn’t have anyone in her corner, Pa.”

“From the sound of things, she doesn’t have HER father in her corner,” Ben said sadly, “and I hafta admit that bothers me, too . . . a lot . . . because Cara needs her father now more than she ever has in her whole life.   But, she DOES have someone in her corner . . . at least TWO someones in fact . . . who care about her and the Li’l One very much.”

“Who, Pa?” Stacy asked.

“You and me,” Ben replied with a weary smile.

“Yeah . . . .” Stacy said slowly.   “She DOES have the two of us . . . AND she’s got Hoss, Joe, and Hop Sing, too.”

“Indeed she does,” Ben agreed.

“I . . . hope we can stay in their corner, Pa,” Stacy said, remembering the disturbing conversation between her father and the mother superior after their visit with Cara.

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make it so, Young Woman,” Ben promised.   “In the meantime . . . .”

A bare hint of a smile tweaked the corner of her mouth.   “I know, Pa,” she said with a mock long suffering sigh, “Doctor Martin’s not yet given me an official clean bill of health, and until he does . . . I still need my rest.   Right?”

“That’s EXACTLY right,” Ben said firmly.

“I’m STILL not sleepy,” Stacy said as she and her father rose from the settee to their feet.   “All right if I read for a little while?”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Ben said as they walked across the room toward the stairs.   “How about you getting yourself under the covers, laying your head down on the pillow, and just closing your eyes?   That’s always worked well for your brothers.”

“Ok, Pa,” she said dubiously, “I’ll give it a try . . . .”

“ ‘Mornin’, Hoss.”

Hoss glanced up sharply from his place near the water trough, then grinned upon seeing Sheriff Coffee enter the yard on his horse, Tin Star.   “G’ morning, Roy,” he affably returned the greeting, as he straightened and shook the excess water from his hands.   “We’re just settin’ down t’ breakfast, if ’n you’re of a mind t’ join us.”

“I’m afraid this ain’t a social call,” Roy said as he climbed down from his horse’s back.   “Your pa around?”

“He’s probably inside at the table,” Hoss replied, while blotting his wet hands against his shirt.   “Come on in.”

Roy silently fell in step alongside Hoss.

“Hey . . . Pa?” Hoss called out as he and the sheriff entered through the front door.   “Roy Coffee’s here—”

“Come on in, Roy,” Ben invited, rising from his place at the head of the table.   “Hop Sing—”

“What?!” Hop Sing cried, indignant and outraged.   “You invite guest come, eat breakfast, and NOT tell Hop Sing?!   No good!   Hop Sing quit!   Go back to—”

Roy held up both hands, as if to ward off physical blows.   “ ‘S ok, Hop Sing,” he begged.   “No need t’ git yourself worked up into a lather . . . I ain’t stayin’.”

“Hmpf!   Wha’sa matter?   You not like Hop Sing cooking??!” the Chinese member of the Cartwright family sniffed with angry disdain, then turned heel and stomped back toward the kitchen muttering a long string of colorful invectives in his native tongue.

“Sorry, Ben . . . didn’t MEAN t’ set him off,” Roy immediately apologized.

“It’s all right, Roy,” Ben sighed.   “It’s nothing personal . . . he’s just a mite out of sorts this morning due to lack of sleep.”

Roy grinned.   “That baby y’ folks found on your doorstep keepin’ the lotta ya up?” he asked.

“No,” Stacy sighed, trying her best to stifle the yawn that suddenly threatened to manifest.   “It’s . . . .” she cast a quick, furtive glance over her shoulder toward the stairs, then lowered her voice, “it’s Mrs. Fielding’s baby,” she sighed.

“A li’l fussy, eh?” Roy asked.

“Ohhh brother,” Stacy groaned.

“What can I do for ya, Roy?” Ben asked.

“I got a wire from Sheriff Dudley this mornin’ . . . .”

Hoss frowned.   “He the sheriff over in Carson City?”

“Yep.”   Roy nodded his head.   “Seems a young lady from there’s gone missin’.   Ben . . . .”

“Yes, Roy?” Ben ventured warily.

“The young lady was . . . she was expectin’,” Roy said.   “Accordin’ to that wire from Amos . . . Sheriff Dudley . . . she was due t’ give birth any day when she disappeared.”

“Oh?” Ben queried.

“You folks got any idea . . . any idea at all as t’ who left that baby at your back door?” Roy asked.

“You . . . mind if we talk privately?” Ben queried.   “Outside?”

“Not at all, Ben.”

“When Hop Sing brings the food to the table, you three dig in,” Ben instructed his three younger offspring.   “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Ben and Roy walked across the yard to the corral next to the barn and took up position beside the fence.

“This missing young lady Sheriff Dudley wired you about . . . she have a name?” Ben asked, hoping against hope the wire from Carson City was about another young, expectant mother, who had gone missing.   He knew deep down that such was highly unlikely, but there was always an outside chance.

Roy’s answer shattered that slim, desperate hope into a thousand million pieces:   “Cara Lindsay.   I’m sure you remember the Lindsays, Ben . . . Tobias . . . Eleanora . . . ‘n Cara?”

“I do,” Ben replied with sinking heart.

Roy silently studied his old friend for a moment.   “You SURE you ain’t got any idea as t’ who left that baby on your door step?!” he finally ventured.

“Someone HAS been sleeping in our barn the last few nights,” Ben hedged.   “It’s possible whoever it was MIGHT have left the baby at our back door, but . . . .”  he shrugged, “I can’t tell ya that for absolute certain.   I never even saw who our mystery guest was.”

“Any possibility someone else did?” Roy asked, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.   “Your sons, daughter, or Hop Sing, p’rhaps?   One of the men who works for ya?”

“Anything’s possible, of course,” Ben reluctantly allowed, “but if they had, they would have told me.”

“. . . ‘n you never saw fit t’ report it.”   The sheriff’s words sounded more like an accusation than an inquiry.

“Roy, no one was hurt or threatened in any way . . . nothing was stolen or vandalized . . . I just figured it was some poor fella, down on his luck, looking for a place to get in out of the cold,” Ben explained.   “I freely admit that given my druthers, I’d rather our star boarder had come to me first before taking up residence in one of our empty horse stalls.   I would have offered him food at the very least, and work, if he was of a mind.”

“But seein’ as t’ how no laws were broken, except maybe for trespassin’ . . . ‘n there’s no law against a man bein’ down on his luck, you didn’t see fit t’ report it,” Roy said curtly, growing more certain with each passing minute that Ben Cartwright knew more than he was telling.   A LOT more.

“That’s about the size of it,” Ben replied.

“Ben,” Roy suddenly decided upon the direct approach, “you ain’t harborin’ Cara Lindsay HERE, at the Ponderosa, ‘are ya?   ‘Cause if you are—”

“I’m NOT,” Ben said curtly.

“You’d better NOT be,” Roy warned.   “You’d be in a whole world o’ trouble if y’ ARE, what with her bein’ underage ‘n all.   At the least, Ben . . . at the very least, you’d be lookin’ at a kidnappin’ charge.   If you’re found guilty, it’s a minimum o’ ten years hard labor.”

“Roy, Cara Lindsay is NOT here . . . and unless or until someone comes forward and ADMITS to leaving a baby on my door step, I have no way of knowing where that baby came from or who he might belong to,” Ben insisted.   “Now . . . let me ask YOU something.”

“What?” Roy growled back.

“Who reported that girl missing?” Ben demanded.   “Was it Tobias?”

Roy shook his head.   “I’m sure he was notified—”

“Notified?!” Ben pounced on that with both feet, metaphorically speaking.

“He’s in San Francisco.   That’s all Amos said,” Roy replied.   “Seems a woman, apparently hired by Tobias t’ look after his daughter reported the gal missin’.   Her name’s . . . . ”   He frowned for a moment trying to remember.   “I think it was Crawl . . . oh, dang it all, Crawl-Somethin’-Or-Other . . . .”

A chill shot down the entire length of Ben’s spine, leaving the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.   “Was it . . . Roy . . . was that woman’s name Crawleigh?   VIVIAN Crawleigh?”

“Yeah.   Amos said her name IS Crawleigh, but he didn’t give her first name,” Roy replied.   “Ben, you . . . you ain’t thinkin’ this woman’s the Widow Danvers’ cousin now . . . are ya?!”

“I’d be less than honest if I didn’t admit the thought’s crossed my mind,” Ben said grimly, remembering how terrified Stacy was toward the end of the last school year, when Myra Danvers tried to blackmail him into doing her bidding by threatening his daughter with the prospect of being placed in that woman’s custody.

“I s’pose I can find out, but it ain’t gonna make a shred o’ difference,” Roy said sternly.   “The law says Tobias Lindsay’s got legal custody o’ his daughter AND her baby what with her bein’ a minor,  . . . unless YOU can come up with proof . . . ‘n by proof, I mean SOLID proof, somethin’ that’s gonna stand up in court that shows him t’ be unfit.”

“Roy . . . .”

“What?”

“I’m gonna lay all my cards on the table,” Ben decided.   “But, you’ve got to promise me you’ll hear me out.”

Roy Coffee straightened his posture and folded his arms across his chest.   “Ok, Ben . . . I’m listenin’.”

“As I said before, Cara Lindsay’s not HERE . . . at the Ponderosa,” Ben began.   “She’s a patient at Saint Mary’s Hospital.   Two of my men found her out on the road between here and town, nearly frozen to death day before yesterday.”

“The very same day you found that baby on your doorstep,” Roy quietly, yet very pointedly, observed.

“That’s right.”

“So that baby you got inside IS Cara Lindsay’s baby.”

“Yes.   She admitted to leaving her son outside our kitchen door.”

The scowl on Roy’s face deepened.   “You’ve SEEN Miss Lindsay?” he demanded,

Ben nodded.   “Stacy and I visited her at the hospital yesterday afternoon,” he replied, then, related the details of that visit, including the information given him by Mother Gibson.   He also shared everything Paul Martin had told him and his sons a couple of days before.

“You actually see the wounds on Cara’s back ‘n leg?” Roy asked.

“No, of COURSE not,” Ben said curtly, “but Paul Martin and the sisters presently caring for her HAVE . . . something I’m almost certain they’d be willing to testify to in a court of law, if it comes down to that . . . .”

“Ben, her wounds ARE proof positive SOMEONE’S been beatin’ up on her, I’ll grant ya that,” Roy said curtly.   “But it AIN’T proof Tobias was the one who done it.”

Ben frowned.   “Aww, come ON, Roy,” he snorted derisively, “no one ELSE could’ve—”

“There’s the woman Tobias hired t’ look after the gal,” Roy argued.   “SHE had plenty o’ opportunity t’ hurt that gal . . . more ‘n Tobias when ya consider he went t’ work six days outta the week . . . ‘n if she’s the same Mrs. Crawleigh who was all set t’ take Stacy out t’ Ohio ‘til you ‘n your boys showed up at Fort Charlotte . . . well, from what YOU told me yourself, Ben, she’s got a whole long history o’—”

“Dammit, Roy, so does Tobias!” Ben angrily shot right back.   “You know as well as I do, after Eleanora died, if he wasn’t neglecting that li’l gal of his, he was beating her within an inch of her life for . . . for things she didn’t even do most of the time . . . all because he blamed that poor child for her own mother’s death.   I heard him say so many times . . . and so have YOU.”

“. . . ‘n so did just about every Tom, Dick, ‘n Harry, livin’ here at the time,” Roy said, his voice rising.   “But we couldn’t prove it in a court o’ law then, ‘n ten’ll getcha one, we can’t NOW.”

“Does that mean you intend to hand Cara and her baby over to Tobias when he comes for them?” Ben demanded.

“I don’t like it any more ‘n YOU do, Ben.   But unless you can come up with proof Tobias is unfit, the LAW says that’s EXACTLY what I gotta do.”

“Roy, there‘s GOT to be evidence that proves Tobias is unfit, and I mean to find it,” Ben declared with far more confidence than he felt, “but I need time.”

“I can give ya ten days, Ben.”

“Ten days?!” Ben echoed, dismayed and incredulous.   “That’s all?”

“ ‘Fraid so.”

“That’s not very much time.”

“That’s all I can give ya,” Roy said somberly.   “Assumin’ Amos wired Tobias same time as he wired me, I figure it’s gonna take him that long t’ travel from San Francisco t’ Carson City.   I can’t hold off wirin’ Amos as t’ that gal’s whereabouts any longer ’n THAT.”

Jack Cranston’s gut instincts told him time was of the essence.

After spending what turned out to be a delightful evening and restful night at the home of his old friend and shipmate, Adam Cartwright, he had left Sacramento early the following morning . . . .

“. . . much to the chagrin of those two youngsters of his,” Jack mused silently with a broad grin.   Benjy and Dio Cartwright couldn’t get enough his and their father’s stories about their harrowing adventures on the high seas and in various ports of call around the world.   “Been a long time since I’ve had such a captivating captive audience . . . .”   It seemed they’d barely started when Adam firmly reminded the two children that the next day was a school day, and he’d already allowed them to stay up an hour past their bedtime.

Jack had left the Cartwright abode early next morning after a quick breakfast of toast and coffee.   As he rode back to town intent on purchasing a ticket for the next stage out, his thoughts turned to the wealthy couple who had hired him.

His clients were Mister and Mrs. Reginald Alfonse Wyndham, a pair of socialites who reminded him of the pickle faced Mister and Mrs. Andrews, whose portraits had been rendered by an English painter named Gainsborough.   Theirs . . . the Wyndhams . . . was a marriage of convenience linking the name of a venerable, though impoverished, old family to wealth accumulated by a ruthless business man and his social climbing wife.   Though they had been married the better part of the last decade, they yet remained without issue, to put matters in Biblical terms.

Three years ago, the Wyndhams decided to adopt a baby, and were put in contact with Tobias Lindsay, Esquire, through the cousin of a woman who had been a close friend of Mrs. Wyndham’s mother for many years.   The attorney procured them a baby girl in amazingly short order, much to the delight of the adoptive parents and grandparents.   Their joy was extremely short lived, for less than two years later, the child was dead.   The Wyndhams’ physician declared the cause of death to be an illness passed through intimate contact, to use the polite words.

Almost from the minute their child was declared dead, the Wyndhams began to seek redress from Mister Lindsay, to no avail.   Now . . . finally . . . as a last resort, they had turned to the Pinkerton Agency, at the urging of Mrs. Wyndham’s mother.

“According to the report, the Wyndhams agreed to pay this Mister Lindsay nine thousand bucks up front . . . and nine thousand more on delivery,” Jack silently mused.   Plus expenses.   Quite a bit, in his own humble opinion, to pay a lawyer to simply draw up adoption papers . . . .

Upon arriving back in Sacramento, Jack learned that the very next stage scheduled to leave that morning was carrying freight consisting of six bags of mail bound for Carson City and three large trunks on the first leg of a journey from Sacramento to some big city back east, but no passengers.

“So . . . when does the next stage after THAT leave?” Jack asked the ticket agent at the stage depot.

“Ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” the small, rotund little man replied.

“Too late,” Jack muttered under his breath.

“What’d you say, Mister?”

“I said I’m in a hurry,” Jack replied as he placed two five dollar bills on the counter.

“Why?   You rob a bank or something?” the ticket agent queried, favoring Jack with a suspicious glare.

“No, and for the record, I’ve not KILLED anybody either,” Jack said, “but I DO need to reach Carson City as soon as possible if not sooner,  and I’m more than willing to make it worth your while.”   He took another five dollar bill from his wallet and placed down on top of the two lying on the counter.

“I’m gonna hafta charge you by the pound, Mister,” the ticket agent said firmly, as he grabbed the three five dollar bills from the counter and stuffed them into his shirt pocket.

“ ‘S ok,” Jack agreed with an indifferent shrug, “the folks I’m working for can well afford to pick up the tab.”

“Ain’t often I find myself haulin’ people on the mail run,” the driver off handedly remarked to the big man riding shotgun beside him, with a freight ticket pinned to his jacket, after they had passed beyond the city limits of Sacramento.

Jack Cranston looked over at the driver and grinned.   “Like I told the man behind the ticket counter back in Sacramento, I need to be in Carson,” he replied, “sooner as opposed to later.”

“Still ‘n all, big fella like YOU payin’ by the pound, must’ve cost a pretty penny,” the driver said.   “. . . uhhh, you ain’t some kinda lawman or somethin’ . . . ARE ya?”

“Nope.   I‘m NOT a lawman,” Jack replied.   He, then, turned and held out his hand.   “Name’s Jack Cranston.”

“Angus Dawson,” the driver replied, as they quickly shook hands.   “Your trip t’ Carson City . . . is it business or pleasure?”

“I hope to combine a little bit of both,” Jack replied.   “A good friend of mine told me I should look up a man by the name of Lindsay . . . Tobias Lindsay . . . after I’ve taken care of business.   Said this guy could show me a very good time.”

Angus snorted derisively.   “That ol’ sourpuss?!   Mister Cranston . . . . ”

“Aww, you might as well call me Jack,” the Pinkerton man said.   “We’ve got a long trip ahead of us and besides . . . I’ve always tended to think of Mister Cranston as being my PA’S name.”

“Fine ‘n dandy with me, if YOU’LL call me Angus,” the driver said.

“You, uhhh . . . sound as if you don’t care too much for this Mister Lindsay,” Jack remarked.

“Jack, I’m gonna be up front ‘n honest.   Either that ‘good’ friend o’ yours is pullin’ real hard on your leg or he ain’t the good friend you think he is,” Angus said bluntly.

“Oh?”

“Mister Lindsay’s a good enough lawyer, I s’pose, if ya want a man t’ help ya draw up a will . . . or maybe look over a contract to make sure everything’s on the up ‘n up, but he’s no one’s friend.”

“Really?”

“ ‘Fraid so.”

“Why’s that?”

“I guess the biggest reason is the way he thinks he’s worlds better ‘n everybody else,” Angus said, grimacing as if he had just bitten into something incredibly sour.   “His ma, God rest her soul, was the exact same way.   Nobody good enough to associate with ‘em.”

“Sounds lonely.”

“ . . . sure does, now that ya say so,” Angus said wryly.   “Still ‘n all, I can’t say I feel sorry for him or that ol’ battle axe he called Ma.   I mean a man . . . and a woman, too . . . reap what they sow, right?”

“Yes, that’s very true,” Jack agreed.   “Sad perhaps, but true nonetheless.”

“The one I DO feel sorry for is that li’l gal of his,” Angus continued, his voice softening a mite.

“Mister Lindsay has a daughter?” Jack asked.

“Yep.  Now mind, I’ve only seen her in passing,” Angus said, “but when I HAVE seen her?   She’s always looked so sad.”

“What about the child’s mother?” Jack asked.

“Dead ‘n buried, may God rest her soul,” Angus replied.   “I heard tell she was killed in some kinda street accident in Virginia City . . . , ”   He frowned, while he silently worked out the time.   “It’s been a good ten years at least.   Maybe eleven.”

“Virginia City?” Jack echoed, as he turned and looked over at the driver with left eyebrow slightly upraised.   “Kind of a long way from home, isn’t it?”

“Virginia City WAS home back when his wife was still livin’,” Angus explained.   “He made quite a name for himself, too, not long before his wife died.”

“Really?   How so?” Jack asked.

“Seems he proved a young man . . . a local boy . . . innocent o’ murder ‘n saved him from a sure hangin’ ” Angus replied.   “That boy didn‘t have ONE deck stacked against him . . . he had two, maybe three.”

“. . . and this Tobias Lindsay got him off?”

Angus nodded.   “He not only got that boy off, but found out who really done it t’ boot.”

“Impressive,” Jack murmured softly.   “Very impressive.  He must have quite a reputation for himself as a defense attorney by this time.”

“He would’ve, I suppose, if his wife hadn’t died the way she did,” Angus said.   “I don’t know all the details, but damn near everyone over there says he saw her die, but couldn’t do anything to stop it.   He took to drinkin’, ‘n by all accounts damn near drunk himself t’ death.”

“That’s a shame,” Jack said, not without a small measure of sympathy.

“Ol’ Miz Lindsay, his ma that is, went t’ Virginia City ‘n brought him and his li’l gal t’ live with HER in Carson,” Angus said.   “She went on t’ HER reward . . . I think it’s been two years now, maybe three.   Caught cold just after Christmas that turned t’ pneumonia.   Caught a lot o’ folks by surprise, though . . . . ”

“Oh?”

“Yep!   Folks said she was so mean she didn‘t merit heaven ‘n the devil wasn’t real anxious to have her around,” Angus guffawed.

An amused smile pulled at the corner of Jack Cranston’s mouth.   “A woman like that . . . .” he chuckled softly and shook his head.   “I, uhhh, hope her shade’s not come back to haunt the ol’ homestead.”

“Amen t’ THAT!” Angus muttered, as he hurriedly crossed himself.

“So what’s Tobias doing these days now that his mother’s gone, his daughter’s grown, like as not, and he’s not gone on to be a stellar defense attorney?” Jack asked.

“Like I said, he does lawyer work . . . nothin’ fancy like being a trial lawyer, mind, just the everyday, hum-drum stuff,” Angus replied.   “Although . . . .”

“Although . . . what?’ Jack prompted when the stagecoach driver didn’t immediately resume.

“Maybe I shouldn’t say anything,” Angus said ruefully.   “T’ was a rumor goin’ around awhile back . . . nothin’ but idle gossip, like as not . . . .”

“Now you’ve really got me curious,” Jack said with a grin.

“I dunno . . . .” Angus murmured, shaking his head.

“I assure you, I’m the soul of discretion,” Jack said, then shrugged.   “But, if you don’t feel right in telling me . . . .”

“Well, maybe there’s no harm, since nothin’s ever come of it,” Angus hedged.   “Now mind, I ain’t that well acquainted with Mister Lindsay . . . .”

“I understand.”

“I, uhh, s’pose a lawyer like Mister Lindsay can make a decent enough livin’ doin’ what he does ‘n all . . . .”

“You mean drawing up wills, things like that?” Jack queried.

“Yeah,” Angus replied.   “Some folks though . . . Miss Barnes mostly . . . .”

“Who’s Miss Barnes?”

“Her name’s Iva Mae Barnes.   Works at the post office.   She’s the kind who makes a point o’ knowing everybody’s business, if ya get what I mean.”

Jack grinned.   “Sounds like the town gossip.”

“Dang walkin’ newspaper, that’s what she is,” Angus said rancorously.   “Piece of advice. Jack?”

“What’s that?”

“If you have the misfortune o’ runnin’ into that woman when ya hit Carson?   Don’t speak, don’t tip your hat, don’t look her in the eye,” Angus said.   “You do, she’ll talk your ear right off.”

“Thanks for telling me, Angus,” Jack said, while making himself a mental note to seek out this Iva Mae Barnes as soon as possible after reaching Carson City.   “So what’s Miss Barnes have to say about Mister Lindsay?”

“She prattles on ‘n on about how Mister Linday’s livin’ beyond his means,” Angus explained.   “Got a point about his clothes, I reckon . . . .”

“How so?” Jack asked.

“Anytime I’VE ever seen him, he’s ALWAYS in his Sunday best,” Angus replied.   “Real fine material, ‘n custom made t’ boot, takin’ into account how well everything seems t’ fit him.   None o’ that comes cheap y’ know.”

“I know, believe me,” Jack said with a sigh.

“He also bought himself a real fine house not long after the old lady died.”

“His mother?”

Angus nodded.   “Sold her house in town ‘n moved into a real fancy place out in Gold Hill.   That I know for fact.”   He fell silent for a moment, then added as an afterthought, “ ‘Course it’s possible the old lady left him a big pile o’ money when she went to her reward.”

“Wealthy?”

“Had more gold than ol’ King Midas, so I’ve heard, ’n a miserly ol’ bag t’ boot.”

“Sounds like my ma’s oldest sister,” Jack observed with a chuckle.   “Aunt Jennie.   My pa once said she was so grasping, she could squeeze two bits together and come up with a buck in change.”

Angus threw back his head and roared.   “Yep.   Sounds like the late Mrs. Lindsay ’n your Aunt Jenny had a lot in common.”   He sighed and shook his head.   “Miss Barnes swore up ‘n down the ol’ lady bought her furniture ‘n clothes second hand from the church thrift shop.”

“So did Aunt Jenny.”

“Don’t rightly know how much ol’ Mrs. Lindsay had put by, but she must still be rollin’ over in her grave at the way her son ran through it all like water,” Angus continued, “what with that big house he bought . . . the fancy duds, ’n all the trips he’s been makin’ out t’ San Francisco.”

“San Francisco, ‘ey?” Jack queried.   “Business or pleasure?”

“Don’t rightly know,” Angus grunted, “but if I was to guess?   I’d say business ‘cause the man’s been sober as a judge since he and his li’l gal moved in with the ol’ lady, ‘n . . . well, takin’ into account how he thinks himself better ‘n everyone else, he ain’t the type to take up with a lady o’ the evenin’ if you, ummm . . . get my drift?”

“I do,” Jack said, “I do indeed.”

“I remember hearin’ a rumor goin’ ‘round . . . ohh, not long after the ol’ lady went to her reward, God bless her soul,” Angus continued.   “Somethin’ ‘bout him buyin’ babies ‘n sellin’ them to rich folks out in San Francisco.”

Jack turned to Angus with left eyebrow slightly upraised.   According to the report given him by his immediate supervisor that little piece of scuttlebutt would have been making the rounds when the Wyndhams’ adopted their baby daughter.

“Yeah . . . I know . . . sounds kinda silly when ya say it out loud,” Angus continued with a sheepish grin.   “Somebody, like as not, took it the wrong way when he looked over adoption papers f’r someone else ‘n told Miss Barnes.”

“So . . . out of curiosity . . . you know anything about Mister Lindsay’s daughter?” Jack asked.   “Apart from the fact that she looks very sad every time you’ve seen her?”

“She ain’t much of a LI’L gal actually.   Old enough t’ leave school, I think,” Angus replied, “but y’ know . . . now that I think on it, I ain’t seen much of her since . . . .”   He fell silent for a moment to do a bit of mental figuring.   “I guess it’s been since last fall.   Saw him ‘n that ol’ grouch of a housekeeper in church back in November, on the day Mister Lincoln, may God rest his soul, declared t’ be a day for givin’ thanks,” Angus said slowly, “but not the girl.”

“Has she been ill?”

Angus shrugged.   “I really can’t say . . . .”

After breakfast, Ben retreated his favorite chair next to the fireplace with Roy Coffee’s words still echoing in his ears.

“I can give ya ten days, Ben.”

 “Ten days?!   That’s all?”

 “ ‘Fraid so.”

 “That’s not very much time.”

 “That’s all I can give ya . . . .”

A week and a half . . . .

Ten days!

Assuming Adam DID know how to reach his friend, the Pinkerton Detective, it was highly unlikely that man could reach Virginia City in time to help Ben unearth the evidence needed to prevent Tobias Lindsay from resuming custody of his daughter and infant grandson.

A knock at the door drew the head of the Cartwright household from his doleful musings, much to his relief.   “I’LL get it, Hop Sing,” he called out as he rose and stretched.

The caller was Father Rutherford.

“Brendan!   Good to see you.   Please . . . come in,” Ben invited, greeting the priest with a warm smile.

“Thank you, Ben,” Father Brendan replied, as he stepped into the house and divested himself of his coat and hat.   “George at the telegraph office asked me to bring you this . . . .”   He fished an envelope out of the inside pocket of his coat before hanging it along with his hat on one of the pegs beside the door.

“Thank you,” Ben responded.   “Probably from Adam . . . . ”

“How’s he doing, Ben?” Father Brendan asked as the two men walked over toward the furniture clustered around the fireplace.

“He, Teresa, and the children are doing fine,” Ben replied.   He invited the priest to sit with a broad sweeping gesture of his arm, then resumed his place in the red leather chair.

Father Brendan smiled.   “I’m very glad to hear it,” he murmured softly with a complacent smile.   “No more interactions with the, ummm . . . supernatural?”

“No, thank heaven,” Ben replied, as Father Brendan sat down on the end of the settee nearest the red leather chair.   He opened the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper, neatly folded in half.   The message was indeed the expected reply from Adam:

“Adam Cartwright                                                                                                                                 Sacramento, California

Benjamin Cartwright                                                                                                                                     Virginia City, Nevada

Pa,

Jack Cranston already investigating T Lindsay for unnamed clients, willing to share information.  Heading for Carson, will contact you on arrival.

Adam.”

“I . . . hope it’s not bad news . . . .” Father Brendan ventured, as Ben returned the slip of paper to the envelope.

Ben shook his head.   “No . . . not bad news,” he replied, “though it still may end up being too little too late to help Cara Lindsay.”

“Oh?”

Ben shared the contents of the wire with Father Brendan.   “In the meantime, Roy Coffee got a wire from the sheriff in Carson City informing him of the girl’s disappearance.   He’s given me ten days to come up with proof that Cara has good reason to be afraid of Tobias . . . and that his intentions toward his grandson may not be in the boy’s best interests,” Ben explained.

“Am I to assume you believe Miss Lindsay’s allegations?” Father Brendan asked.

“Like I told Roy earlier . . . I don’t know WHAT to believe,” Ben replied.   “On the one hand, I find it very difficult to imagine that a man would actually sell his grandchild . . . his own flesh and blood . . . to the highest bidder, even if that child WAS born out of wedlock.  However . . . .”

“Yes?”

“After talking with Cara, there’s no doubt in MY mind that SHE believes her own allegations,” Ben continued in a somber tone of voice, “and those beliefs have led her to make reckless and desperate decisions that could have all to easily ended up costing her life and the life of her baby.   That and the physical abuse she’s suffered tells me something’s very wrong, Brendan.”

“I agree with you one hundred percent, Ben.   Mother Catherine told me this morning that Miss Lindsay opened up a little to Sister Anne last night . . . . ”

“I’m listening.”

“The father of her child is a young man by the name of Gabe Jarvis,” Father Brendan began.

“Gabe Jarvis . . . Gabe Jarvis,” Ben repeated the name slowly.   He frowned.   “I feel I should know that name . . . .”

“I did, too,” Father Brendan said, “so I did some checking.”

“. . . and?”

“In the baptismal records, dated roughly seventeen going on eighteen years ago, I found an infant, aged three months, by the name Gabriel Harrison Jarvis,” Father Brendan replied.   “His parents were Raymond Jarvis and the former Abigail Harrison.”

“Ray Jarvis?!”

Father Brendan nodded his head.

“Yes . . . NOW I remember . . . .” Ben said slowly.   “Ray Jarvis came to work for me . . . had to be within a year or two after Adam left to attend college.   They had three daughters, then, and a year or so later, had a son, whom they named Gabriel, for Ray’s oldest brother, who died young in a hunting accident.

“The Jarvis family left a few years later,” Ben continued.   “Ray said an uncle had died and left him a substantial sum of money . . . more than enough to buy the farm he‘d always dreamed of.   Last I heard the Jarvis family purchased a respectable plot of land a few miles north of Carson City,”

“I‘d heard that, too,” Brendan said.   “Cara told Sister Anne she met Gabe for the first time at the general store when she and her grandmother stopped in to make a few purchases.   The both of them were almost thirteen.   They were friends at first, something she kept from her father and grandmother because she knew they wouldn’t approve.   Over time, their friendship deepened, and grew into . . . something more.”

“THAT being the case, I’d sure like to know where Gabe IS in all of this,” Ben said with a scowl on his face.   “The Ray Jarvis I remember was a decent, honorable man.   I can’t imagine he’d allow his son to turn away from HIS responsibility to Cara and that li’l one upstairs.”

“First of all, Ben, I have the feeling that Ray Jarvis died some years ago,” Father Brendan said slowly.   “When Cara met Gabe, he was WORKING for the man who owns the general store to help support his family.   Second, Sister Anne told me that Gabe knows nothing about the baby, and that Cara’s quite adamant that he NEVER know.”

“Really?   Did she say why?”

Brendan shook his head.

“Did Cara say whether or not TOBIAS knows about Gabe being the father of her child?” Ben asked.

“According to Sister Anne, Cara refused to tell him who the father of her child is,” Brendan replied.   “Ben . . . .”

“Yes, Brendan?”

“If there’s anything I can do to help . . . anything at all . . . .”   A wry smile tugged hard at the corner of his mouth.   “I could even go to Carson City and nose around what with Monsignor Kramer going through his annual ‘you’re supposed to be retired, Father Brendan, it’s past time you acted like it’ phase about three weeks early.”

“Joe’s leaving for Carson City tomorrow morning to do just that,” Ben said slowly.   “I’ll pass on to him everything you just told me, and ask him find the Jarvis family and pay Gabe a visit.   If that young man honest ‘n truly DOESN’T know about that li’l one upstairs . . . I, for one, think it’s high time he DID, Cara’s protestations aside.”

“I’m with YOU, Ben,” Father Brendan said earnestly.   “It’s not right for Cara to be carrying this burden alone.   When I return to the rectory, I’ll certainly keep my ear to the ground.   If I find out anything else about the Lindsays, I’ll send you word.”

“Thank you,” Ben said gratefully.   “In the meantime, if you’re in no hurry to return to town, Hop Sing will be serving up lunch in about another hour or so, if you’d care to stay.”

“Thank you, Ben,” Father Brendan responded with a broad grin.   “I think I WILL take you up on your invitation.   It’s been far too long since I last sat down to one of Hop Sing’s fine meals.”

“Oh NO!   No!” Mother Catherine groaned.   She stood behind the desk in her office, with head bowed, eyes closed, gingerly massaging her temples against what she hoped and prayed wouldn’t turn into another migraine.   “Father Kramer . . . please!   Tell me you DIDN’T!”

Monsignor Obadiah Kramer took a deep breath and pulled himself up to the very fullness of his height of three inches shorter than the mother superior.   “I most certainly and assuredly DID!” he declared stoutly, with an emphatic nod of his head and beefy arms folded defiantly across his broad chest.

“You had no right!” Sister Anne cried out, anguished and alarmed.

“I had EVERY right, Sister, and a moral OBLIGATION,” Monsignor Obadiah returned in a lofty, imperious tone of voice.   “Are either of you aware that Miss Lindsay is a runaway?”

“What Miss Lindsay may be or may NOT be for that matter is completely irrelevant, Monsignor,” Mother Catherine countered, all the while laboring valiantly to keep her swift rising anger from getting the better of her.   “At the moment, Miss Lindsay is our PATIENT.”

“Were you aware that the sheriff of Carson City sent Sheriff Coffee a wire inquiring as to Miss Lindsay’s whereabouts?” the monsignor continued his interrogation, very pointedly focusing his entire attention on the mother superior.   “Seems someone over there reported her missing.”

“I did NOT know that,” Mother Catherine replied quite truthfully, “and even if I DID, it wouldn’t have mattered.   Miss Lindsay is in desperate need of medical attention and care, which WE’RE morally obligated to provide no matter what her circumstances.”

“That doesn’t alter the fact that YOU were required BY LAW, Mother Gibson, to notify that child’s father as to her whereabouts the instant you learned of her identity,” Monsignor Obadiah stubbornly maintained.   “Your refusal to do so left me no choice BUT to send a wire to Mister Lindsay myself, informing him that his daughter is here in your hospital.”

“How COULD you?!” Sister Anne demanded, leveling a murderous glare at the monsignor.   “Don’t you realize that girl’s father is . . . well, if he’s NOT evil incarnate, he comes damned close.”   Her entire body trembled with rage toward the monsignor, and fear for her patient.

“I will NOT have one such as YOU speaking to me in that manner, Sister,” Monsignor Obadiah said stiffly, “and if you’re referring to Miss Lindsay’s ridiculous assertions about her own father wanting to sell her baby—”

“. . . and how would YOU know about that?” Mother Catherine demanded.   She stood with her back straight as a poker with fists planted firmly on her hips.   “I didn’t—”

“No, YOU didn’t, Mother Gibson,” Monsignor Obadiah returned, “and you were very remiss in your duties by not keeping me informed.   Thank the Lord there’s someone among you who IS aware of her place and her duty, else your community, your entire order, and MY church would have almost certainly ended up in a whole world of trouble with the law.”

“. . . and did Sister Gertrude ALSO tell you about the scars and open wounds  on her back . . . or about the burn on her leg that’s become badly infected, Monsignor?!” Mother Catherine asked, taking perverse satisfaction in seeing the shocked look on his face when she named the informer.

“H-How—?!”

“It’s NO secret that Sister Gertrude’s been toadying up to you almost from the minute you arrived at Saint Mary’s in the hope that you’ll appoint her as MY successor,” Mother Gibson said with a touch of rancor.

“THAT decision is not mine to make, as YOU very well know,” Monsignor Obadiah returned.   Though he looked her straight in the face, his eyes fell very short of meeting hers.   “The governing counsel in Baltimore and the diocesan bishop who oversees them decide who is to become mother superior in your place.”

“Apparently Sister Gertrude has forgotten,” Mother Catherine wryly observed.   “I DO hope you’ll see fit to remind her at some point in time.”

“Mother Gibson . . . are you accusing her father of inflicting the grievous wounds you speak of on the person of his daughter?” Monsignor Obadiah growled, pointedly ignoring her previous remark.

“Yes,” Sister Anne angrily shot right back.   “Who ELSE could have beat her so cruelly?!”

“Do you have anything to offer as PROOF?”

“No,” Mother Catherine responded through clenched teeth.

“Then let me give you both OTHER food for thought.   Though we’ve no idea for sure how long that girl’s been on the run, it’s more than clear she’s been on her own for quite a while.   With no money, I would imagine, and nothing but whatever clothing she had on her back, she almost certainly had to STEAL food . . . and clothing, too, as her own wore thin . . . OR the money to buy them,” Monsignor Obadiah said, his voice filled with smug contempt.   “Has it ever occurred to either of you that the marks on Miss Lindsay’s back are the result of a well-deserved beating from someone who caught her stealing from him?”

“While I’m forced to admit that it’s possible Miss Lindsay came by some of her most recent wounds that way, it does NOT account for the scarring left by older wounds,” Mother Catherine countered, “nor does that adequately explain that burn wound someone inflicted on her leg.”

“All right, for the sake of argument, Mother Gibson, let’s assume someone WAS cruel to that girl,” the monsignor said stiffly.   “You still have no proof her father was the person responsible.”

“. . . any more than YOU have proof, Monsignor, of Mister Lindsay’s innocence,” Mother Catherine shot right back.

Monsignor Obadiah glared murderously at the mother superior for a long moment, rendered speechless by what he saw as a blatant challenge on her part to the power and authority, which rightfully belonged to HIM.   He abruptly cleared his throat.   “Mother Gibson, in view of your record, I CAN and SHOULD by all rights have you excommunicated for your involvement in this disgraceful affair, but I won’t since you’ll soon be leaving our community to care for your ailing your sister,” he said stiffly.

“As for YOU, Sister Anne,” he continued, “I’ll chalk up YOUR involvement in this to having been under influence that’s been VERY questionable THIS TIME.   But mind . . . YOU tread on thin ice.   On VERY thin ice.”

With that, the monsignor abruptly turned heel and strode briskly out of the mother superior’s office.

“Oh, Mother . . . NOW what’ll we do?!” Sister Anne wailed, wringing her hands.

“I’m reasonably certain we can make a good, solid case for keeping Miss Lindsay HERE given her precarious physical condition,” Mother Catherine said grimly.   “We’ll need Doctor Martin’s testimony, but I foresee no difficulty with that.   He was every bit as incensed as WE were when he saw Miss Lindsay’s wounds.”

“REASONABLY certain?!” Sister Anne repeated those words over and over in her mind, as she twisted her cincture in her hands.   Though the mother superior’s words were meant as comfort and encouragement, she was very far from feeling reassured.

“I must get word to Mister Cartwright . . . and Father Rutherford, too . . . about this latest development,” Mother Catherine continued, “as soon as possible.”

“Where IS Father Rutherford?”

“At the Ponderosa,” Mother Catherine replied.   “He left right after breakfast to see Mister Cartwright and to bring him up to date on the things Miss Lindsay told us last night.”

“Shall I send the stable boy out to the Ponderosa?”

Mother Catherine shook her head.   “I’LL dispatch the stable boy.”   A scowl black as a dangerous thundercloud deepened the lines and creases already present in her brow.   “In the meantime, you’d best get back to your patient, but for now say nothing about Father Kramer’s actions.”

“Yes, Mother,” Sister Anne murmured softly, her thoughts churning a mile a minute.   She was bound and determined that Cara Lindsay NOT be handed over to her father, law or no law, damn the consequences AND Monsignor Kramer, come what may.

“Mister Cartwright . . . if you, um . . . don’t mind my asking . . . what do you intend to do with that baby boy upstairs?” Irma Fielding ventured hesitantly.   “Do YOU plan to adopt him?”

“Why do you ask?” Ben hedged, as he, his daughter, Mrs. Fielding, and Father Brendan sat down together at the dining room table for the noon meal.

“It’s NOT out of idle curiosity, of that I can assure you,” Irma returned, indignant, yet very much on the defensive.   “I’m sure you know my sister, Lucille Ames . . . .”

Ben did indeed.   She had married William Ames, a dour, taciturn man and owner of a small spread called Easy Eight, and in the nine years following, gave him seven, healthy, robust children . . . all girls.   The birth of the youngest, however, had proved exceedingly difficult, and Doctor Martin had sternly cautioned the Ames against having more children.   Billy Ames never forced the issue with his wife, not wanting the prospect of her death in childbirth to burden his conscience, but the physician’s pronouncement nonetheless left him a bitter, disappointed man for he had desired a son above all else.

“Are you suggesting that I allow your sister and her husband to adopt the li’l one upstairs?” Ben asked, appalled by the very thought.

“Yes,” Irma replied.   “Though not rich, Billy and Lucille make a decent enough living with the Easy Eight Ranch, and are well able to provide for—”

“But . . . don’t they already HAVE seven children!?” Stacy gasped.   The members of the Ames family kept to themselves by and large; and though they had always been polite enough anytime she had a chance encounter with them in town, they didn’t strike her as being a very happy family or a loving one.

“Yes, they do indeed have seven children,” Irma replied, “but ALL of them are GIRLS.   A man needs a SON to carry on his name, otherwise his line dies with him.”   She sighed and shook her head mournfully.   “. . . and poor Lucille, bless her dear heart, can’t have any more children.”

“B-But Mister Ames’ line WON’T die with him,” Stacy argued.   “His blood . . . and your sister’s, too . . . WILL continue through their daughters’ children and grandchildren.”

“Yes, Dear, but that’s NOT quite the same,” Irma said primly, in a faintly condescending tone of voice that made Stacy’s blood boil.

“Before giving any consideration to allowing someone to adopt that young man upstairs, I want to find out who his natural parents are . . . if I can,” Ben said quietly.

“Mister Cartwright!   Surely y-you’re not thinking of . . . of giving that poor child upstairs back to the people who abandoned him?!” Irma gasped, horrified by the very notion.

“Pa said THEY probably need help, too . . . just like that li’l one upstairs,” Stacy quietly took up for her father.

“Perhaps that’s so,” Irma had to agree, then, all of a sudden, her whole face brightened.   “If that child’s natural parents prove to be unfit . . . and frankly, Mister Cartwright, I for one would be very surprised if they weren’t.   Unfit, I mean.   At any rate, I DO hope you’ll keep my sister in mind.”

“We’ll see,” Ben said evasively.

“Pa?”   It was Joe.   He ambled into the dining room from the kitchen, with Hoss following close behind.   “Hey!”   He grinned upon seeing Father Brendan seated at the table.   “Long time no see, Padre!   How’ve you been keeping yourself?”

Father Brendan rose, and shook hands first with Joe, then with Hoss.   “I’ve been keeping myself quite busy, for a man who’s supposed to be semi-retired,” he replied, returning Joe’s smile with a warm one of his own.   “How about YOU?”

“Tired, and glad to see spring’s well on her way now,” Joe replied, his emerald green eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Tired?” Father Brendan queried.

“Yep . . . tired,” Joe replied, his face a comically grotesque caricature of extreme weariness.   He pulled out his chair from under the table and plopped himself down.   “YOU would be, too, if you had someone like li’l sister over there . . . who was sick all winter . . . keeping you on YOUR toes.”

“Really, Grandpa, you oughtta be grateful,” Stacy returned with mock severity.

“Grateful?!” Joe echoed.   “Grateful?   For what?!”

Stacy grinned.   “For all the exercise you got from my keeping you on your toes,” she replied.   “This is gonna be the first springtime ever we won’t hafta hear you griping about the love handles you usually grow during the winter.”

“Hmpf!   I’ll have YOU know, Kiddo, that I have never, not in my whole life, EVER, had love handles,” Joe immediately returned in a lofty tone of voice.   The snooty look on his face, affected for his sister’s benefit, quickly underwent a transformation to one of pure mischief, as he turned his attention toward Hoss.   “Now Big Brother on the other hand . . . .”

Hoss opened his mouth to give voice to the snappy retort sitting at the very tip of his tongue.

“Hoss,” Ben said sternly, noting with a measure of relief that his big son immediately closed his mouth without uttering a word.   “Joe . . . Stacy, you, too.   We have guests.”   This last he said with a pointed glance over at Father Brendan and at Irma Fielding’s beet red face.

“Yes, Pa,” Joe and Stacy responded in unison.

Hop Sing served up a scrumptious meal of pork roast, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, applesauce, hot fluffy biscuits fresh from the oven, and apple pie left over from supper the night before.   As the Cartwright family and their guests began eating their noon meal, there was a loud, insistent knocking on the front door.

“I’ll get it,” Joe offered.   He rose to his feet and in very short order reached the door.

Standing on the porch outside was a young man, tall and reed slender.  He clutched his hat in one hand, as he shifted nervously from one foot to the other.   “. . . uhh . . . you Mister Cartwright?” he asked.

Joe grinned.  “I’m one of three,” he replied.  “Which one are you looking for?”

“I have a message from Mother Superior for . . . .”   He frowned for a moment trying to remember.   “I think she said to tell Mister BEN Cartwright?”

“Hey, Pa?” Joe turned toward the dining room and called out.   “Pa, there’s someone here to see you.”

“Ask him in,” Ben replied, then turned to his daughter.   “Stacy, would you please ask Hop Sing to set another place?”

“Yes, Pa,” she replied, rising.

“Paul!” Father Brendan exclaimed, mildly surprised to see the rectory’s stable boy, Paul Klein, following Joe into the dining room.   “Is . . . everything all right?”

Paul shook his head as he seated himself at the table.   “Mother Superior sent me here with a message for Mister Cartwright, but she also told me that you might be here . . . and if you were?   She said I should tell YOU, too.”

“Young Man, does your message have anything to do with the patient my daughter and I visited yesterday?” Ben asked, with a sidelong glance over at Irma Fielding, who had placed her fork on the table alongside her place, and now watched Paul and Father Brendan with keen interest.

“Yes, Sir,” Paul replied.

“Miss Lin—?!

Ben placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder and shook his head, effectively stopping him from uttering the patient‘s name.   “Brendan . . . and you, too, Young Man . . . why don’t we step over to my study?” he suggested.   “The rest of you . . . .” he continued, turning his attention to his sons, daughter, and Irma Fielding, “please excuse us.   We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Well!   I wonder what THAT’S all about.” Irma murmured softly, her eyes glued to the retreating backs of clan patriarch, priest, and stable boy.

“He did . . . WHAT?!” Father Brendan roared, angry and incredulous, less than a moment later.

“M-Mother Superior said to tell Mister Cartwright . . . and you, too, Father . . . that the monsignor sent a wire to the father of that girl Sister Anne’s been lookin’ after, tellin’ him where she is,” Paul nervously repeated his message, taken completely aback by the priest’s emotional outburst.

“Why that . . . that pompous—!!!   So HELP me, when I get my hands on that self-righteous little toad—!!!”

“Simmer down, Brendan,” Ben warned, sotto voce.

Father Brendan’s anger immediately evaporated upon seeing the astonishment in Ben’s face and the wariness in Paul’s.   “Sorry,” the priest ruefully apologized.   “It’s just that I—”

Ben placed his hand on Father Brendan’s shoulder and gently squeezed.   “It’s all right, Brendan, I understand,” he said, before turning his attention to Paul.   “Thank you for bringing us Mother Gibson’s message, Son,” Ben continued.   “I have a few things I’d like to talk over with Father Rutherford, so why don’t you g’won back to the table and have something to eat?”

“Y-Yes, Sir . . . thank you, Sir,” Paul stammered with deep, profound relief.

“Oh.   One more thing, Son . . . . ”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“I’d appreciate it if you kept Mother Gibson’s message to yourself for the time being,” Ben said.

“Y-Yes, Sir.   I will,” Paul promised.

“What happens now, Ben?” Father Brendan asked, after Paul had returned to the dining room table.

“Roy Coffee came by this morning to tell me that a woman apparently hired to look after Miss Lindsay reported her missing to the sheriff in Carson City a few days ago,” Ben replied.   “He ALSO told me that the girl’s father was in San Francisco at the time.   To make a long story short, Brendan, though Mister Lindsay WAS notified about his daughter’s disappearance, it’s going to take him a good week and a half, maybe two, to reach home.   Roy’s given me ten days to find out whether or not there’s any substance to Miss Lindsay’s accusations.”

“Is there anything I can do to help you, Ben?” Father Brendan asked.   “Anything at ALL?”

“Yes, Brendan,” Ben said grimly.   “You can pray . . . because as things stand now?   If what Miss Lindsay said about her father is true, I have a real strong feeling it’s gonna take a miracle to come up with the evidence to prove it.”

Upon returning to the table with Father Brendan, Ben was surprised to find only his two younger sons, and daughter.

“Mrs. Fielding’s gone upstairs t’ look after her baby ‘n our Li’l One,” Hoss explained, “ ‘n Paul high tailed it on back t’ the rectory.   Is . . . everything all right?”

“Hoss . . . Stacy . . . I’ll fill the both of YOU in later,” Ben said.   He, then, turned his attention to Joe.   “I know you’d planned to leave for Carson City first thing in the morning, but time’s of the essence now.   You said you were packed and ready to go?”

Joe nodded.

“Good.   If ya leave NOW, I think you’ll just make it to town in time to catch the two o’clock stage out,” Ben said grimly.   “Come on, Son . . . I’ll walk ya out to the barn.”

Father and son crossed the yard together, side by side, in silence.   Upon entering the barn, Ben asked, “You remember Ray and Abigail Jarvis?”

“Mister Ray and Mrs. Abigail?   Yeah.   I remember ‘em,” Joe replied.   “Why do you ask?”

“Their son, Gabe, is the li’l one’s father,” Ben explained.   He, then, shared with Joe everything Father Brendan had told him before lunch.

Joe frowned.   “So if Gabe IS the li’l one’s father, where is he and why is he NOT with Miss Lindsay?” he demanded, outraged and righteously indignant.

“That’s what I’m hoping YOU can find out,” Ben replied.

Part Three

“Sister, no . . . please . . . that’s too tight,” Cara Lindsay moaned.   She was freezing cold one minute, burning up the next, and feeling lightheaded, almost nauseatingly so.   “It . . . it HURTS, Sister, I . . . I c-can’t BEAR it!”

“Ssshhh!” Sister Anne furiously shushed her patient.   For a time she remained perched on the edge of Cara Lindsay’s bed, unmoving, her entire body stiff as a board, her ears straining to catch even the slightest sound.

Nothing.

Sister Anne closed her eyes and exhaled the breath she had been holding.   A quick glance at the regulator clock hanging on the wall above her patient’s head showed the time to be almost midnight.

“Sister?” Cara sobbed.   “Please?   Can’t you . . . c-can’t you loosen the b-bandage just a LITTLE?”

“All right,” Sister Anne reluctantly acquiesced.   She unwound the long strip of white cloth, noting with sinking heart that the bandage was already stained with oozing from the badly infected burn.   Worse, the girl’s leg was swollen now to nearly twice its normal size from her knee on down to toes already blackened from severe frostbite.   The skin covering the entire lower leg had turned from snow white to a sickening grayish purple in the space of half a day.

The nun stared down at the stained bandage she held clasped tight in her hands, paralyzed by indecision.   It was more than clear her patient was in desperate need of a doctor’s care . . . immediately, if not sooner.   On the other hand, informing Mother Superior as to the girl’s fast deteriorating condition would be tantamount to handing her and her baby, as well, over to the man who had more than likely beaten and tormented her so cruelly.

“What to do?   What to do?   What to DO?” Sister Anne silently agonized.

Cara felt him before she actually saw him:  the mattress sagging under the his weight as he gingerly eased himself down beside her . . . the warmth of his close proximity . . . the featherlike  touch of his lips against her forehead . . . . 

“Gabe,” she sighed contentedly . . . .

 Gabe?!

“G-Gabe?   Gabe, no!   Please!   You’ve GOT to go . . . NOW!”

Cara’s voice, hoarse and barely above the decibel of a whisper, roused Sister Anne from the paralysis of indecision that, for a time, had possessed her.   She turned, and to her astonishment saw, not her patient, but the vision of another young woman, in and around the same age, who had just given birth to a beautiful baby girl, with the pinkest cheeks she had ever seen, a halo of fine, light brown curly hair surrounding a plump, cherubic face, and a pair of bright sapphire blue eyes.

“G-Gabe, if he . . . if he FINDS you, he‘ll KILL you . . . love you . . . love you too much . . . .” Cara persisted, her head tossing back and forth.

Gabe shook his head and placed his finger to his lips, slightly pursed.   “I’ve come for you, Cara.”

Miss Lindsay?

Cara’s eyes snapped wide open.   She was astonished to find herself gazing up into Sister Anne‘s tear stained face.   “Gabe!   Where’s Gabe!” she frantically demanded.

“M-Miss Lindsay . . . Gabe’s not h-here,” Sister Anne stammered taken aback by her patient’s round, staring eyes, and her breath coming in ragged gasps.   Cara, bless her heart, had been heard speaking with the father of her child since the end of Matins this morning . . . .

“. . . make that YESTERDAY morning,” Sister Anne silently amended, as her eyes strayed again to the clock, begging him to leave.   The frequency of these conversations and the desperation in her voice had escalated as the day wore on, and her physical condition steadily worsened.

“I’ve GOT to find him,” Cara insisted as she pushed aside her bedclothes.   She sat up with a loud grunt, and slipped her legs, one at a time, over the edge of her bed.

“Dear God!” Sister Anne gasped.   She immediately moved in and placed restraining hands on Cara’s shoulders.   “Miss Lindsay, please!   Y-You’re in NO shape to—”

Cara gritted her teeth and shoved Sister Anne aside with surprising strength given her deteriorating physical condition.   “You DON’T understand!” she implored, her voice shaking.   “I’ve got to find Gabe NOW, and WARN him before . . . before my father—”

“Cara, LISTEN to me!” Sister Anne begged, as she moved in once again to restrain her patient.   “Gabe is NOT HERE!   You . . . you were dreaming!   You MUST have been!”

Cara’s shoulders slumped.   For a long moment she remained seated on the edge of her bed, unmoving, staring over at Sister Anne through eyes round with disbelief.   “But,” she finally, at length, whispered, “he seemed so REAL.”

“Sometimes dreams DO seem very real,” Sister Anne said briskly.   “Now you close your eyes and rest, Miss Lindsay.   We have a long trip ahead of us and . . . you’re going to need your strength.”

“Sister?”

“Yes, Child?”

“Where’d you say we’d be going?”

“Some place safe,” Sister Anne replied, as she set herself to the task of bandaging Cara’s leg wound once again.

“Where is he?” Cara demanded.

“W-Where is . . . who?”

“Gabe.”

“He’s SAFE, Miss Lindsay, I promise you . . . he‘s safe.”   Sister Anne fervently hoped and prayed this was so, wherever the young man might be.   “Now, you close your eyes and rest, while I finish gathering together everything we’re going to need.”

“Where’d ya say we’re going?” Cara asked once again.

“I’m taking you to a friend,” Sister Anne lied right through her pearly white teeth.   She found it amazing, yet deeply disturbing how much easier the act of lying became with each telling.   The woman, with whom Sister Anne had planned to seek shelter for herself and her patient, was no friend, not by any stretch of the imagination, and worse, their parting, to put it mildly, had been less than amicable.   Sister Anne was banking heavily on the fact that the woman in question hated the institution of Mother Church and the good Monsignor Kramer in particular more than she hated her.

Cara closed her eyes and slipped into a fitful sleep, much to the great relief of her caretaker.   Sister Anne quickly packed all of her patient’s medicines, about a half dozen or so rolls of fresh bandages, and an extra clean nightgown into a small, brown leather valise.   Once that task was completed, she picked up the oil lamp from its place on the night table beside Cara’s bed, and carried it to the window.

“BE there, Paul.   Please, PLEASE . . . BE there!” Sister Anne silently, fervently prayed, as she placed the lamp in the window, and signaled by banking the light, then turning it up again three times.

Now came the hard part.

The waiting.

“It’s about damn time,” Paul Klein muttered under his breath when he saw Sister Anne’s signal.   He stepped up to the gate, which opened out onto the driveway leading to the front entrance of the convent hospital, and signaled with his own lantern.   He, then, moved back into the deep shadows to wait.

Sister Anne flew across the room to her patient’s bedside.   “Cara . . . .” she ventured in as loud a voice as she dared, “Cara!   It’s time!”   She put out her hand with the intention of gently shaking the girl to rouse her.   “Cara, wa—!!!”   Her words abruptly terminated in a started gasp.   The girl’s temperature had spiked in the brief time it had taken her to signal Paul.

“Cara!   Cara, wake UP!” Sister Anne implored as she shook her patient more vigorously.   “Dear Lord, please . . . you’ve GOT to wake up!”

“Come ON, Sister Anne,” Paul, in the meantime, silently, earnestly begged.   “Dang it all, this is takin’ ‘WAY too long.”   He had no idea as to how long he had actually waited, only that it seemed to be forever; and to be frank, he was anxious to have this whole mad venture over and done.

At length, the front door finally opened, and Sister Anne emerged, half dragging, half carrying her patient.

“Finally,” Paul whispered, deeply relieved, yet a little angry, too, for having allowed the desperate nun to talk him into this crazy idea of hers.  Yes, her intentions were good and noble, but even so, nothing but trouble could possibly come of all this.   “Buckboard’s just outside the gate,” he continued, as he scooped the near insensate Cara up into his strong, wiry arms.   “Hey!   She’s burnin’ UP!”

“Paul, will you for heaven’s sake keep your voice down?!” Sister Anne sternly admonished the young man.

“Dammit, Sister, this gal’s so hot she’s burnin’ ME,” Paul argued.   “We gotta get her back.”

“No.”

“Sister Anne—”

“Paul, I didn’t come this far to turn back NOW,” Sister Anne rudely cut him off.   “I AM a nurse—”

“I KNOW y’ are, but this gal needs a DOCTOR,” Paul said, his voice filled with fear.

“I can care for her,” Sister Anne declared.   “Now please . . . for the love of GOD, Paul . . . get her into that buckboard.”

Paul knew only too well there was no arguing with Sister Anne when she spoke in that tone of voice.   Resigning himself to whatever consequence was to come of this insane venture, he turned without a word and strode resolutely toward the buckboard.

“Did anyone see you?” Sister Anne demanded as she settled her patient in the back of the conveyance.

“No,” Paul said curtly.   “Sister Anne . . . .”

“What?” she snapped.

“You given any thought to what we’re gonna do if she won’t let us stay?”

“She’ll let us stay,” Sister Anne replied with a calm complacence she was very far from feeling.

“Well what if she DON’T?” Paul demanded as he climbed up into the driver’s seat.

“I’ll cross THAT bridge . . . IF and WHEN we reach it.”

“Aw-ride, aw-ride, aw-ride, aw-ready,” Polly McPherson grumbled through clenched teeth, as she stumbled her way to the front door of the small, yet lavishly appointed town house she called home.   She paused to light the lamp placed on the small cherry wood table next to her favorite overstuffed armchair, then stole a glance at the grandfather’s clock set against the wall between the fireplace and the narrow staircase leading to the second floor.   “Ain’ even quarter uh three inna mornin’,” she silently groused.   “Whoever that is . . . it bedder damn’ sight be good.”

Polly took a moment to tie the sash of her robe, then threw open the front door.   The angry reprimand, complete with a liberal sprinkling of colorful epithets, died before she could give them utterance the instant her eyes fell upon Sister Anne’s face.   For what seemed an eternity, Polly stood frozen in place staring down at the young nun through eyes round as dinner plates.   Though her mouth flapped up and down, no sound issued forth.

“May we . . . come in?” Sister Anne ventured hesitantly, as she eyed the older woman standing before her with an anxious frown.

“. . . uhhh . . . yeah.   Sure.   Why not?” Polly murmured softly, not quite knowing what else to say.   She, then, stepped aside.

Sister Anne and Paul quickly ushered Cara inside.   “Take her on over to the settee and sit her down,” the nun told the stable hand in a low voice before turning to face Polly.

“Well . . . if you AIN’T the very last person I ever expected t’ darken my door ever again . . . you’re near the top o’ the list,” Polly remarked in a wry tone.   “Instead o’ BURNIN’ in Hell, I guess this means we’re all gonna freeze our asses off.”

“Could be,” Sister Anne sighed wearily.

“Who’s your friend?” Polly demanded, inclining her head toward the settee, where Cara remained, half sitting, half leaning over.

“Her name is Cara,” Sister Anne replied.

“Not . . . Cara Lindsay . . . .”

Sister Anne’s heart sank.   “Y-You . . . know about, uhhh . . . .?!”

“You’d be surprised at all the things I hear, ‘n long before the likes o’ Mrs. Kirk ‘n that damned church organist,” Polly declared, grimacing upon making mention of the two women most charitably referred to as a pair of walking newspapers.

“We need your help, Mother,” Sister Anne begged.   “If we could just hide out here, until . . . well, until I can figure out what to do . . . please?”

Polly folded her arms across her ample bosom and glared down at her daughter.   “Why should I?” she demanded.   “Why don’t ya hide her out in your convent, or better yet . . . give her sanctuary in your church?”

“If you really know about Cara Lindsay, then you know very well why I can’t hide her in the convent or in the church,” Sister Anne returned with a touch of asperity.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.   I know all about it,” Polly sighed, as she unfolded her arms.   “I also hope ya realize the lot of us could end up ‘way in over our heads in hot water if the sheriff, or somebody else finds her here.”

“Please, Aunt Polly?” Paul added his own voice to his cousin’s.   “Nobody’ll know she’s here . . . in fact, when they find out Mag—, I, uhh mean Sister Anne . . . ‘n Cara are missin’ . . . this is gonna be the very last place folks’ll think o’ lookin’.”

“That’s for DAMNED sure,” Polly had to agree.   “All right.   Cara can stay . . . for now.   Take her on up t’ the guest room.”   She, then, returned her attention to Sister Anne.   “Maggie,” Polly continued, addressing her daughter by her given name, “you can have your old room.   Paul, you’re gonna hafta sleep on the settee.”

“ ‘S ok, Aunt Polly.   It’s better ‘n where I usually sleep.”

“Good.”   Polly yawned.   “Maggie, you get Cara settled upstairs, then get t’ bed yourself.   We’ll talk later, at a more reasonable hour o’ the mornin’.”

Abigail Jarvis overslept that morning . . . .

Again.

She was rudely awakened out of a sound sleep by the lowing of her stock, just as the grandfather’s clock in her great room downstairs struck the hour of eleven.   Seemed ever since the day all her dreams, her hopes, and aspirations for her son, Gabe, were finally realized, the blessing of a good night’s sleep eluded her more and more.   She dragged herself out of bed, threw on the clothing she had worn the day before, and made her way out to the barn after pausing at the kitchen sink to splash a handful of cold water on her face.

Abigail had just turned the cows out into the pasture behind the barn, when her ears picked up the faint thundering of horse hooves in the distance.   She latched the pasture gate, then headed toward the front of her house, moving at a brisk pace.   There was something vaguely familiar about the green jacketed young man now dismounting from the back of his horse.   Still, a woman living alone, nearly two miles from her nearest neighbor, couldn’t be too careful.

“Excuse me, Young Man . . . .”

Joe turned and found himself staring into the barrel of a revolver held in the trembling hand of a thin, careworn woman.

“. . . I’ve never killed a man before, but there’s a first time for everything,” Abigail warned.   “If you need to water your horse, the trough’s over there by the hitching post.   Do it, and be quick about it.”

“M-Mrs. Abby?” Joe queried warily.   If the frightened old woman leveling that revolver at the center of his chest was indeed the Mrs. Abby he remembered, she sure had changed since she and her family had left the Ponderosa . . . and not for the better.   “She could pass for Adam’s mother easily . . . and he’s not but a couple of years younger,” he silently mused.   Her flaming red hair had turned prematurely gray in the intervening years, and her voluptuous, woman’s body had withered away to a thinness that bordered on emaciation.   “I . . . guess you don’t remember me, Mrs. Abby,” he said, striving to speak in a calm, even tone of voice.   “I’m Joe Cartwright.”

She peered into his face for a moment.   “Little Joe?!”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Sorry . . . .” Abigail apologized, as she slipped her revolver into one of the deep pockets of her apron.   “A woman living out here alone can’t be too careful.”

“Alone?!” Joe echoed, his heart sinking.

“Now that Gabe’s gone,” Abigail replied.

“Gone?!   G-gone WHERE?”

Abigail smiled.   “Looks like we’ve got some catching up to do,” she observed.   “Why don’t you come on in?   I’ve some of that raisin walnut cake you used to like so much left over from last night’s supper, and I . . . . ”   She yawned, right in Joe’s face, much to her embarrassment.  “Sorry,” Abigail meekly apologized, “it’s NOT the company, it’s . . . well, I’m afraid I didn’t sleep very well last night . . . .”

Joe hesitated.   “I don’t want to put you out, Mrs. Abby.”

“You’re not,” Abigail insisted.   “I can do with a cup of coffee right now, and it won’t be any trouble to fix up a little extra.”

Joe followed Abigail into the small, yet well maintained farm house, and seated himself at the kitchen table, just big enough to accommodate two.   “So.   How’ve you been, Mrs. Abby . . . since ya left the Ponderosa?”

“Ray, God rest his soul, and I have done all right, I s’pose,” Abigail replied as she set a pot of water on the stove to boil and ground enough beans to supply four cups of coffee.   A proud smile tweaked at the corner of her mouth as her gaze took in the warm, inviting, kitchen with its bright yellow walls, a brand new stove, and the recently added water pump at the sink.   “Ray . . . well, he died . . . been a number of years now . . . .”

“Sorry to hear that,” Joe murmured softly.   “I guess ALL the kids are up ‘n grown now . . . .”

“Yep.”   There was a wistful note in her voice.   “Still, there’s the grandkids.”   Abigail winced upon making mention of her grandchildren.

“How many do ya have now?” Joe asked.

Abigail removed the revolver from her apron pocket and carefully tucked it into one of the kitchen drawers.   “There’s Mary Jane’s six . . . seven come late June or early July . . . Annabelle’s four, and Karen’s due to have HER first sometime this summer.”

“How about Gabe?” Joe asked.

“I guess that’s the biggest news,” Abigail said, with a weary, yet proud smile.   “He left last fall to attend a big university back east.   It’s not the same one Adam attended, but a fine Ivy League school nonetheless.   It’s a dream come true, Joe.   After all the years he spent working so hard to support me and his sisters after Ray died . . . Gabe’s FINALLY got the chance now to make something wonderful of himself.”

“That’s great,” Joe said with far more enthusiasm than he felt.   “Gabe has always been a very bright kid, and . . . and I’m glad he was able to go.   How’s he doing?”

“Very well,” Abigail replied a mite too quickly.   “He, umm, should be coming up on the end of his first semester, so any day now I should be getting a letter from him telling me he’s made the dean‘s list.”   She didn’t add that apart from a note, hastily scrawled, from one of the way stations along the way east, she’d not heard anything from Gabe at all.   “Another reason, no doubt, for my sleepless nights,” she ruminated anxiously, in silence.

“I’m impressed,” Joe quietly responded, as he watched her place the ground coffee beans into the water to set for a while.   “Must have cost a real pretty penny to send him all the way back east, though . . . .”

His offhand comment drew a sharp glare from Abigail.   “Joe . . . why HAVE you come here?” she demanded warily.   “All of a sudden, I’ve got the feeling you didn’t come all the way out here . . . after all these years especially . . . just to inquire about my heath.”

“No,” Joe admitted.   “I came out here to see Gabe.”

“What about?”

“Cara Lindsay.”

Abigail’s jaw dropped, and her face all of a sudden lost every bit of what little color it had.   “. . . uhhh . . . what ABOUT Cara Lindsay?” she demanded, trying her best to ignore the sudden disconcerting flutter of the proverbial butterflies in her stomach.

“Mrs. Abby, I’m gonna lay all my cards on the table . . . no beating around the bush,” Joe said very quietly.   “We . . . my family and I . . . know that Cara Lindsay had a baby, and that Gabe is the father.”

“My family’s PRIVATE business is none of YOURS or anyone else’s,” Abigail said stiffly.   “We’ve not broken any laws, which means I don’t have to answer any more of your questions.”   Her face had turned a sickly ashen gray, and she stared at Joe through rounded eyes, with the unblinking intensity of a reptile.

“Cara’s father bought you off, didn’t he.”   Joe’s words were an accusation, not an inquiry.   “THAT’S why you were able to send Gabe off to a big fancy university back east.”

“Joe, it was good of you to drop by, but I think you need to go now,” Abigail said with a pointed glance in the direction of the kitchen door.

“Mrs. Abby, maybe no laws have been broken, but what about duty and obligation?” Joe demanded, his ire beginning to rise.   “Cara shouldn’t be facing what she is right now all by herself.   If Gabe IS the father of her baby, then he has a responsibility AND a moral obligation to—”

“. . . to WHAT?!” Abigail angrily demanded.   “To marry the girl though he’s not yet eighteen . . . to take on a man’s burden of supporting a wife and child while he’s yet still a boy . . . and worst of all, to have nothing more to look forward to in life than working a small farm, day in and day out, living in a ram-shackle shack— ”

“This house doesn’t look ram shackle to me,” Joe observed, “and if I’m not mistaken, that’s a brand new stove.”

“Gabe doesn’t know,” Abigail said curtly, “and he’s not going to know.   Ever.”

“That’s not right, Mrs. Abby.   If he’s old enough to . . . to . . . well, to help get a girl in the family way—”

“All his life,” Abigail said through clenched teeth, her body trembling now with fear and anger, “all his LIFE, Joe . . . Gabe’s broken his back working this farm, and working odd jobs in town, too, when he could find them, to support his sisters and me.   Though he was a very bright young man, who loved school, he had to leave at the age of eleven because all the work he had to do left him so bone weary, he couldn’t even eat properly most of the time.   Yet, hard as he worked . . . and as much as he sacrificed, he never once complained.

“Then, one afternoon, Mister Lindsay came,” Abigail continued.   “He told me about his daughter carrying Gabe’s child, then, much to my amazement, he turned right around and offered me the chance of a lifetime for Gabe.   Four years at the college of his choice, as long as it WAS somewhere back east, along with the tutoring necessary for him to pass the entrance exams.”

“. . . and as a bonus, Mister Lindsay had this place fixed up and bought you a new stove,” Joe added rancorously.

“Yes,” Abigail angrily admitted.   “Yes.   In return, Gabe’s not to know about the child, or see Cara ever again.”

“Mrs. Abby . . . did your son love Cara?”

“He SAID he did,” Abigail replied.   “He even went so far as to say he wanted to marry her once or twice.   But . . . honestly, Joe.   What does a seventeen year old boy know about love?”

“A lot more than you think,” Joe responded, his face darkening with his own fast rising anger.   “I was around the same age as Gabe when I fell in love with Amy Bishop.[v]   I KNEW . . . almost from the moment I saw her . . . that SHE was the girl I wanted very much to marry.”

“. . . and what did your PA think of that?   Or did you even tell him?” Abigail demanded, as she favored Joe with a jaundiced glare and defiantly folded her arms across her chest.

“I have to admit that he may not have been entirely happy about the idea because of the quarrel between him and Amy’s father,” Joe replied, “but Pa . . .  and my older brothers, too . . . made it real clear that my happiness meant more to them than their fight with Mister Bishop.”

“Gabe will have plenty of time to find happiness with a lovely wife and children . . . AFTER he graduates,” Abigail argued.   “Joe, can’t you see that Mister Lindsay’s offer is the ONLY chance Gabe’s ever likely to have of making a better life for himself?!”

“I hope you don’t expect him to be grateful.”

“. . . and what’s THAT supposed to mean?”

“It means when Gabe finds out that YOU decided he was never to see Cara again, and on top of that, as good as sold his firstborn so he could attend a fancy college back east, he’s going to HATE you for it,” Joe said.

“I TOLD you . . . he’s NEVER going to find out,” Abigail immediately shot right back.

“Oh, yes he WILL, Mrs. Abby,” Joe insisted, “because the truth ALWAYS has a way of making itself known.   It may not be today . . . tomorrow . . . next month . . . or even next year.   It might not be for many years, but someday . . . Gabe WILL find out.”

“Have you said what you’ve come to say?” Abigail demanded.   “Because if you have?   I want you to leave.   You’ve ‘way overstayed your welcome.”

Joe abruptly turned heel and strode briskly out of the house, without a word, without even turning to look back.

Abigail walked over toward the window, and remained, unmoving, her back straight as a poker, watching as Joe mounted his horse and rode out of her yard, back toward the road leading to town.   When at long last the sound of his horse’s hooves finally died away to silence, she turned away from the window, and wept.

“ ‘Pa . . . looked up folks like you asked . . . son away attending school back east . . . knows nothing . . . have no way to contact,’ ” Joe silently read the brief message he had just finished writing down, then signed his name.   He, then, walked up to the telegraph operator.   “I’d like to send this wire to Ben Ca—!?”

“Excuse me!”   A woman clad entirely in black rudely cut Joe off mid-sentence.   She unceremoniously pushed the young man out of her way and stepped up to the window.

“. . . uhhh, Ma’am?   This gentleman was here FIRST,” the telegraph operator said with a touch of asperity and a nod over in Joe’s direction.   He was a young man, roughly the same height and build as Joe, with short cropped carrot red hair that stuck out in all directions and a pair of bright emerald green eyes, magnified twice their normal size by spectacles with lenses the thickness of the bottoms of sarsaparilla bottles.

“I’M in a hurry,” the woman snapped, the scowl, perpetually etched into her dry, brittle flesh, deepening.

“ ‘S ok, Mister,” Joe said with a shrug.   “I can wait.”   He frowned.   There was something unsettlingly familiar about that sour old woman . . . .

“Are there any messages for me?” the woman demanded.   Though she spoke to the telegraph operator in a lofty, imperious tone of voice, Joe heard a note of fear there as well.

The telegraph operator exhaled an audible sigh of the long-suffering.   “Just a moment, Ma’am.”

Joe intently studied the old woman standing with back stiffly erect, gloved hands tightly clasped with fingers interlacing, and eyes glued to the telegraph operator’s back as he carefully looked through the stack of messages lying on his desk.

“Can’t you hurry it up?” the woman impatiently demanded.

“Just a moment, Ma’am,” the telegraph operator responded irritably.   He turned and continued his search while she drummed her fingers on the counter.   “I’m sorry, Mrs. Crawleigh . . . .”

Joe’s shuddered.   Crawleigh.   The only Crawleigh, with whom he and his family were acquainted, unfortunately, was the woman his sister referred to as a monster from hell, who was all set to whisk her all the way out to Ohio until he, his father, and brother had intervened.

“. . . there’s no response to that wire you sent your cousin.   Would you like to send another wire?”

“No,” the woman responded in a sullen tone of voice.

“Vivian Crawleigh . . . in the flesh, big as life, and about a hundred times as ugly,” Joe silently observed upon catching a clear glimpse of her face when she turned to leave.    The haughty grimace of the perpetually righteous he remembered still remained on her face, but the look in her eyes . . . .

“. . . like a trapped wild animal,” Joe murmured very softly.

“I’m real sorry ‘bout that,” the telegraph operator meekly apologized after Vivian Crawleigh had left.   “She sent a wire to some cousin o’ hers over in Virginia City . . . I think it was shortly after the Lindsay girl turned up missing, though, I guess you, being a stranger to town ‘n all, probably wouldn’t know anything ‘bout that.”

“Actually, I HAVE heard,” Joe said.   “Is . . . is that woman the, uhhh missing girl’s mother?”

The telegraph operator immediately shook his head.   “No, Sir,” he replied.   “That gal’s mother died a long time ago, when she was a kid.   That woman who was just here?   Mister Lindsay . . . he’s the missing girl’s father . . . he hired her to look after his daughter.”

“Oh?”

“Seems the girl’s been sickly this past year or so. Leastwise that’s what Miss Barnes says . . . .”

“Miss Barnes?” Joe queried.

“She works over at the post office,” the telegraph operator explained.   “Fount of all knowledge.   That’s what my pa, God rest his soul, used to call women like her.”

“Fount of all knowledge?”

“Yes.   Every town’s got one, I s’pose, same as just about every town’s got a drunk,” the telegraph operator said.

“Got one . . . what?” Joe asked with a puzzled frown.

“YOU know . . . one o’ those women who can’t keep her mouth shut t’ save her own life?!”

Joe laughed out loud.   “Oohh yeah.   I know,” he said as his mirth died away.   “Where I come from?   We have TWO ladies like your Miss Barnes.”

“You have my deepest sympathies, uhhh . . . Mister?”

“Just call me Joe,” the youngest Cartwright son said, extending his hand.

“My name’s Tom,” the telegraph operator said, as he shook hands with Joe.   “You . . . have a message for me to send?”

“Yeah, but I need to add something . . . .” Joe replied.

“Tell ya what, Pa . . . while you ‘n li’l sister here are visitin’ Cara Lindsay, I’m gonna give Virgil Jared a hand with loadin’ the supplies after Amelia gets our order t’gether,” Hoss said.   “I’ll also stop by the post office ‘n go to the bank.”

“You’ll say hello to Jason for me?” Stacy asked.   Jason O’Brien and his family had been friends and neighbors of the Cartwrights for many years.   His father, Hugh, owned a small, but lucrative spread named Shoshone Queen in honor of his late wife, Angelina Thundercloud Woman.   Over the course of the past summer, Stacy had come to care for Jason very much.

“You bet I will,” Hoss promised with a broad grin and a wink.

Ben, his middle son, and only daughter had left for town early that morning to lay in supplies and take care of a few errands, leaving the Li’l One in the care of Irma Fielding and Hop Sing.   He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out his watch.   “It’s a quarter before the hour,” he told Hoss.   “Why don’t we meet at the C Street Café for an early lunch before starting back?”

“Fine with ME, Pa,” Hoss replied.   It was all he could do to keep from smacking his lips.   “I ain’t had a hunk o’ one o’ Miss Maxine’s pies for a powerful long time.”

“Sounds good to ME, too,” Stacy added her two cents’ worth.

After his father and sister had left, Hoss turned and walked into the general store, where Amelia and her eldest daughter, Lilly Beth, were putting together the Cartwrights’ order.   “Excuse me, Amelia . . . Lilly Beth?”

The two women turned.   “Yes, Hoss?   What can I do for ya?” Amelia asked.

“I just wanted t’ let ya know I’m gonna take a run over t’ the bank, then swing by the post office,” Hoss explained.   “I’ll give Virgil ‘n Burt a hand with loadin’ the buckboard when I get back.”

“Ok, Hoss . . . Lilly Beth ‘n me’ll have your order together by the time you get through takin’ care o’ your business,” Amelia promised.

Hoss left the store, but had gone no more than a dozen steps when he heard someone, a man, frantically calling his name.   Upon turning, he saw George Ellis, who worked at the telegraph office running down the board walk, waving an envelope, clasped in his left hand.

“Hoss!   I KNEW I’d seen you folks in town!” George wheezed upon catching up with the big man.   “Gotta wire here for your pa . . . marked urgent.”

“Thanks, George,” Hoss replied.   He immediately tore open the envelope with his father’s name hastily scrawled across its front and read the message:

Joe Cartwright                                                                                                                                              Carson City, Nevada

Ben Cartwright                                                                                                                                             Virginia City, Nevada

Pa,

Looked up folks like you asked.   Son away attending school back east.   Knows nothing.   Have no way to contact.   Also can confirm V Crawleigh hired to care for someone we know.

Joe

“Hooo-leee . . . .”

“. . . uuhhh . . . what was that, Hoss?” George queried with a bewildered frown.   “After the holy, I mean.”

“Never you mind,” Hoss said, his face red as a beet.   He dug into his pocket and pulled out a half dollar.   “Here y’ are, George . . . a li’l something for your trouble.”

“Thanks, Hoss,” George said with a grin as he pocketed the tip.   “Is there gonna be a reply?”

“Nope.”   Hoss shook his head as he stuffed the message back into its envelope.   “Leastwise not right now.”

“OK, Hoss . . . see ya later,” George said, then turned and headed back to the telegraph office.

“Vivian Crawleigh,” Hoss muttered under his breath.   “Never in a million years did I ever think we’d see or hear from HER again.   Pa needs t’ see this message now.”   He turned, and with a grim, determined scowl on his face, made his way toward Saint Mary’s Hospital to find his pa and sister.

“WHAT?!” Mother Catherine shrieked.

“She’s GONE, Mother,” Sister Wilhelmina said, anxiously wringing her hands.   “Miss Lindsay is gone, and . . . and so is Sister Anne!”

“Oh no,” Mother Catherine groaned.   “I should’ve known . . . .”

“Should we search the grounds?” Sister Wilhelmina asked.   “They can’t have gotten TOO far . . . .”

“Yes,” Mother Catherine replied, though a tiny voice deep within her heart insisted that such a search would fail to turn up Sister Anne and Cara Lindsay.   Still, no harm in being thorough.   “While I organize the search, Sister, I want YOU to find Father Brendan, and let him know what’s happened.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“. . . and see to it you speak with him privately,” the mother superior added as an afterthought.

Sister Wilhelmina nodded, then turned and ran out of the mother superior’s office, nearly colliding head on with Ben Cartwright and his daughter, Stacy.

“Easy, Sister,” Ben cautioned as he reached out and placed his hands on her shoulders to steady her.

“I’m SO sorry, Mister Cartwright, please excuse me.”   Sister Wilhelmina’s words tumbled out in a rush.   Without waiting for a reply, she turned heel and fled.

“Mother Gibson?” Ben queried as he and Stacy ventured through the wide open door leading into the mother superior’s office.   “Is . . . everything all right?   Stacy and I wanted to see if you might allow us another visit with Miss Lindsay, but we CAN come back another time.”

“Mister Cartwright . . . and you, too, Stacy.   Please, come in,” Mother Catherine invited.   She closed her eyes and took a deep ragged breath in a valiant attempt to regain at least some small modicum of composure.

“What’s wrong, Mother Gibson?” Ben asked.

“Cara Lindsay’s missing,” Mother Catherine replied, “and so is Sister Anne.”

“What?!” Stacy whispered, her eyes round with shocked horror.

“Mister Cartwright, I trust you got my message yesterday?” Mother Catherine asked as her visitors seated themselves in the two chairs set facing her desk.

“About the monsignor sending a wire to the girl’s father informing him as to her whereabouts?”

Mother Catherine dolefully nodded her head, then sighed.   “I should’ve KNOWN she’d do something like this.”

Ben and Stacy exchanged troubled glances.   “Mother Gibson,” the former said, “I know Miss Lindsay would have been very upset upon learning that her father had been told of her whereabouts, but . . . I don’t see how you could have possibly known that she’d run away . . . especially when you take her physical condition into account.”

Mother Catherine shook her head.   “I’m NOT speaking of Miss Lindsay,” she explained.   “As far as I know, she knew nothing about the wire Monsignor Kramer sent.   I was speaking of Sister Anne.”

“Sister Anne?!” Stacy echoed with a bewildered frown.   It was beyond her comprehension that the young sister, who seemed so very set in her ways, had it within her to run away from the convent hospital, taking her patient with her.

“As I told you both when you came day before yesterday, Sister Anne’s life was a very troubled one before she joined our community . . . with a number of similarities to Miss Lindsay’s, I might add, assuming the accusations she made against her father were true,” Mother Catherine explained.

“Pa?!”

The three glanced up, and to their surprise found Hoss standing just inside the door.   Ben and Stacy immediately rose to their feet.

“Hoss?   What is it?” Ben queried.

“Wire from Joe in Carson City,” Hoss replied.   He crossed the room in less than the amount of time between one heart beat and the next.   “George gave it to me as I was leavin’ the general store.   I think you need t’ see this, Pa . . . now instead o’ later.”   He placed the envelope containing the message into Ben’s outstretched hand.

Stacy moved around behind her father so that she might read over his shoulder.   “Oh no!” she gasped, her eyes round with sheer horror.   “Pa . . . .”

“I see it,” Ben said somberly, feeling dreadfully sick at heart.

“Oh dear!” Mother Catherine said, as she also rose to her feet.   “Mister Cartwright, I . . . hope it’s not BAD news.”

“I’m afraid it may be as far as Miss Lindsay’s concerned,” Ben said sadly.   “First off, the young man who’s the father of her child’s gone back east to attend school, and according to Joe’s wire here, he apparently knows nothing about the child, but worse . . . the woman Tobias hired to look after his daughter . . . .”

“She’s . . . she’s . . . I’m sorry, Mother Gibson . . . you, too, Pa and Hoss . . . but the woman Cara’s pa hired to look after her is a horrible monster from HELL!” Stacy declared, her face pale.   She drew her hands into a pair of tight, rock hard fists to quell their trembling.

Hoss immediately slipped his arm around Stacy’s shoulders and gave her a gentle, reassuring squeeze.   “Easy there, Li’l Sister,” he murmured in a low, soothing tone of voice.   “You KNOW that woman can’t hurt ya.”

“I know,” Stacy said, her voice shaking, as she slipped her arm around Hoss’ waist and held tight.   “That’s because I’ve got you, Pa, Joe, Hop Sing . . . AND Adam . . . to protect me.   Cara . . . oh, Hoss . . . if everything you said about her pa’s true, Cara has no one to protect her from . . . from the likes of Vivian Crawleigh.”

“Did you say Vivian Crawleigh?” Mother Catherine asked with a dark, angry scowl.

“Yes . . . they did,” Ben said very quietly.

“This Vivian Crawleigh . . . does she have an orphanage and foundling home out in Ohio somewhere?”

“She DID, Mother Gibson,” Ben replied.   “After her cousin, Mrs. Danvers, threatened Stacy with the grim prospect of being placed in that woman’s custody, I hired a good friend of my oldest son, Adam, to investigate Mrs. Crawleigh and the home she ran out in Ohio.   He found enough evidence of cruelty to have that home of hers shut down, AND send her to prison.”

“How do YOU know her, Mother Gibson?” Stacy asked.

“We served as postulant and the first two years of our novitiate at a convent and charity hospital for . . . for girls like Miss Lindsay . . . who are in trouble and have nowhere to go . . . no one to turn to for help,” Mother Catherine replied.   “She . . . I’ll be charitable, Stacy, and just say she was terribly cruel . . . then.”

“Why didn’t anyone put a stop to her cruelty?” Stacy asked, appalled by the very thought of a woman like Vivian Crawleigh being accepted into a nursing order of all things.

“I tried my best,” Mother Catherine said ruefully.   “I reported her to the mistress of novices so many times, I actually lost count after the first dozen or so.   Unfortunately, Sister Mercy was a very stern, unyielding woman, who, in her own way, was every bit as cruel as the woman you know as Mrs. Crawleigh.

“The very last time I went over Sister Mercy’s head to Mother Superior herself,” Mother Catherine continued.   “That started me on the long journey that eventually brought me here.   I found out recently that Sister Augustine, the woman YOU know as Vivian Crawleigh, had escaped from prison, and somehow ended up in Ohio running an orphanage and foundling home.   Mister Cartwright . . . . ”

“Yes, Mother Gibson?”

“This may be very uncharitable and unchristian of me, but I can’t help feeling a deep sense of gratitude and relief upon hearing that the man you hired to investigate Mrs. Crawleigh found enough evidence to shut down that home she ran,” the mother superior said grimly.   “I’m surprised she wasn’t sent to prison out in Ohio.”

“She was,” Ben said, “but the judge declared she be returned to Baltimore to finish serving her prison sentence THERE.   She must’ve escaped en route.”

“Pa?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“I was wonderin’ . . . takin’ into account everything Mother Gibson here said about that Crawleigh woman, AND what Adam’s friend, Jack, found out in Ohio . . . y’ think maybe that might help keep Tobias from getting custody of Cara ‘n Li’l One?”

“If there’s the slightest chance it WILL help, Mister Cartwright, I’d be more than willing to give testimony to everything I know about Vivian Crawleigh,” Mother Catherine offered.

“Thank you, Mother Gibson,” Ben murmured gratefully.   “Perhaps YOUR testimony, coupled with Jack Cranston’s on what HE found out in Ohio just might keep Cara and her baby out of her father’s clutches.”   He fell silent for a moment, then sighed.   “I . . . guess it’s time for us to face the music,” he said quietly.

“What music, Pa?” Stacy queried with a bewildered frown.

“The ‘music’ Sheriff Coffee’s gonna make when we tell him that Cara Lindsay ‘n Sister Anne have gone missin’,” Hoss said, his voice filled with weary resignation.

“Oh no!   Do we HAVE to tell Sheriff Coffee?” Stacy asked, with sinking heart.

“I’m afraid so, Young Woman . . . .”

“No,” Elena di Cordova said in a very quiet, very firm tone of voice.   She was still confined to bed following the birth of the longed for son, who had died within a few minutes after making his appearance in this world.  Elena leaned back into the mound of pillows piled behind her and folded her arms across her chest.

“But, Elena . . . Darling . . . .” Miguel begged.

“I said no.”

Most of the adult members of the family were present.   Miguel’s older sister, Teresa Cartwright, sat in the hard backed chair on the right side of the bed, with her husband, Adam, standing directly behind her.   Her mother-in-law, Dolores di Cordova, stood at the foot of the bed, wringing her hands, while her beloved husband sat perched on the very edge of the bed facing his sister and brother-in-law.   Papa Eduardo was downstairs in the family room entertaining Benjy and Dio, respectively her husband’s nephew and niece.

“But . . . Darling . . . a specialist might be able to . . . to . . . .”

“To WHAT, Miguel?” she demanded.   “To fix me?!   No.   I think NOT.”

“Please?   We won’t know . . . we CAN’T know . . . until we see him,” Miguel begged.

“How many doctors have we already seen?   Twenty?   Thirty, perhaps?!”   She sighed very softly and shook her head.   “Miguel . . . my Beloved . . . I love you.   I love you so very much, and I want more than anything to give you a child, but . . . I . . . . ”   She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.   “Miguel, I think we need to face the truth.”

“What truth?!” Miguel demanded, angry yet fearful.

“It’s NOT meant to be,” she half sobbed.   “Miguel, we’ve seen doctor after doctor after doctor . . . seen specialist after specialist.   Each time, we . . . you and me . . . we hoped . . . I prayed . . . that this time . . . surely THIS time would be different, but no.   They ALL said the same thing.   I can’t go through this again, getting our hopes up so high, only to see them cruelly dashed.”

“But, Elena . . . Child . . . it may be this man in San Francisco knows something the others do NOT,” Dolores implored.   “As Miguel said you won’t know that until you see him.”

“Mother . . . Miguel . . . perhaps this isn’t the time to make that decision,” Teresa pointed out.

“Now is as good a time as any, Teresa,” Elena said, “and I’ve decided first, I am NOT going to go through the discomfort and expense of traveling all the way to San Francisco . . . . ” she grimaced, “only to have yet another specialist tell me what all the others have.”

“B-But—” Miguel started to protest.

“I have also decided that I’d like to adopt a child, a baby if that’s possible,” Elena continued.

“Adopt!?   Madre di Dios!” Dolores gasped as she hurriedly crossed herself.   “Oh no, Elena, no, you . . . y-you CAN’T.”

“Why not?” Adam spoke up for the first time.   “I believe Miguel and Elena would make wonderful parents, and there’s so many children and babies out there, orphans, some left as foundlings—”

“Foundlings!” Dolores moaned softly.   “Babies left on the door steps of orphanages and churches, no one knows where they’ve come from, what kind of people their REAL parents were—”

“First of all, Dolores, IF Miguel and Elena decide to adopt a child . . . or children . . . THEY are the real parents, because they will be the ones who would raise that child, love him, teach him right from wrong, be there when that child is sick or hurting,” Adam immediately pointed out.   “As for where the child may have come from or who the mother and father responsible for bringing that child into this world were . . . none of that should matter.”

“How can you SAY that?” Dolores groaned.   “Adam, what if . . . dear God, what if that foundling’s father’s a murderer and the mother a . . . a woman of loose morals?!   Father Velasquez used to say ‘The sins of the father—’ ”

“No, Mama Dolores, don’t you see?   Adam is RIGHT when he says simply bringing a child into this world does NOT make a man and woman a real father and mother,” Elena pressed.   “It’s the man and woman who do all the other things Adam said who are the REAL mother and father.”

“I don’t like this.   I don’t like this one bit,” Dolores said, as she wagged her head slowly back and forth.

“I wonder if perhaps THIS is the reason God has seen fit to deny me the joy of having children born of my own body,” Elena argued, “so that perhaps Miguel and I might open our home . . . and our hearts . . . to a lost, abandoned child out there who needs us.”

“I STILL don’t like this,” Dolores moaned.

Teresa rose from her chair and walked over to her mother.   “I think perhaps we should leave now, and let Elena get some rest,” she firmly suggested as she steered her mother toward the bedroom door.

“An excellent suggestion,” Adam immediately agreed.   He, his wife, and his mother-in-law said their good-byes to Elena.

“Thank you, Adam,” she whispered very softly as he bent down to place a kiss on her forehead.

Miguel saw their visitors out, and returned a few moments later.   “Elena, are you sure you want to adopt?” he asked, as he once again seated himself on the edge of her bed.   “You’ve not—”

“Miguel, the only thing that breaks my heart more than having doctor after doctor tell us I can’t have children is learning I’m with child, only to suffer a miscarriage, or worse . . . bringing a child into the world only to see him leave it again,” she said, her voice breaking.   “Please, My Love, I BEG of you . . . don’t ask me to go through it all again?”

“Elena, grant me this,” Miguel said very quietly.   “When you are better, we go to San Francisco, and see the specialist.”   He held up his hand upon seeing her open her mouth to protest.   “Please, Love, hear me out?”

“All right,” she reluctantly agreed.

“I promise you, if this man in San Francisco says the same as the others, this will be the last time we ever see another doctor or specialist regarding whether or not you will be able to have children,” Miguel continued.   “We’ll also begin doing what we need to do in order to adopt a child or a baby.”

“I’ll see the specialist in San Francisco, if as you say, this IS the last time,” Elena wearily agreed, “but I want us to begin doing what we need to do in order to adopt sooner, not later.”

“How MUCH sooner?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Now lemme get all this straight!” Roy said through clenched teeth.   He stood in the middle of his office, with arms folded across his chest, glaring at Mother Catherine, Ben, Hoss, and Stacy.   “You’re tellin’ me this Monsignor Kramer took it on himself t’ wire Mister Lindsay  ‘bout his daughter bein’ in YOUR hospital, Mother Gibson . . . ‘n if THAT ain’t bad enough, y’ also tell me that gal ‘n the sister lookin’ after her . . . have gone missin’?!”

“Yes, Sheriff Coffee,” Mother Catherine replied.

“Da—uhhh, dog gone it, Ben!”   Two red splotches appeared on Roy’s cheeks upon remembering that two women were present, one of them being a mother superior of her order, no less.   “I KNEW I shouldn’t have let ya talk me into givin’ ya that week ‘n a half, I KNEW it.   NOW, thanks t’ you, ‘n yeah . . . my own stupidity for listenin’ to ya . . . I’M in a whole world o’ trouble.”

“Roy, I’m sorry . . . .”

“Not half as sorry as you’re GONNA be!” Roy snapped, then sighed.   “All right, Mother Gibson, let’s have the particulars.”   He walked over to his desk and procured pencil and paper.   “First off, when did ya discover the Lindsay gal ‘n this Sister Anne had gone missin’?”

“This morning,” Mother Catherine replied, “about . . . I guess maybe ten or fifteen minutes before Mister Cartwright and Stacy arrived.”

Roy sat down behind his desk, and began jotting down the mother superior’s reply.

“They . . . must have left during the night or perhaps the dark hours of early morning,” Mother Catherine continued.   “In fact, I’m reasonably certain they DID.   Sister Anne asked permission to be excused from supper and Compline last night . . . said she was feeling poorly.   She had plenty of time to plan things out, Sheriff.”

“You search the hospital ‘n grounds outside?”

Mother Catherine nodded her head.   “Father Rutherford is overseeing that now, though frankly, I’d be surprised if they turned up there.”

“Does Sister Anne have any family or friends around?   Somewhere she could go?”

“Yes,” Mother Catherine replied, “her mother lives right here in Virginia City, but they’re estranged.   They’ve not spoken for five, maybe six years now, Sheriff Coffee.”

“I see,” Roy murmured softly.   “So, you’re sayin’ there’s not much chance o’ her showin’ up on her mother’s doorstep?”

“Not at all, actually.   I think there’s every chance in the world,” Mother Catherine said.   “Sister Anne has nowhere ELSE to go.”

“All right . . . who IS Sister Anne’s mother?” Roy asked.

“Polly McPherson,” Mother Catherine replied.   “I . . . believe she runs an establishment here in town called the Virginia City Social Club.”

Polly McPherson, madam of the very lucrative establishment known as the Virginia City Social Club, leaned against the door jamb of the guest room, watching her daughter care for the young girl tossing and turning on the bed.   “How is she?”

“Burning with fever,” Sister Anne replied, fearful and growing more so by the minute.

“I think you need to send for the doc,” Polly said, as she stepped into the room.

“No.”   Sister Anne was adamant.   “No one can know she’s here, apart from US.   NO one.”

“I don’t mean to in any way question your ability as a nurse, Maggie, but that gal needs a DOCTOR,” Polly insisted.

“If we bring the doctor, he’ll tell the sheriff she’s here,” Sister Anne argued, as she worked frantically to bathe Cara’s face and neck.

“Would you rather she died?”

“She won’t die,” Sister Anne insisted with a calm she was very far from feeling.   “Mother, please!   If I can just keep her cool until her fever breaks—”

“I saw that leg, Maggie,” Polly said, “last night when you changed the bandages.   That fever’s going to keep climbing higher and higher, unless her leg is seen to.”

Sister Anne threw the cloth she had been using to bathe Cara’s face into the near empty bowl.   “I need more water,” she said in a sullen tone, as she grabbed hold of the bowl and rose.

Polly sidestepped, effectively blocking her daughter’s path.   “Maggie, I’m NOT a nurse, I’ve had no training to speak of in the healing arts, but even I can see that girl’s fever is dangerously high.”

“One hour, Mother, please,” Sister Anne begged.   “Just give me one hour.”

“I don’t think that gal’s GOT an hour,” Polly said bluntly.   “You got until I get dressed, and THAT’S goin’ against my better judgment.   If there’s no sign of improvement, I’m sending Paul for the doc.”   She stood aside to allow her daughter to pass.

Sister Anne bolted for the open bedroom door, with both arms wrapped tight around the bowl.   A loud pounding on the front door below froze both women in their tracks.

“Probably a client,” Polly said grimly, as she pulled the flaps of her silk robe together and securely tied the sash.   “You take the backstairs down to the kitchen.”

Paul Klein, meanwhile, tossed aside his aunt’s latest copy of the Territorial Enterprise, and ran to answer the door.   Upon throwing it open, he was shocked and heartily dismayed to find Sheriff Coffee, the Cartwrights, and Mother Gibson standing on the door step outside.

“Paul?!” Mother Catherine exclaimed with a perplexed frown.   “What are YOU doing HERE?”

“If y’ don’t mind, Mother Gibson, I’LL ask t’ questions,” Roy said curtly.   He, then, returned his attention to the chagrinned young man standing framed in the open door.   “Son, I’d like a word with Miz McPherson.   She in?”

“I, uhhh . . . I dunno, I . . . .”   Paul swallowed nervously.

“Paul, YOU g’won out to the kitchen and help Maggie,” Polly ordered, as she slowly descended the stairs.

“Y-Yes, Ma’am,” Paul murmured softly, before turning tail and running in the direction of the kitchen with shoulders hunched, and head hung.

“Gentlemen . . . Ladies . . . please come in,” Polly invited in a cool, but polite tone.   She stood aside, allowing her unexpected visitors to enter.

Sheriff Coffee fell in step behind the lady of the house.   Mother Gibson followed behind the sheriff, while the Cartwrights brought up the rear.   Polly led her visitors to the small, formal parlor at the back of the house and invited them to sit.   She, herself, took up position before the fireplace.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff Coffee?” Polly asked.

“We’re lookin’ for a very sick young lady ‘n her nurse, one o’ the sisters who works at Saint Mary’s Hospital,” Roy replied.

“A sick young lady and a nun,” Polly echoed, with a wry smile.   “What makes you think they’re HERE?”

“Because the nurse we’re looking for is Sister Anne,” Mother Gibson immediately spoke up.   “Your daughter, Mrs. McPherson.”

“. . . and where in the ever lovin’ world didja get the idea she’d show up HERE of all places?” Polly demanded in a tone of voice insultingly condescending.

“She has nowhere ELSE to go,” Mother Gibson quietly replied.

“Mrs. McPherson, the young lady in the company of Sister Anne has a leg that’s badly infected,” Ben pleaded.   “If she’s not returned to the hospital, where that leg can be properly cared for . . . she might die.”

“If that young lady dies under your roof, Ma’am, Sister Anne will more ‘n likely wind up bein’ charged with manslaughter . . . ‘n YOU as an accessory,” Roy warned.

Polly sighed.   “They’re here,” she reluctantly confessed.   “The young lady you speak of IS upstairs . . . and she’s in a very bad way.   I was about to send Paul for the doctor.”

“Stacy, would YOU mind fetching Doctor Martin?” Ben asked.   “I’d also appreciate it if you’d remain at the Martins until your brother and I come for you.”

“But—”

“No arguments, Young Woman,” Ben said firmly in a tone of voice that brooked no further argument.

“Yes, Sir,” Stacy responded with a sigh.

“Mrs. McPherson, if you’d be so kind as to tell me where Sister Anne and her patient are, I’d be more than happy to lend a hand in caring for the girl until the doctor comes,” Mother Catherine offered, after Stacy had left.

“Upstairs,” Polly replied.   “Guest room’s at the end of the hall, on the right.”

“Thank you,” Mother Catherine said rising.

“I WAS telling the truth when I said I was about to send for the doc,” Polly said, very much on the defensive.

“Y’ should’ve sent f’r ME when Sister Anne showed up on your doorstep with Cara Lindsay,” Roy said sternly.   “Why didn’t ya?”

“The unholy hour of the morning they showed up for one thing,” Polly replied, “and for another I happen to believe Maggie’s story about Miss Lindsay’s father wanting to sell her baby.”   She turned and looked Ben square in the face.   “You believe it, too, Mister Cartwright,” she half observed, half accused.   “I can see it in your face.”

“To be perfectly honest, Mrs. McPherson, I’m not sure whether I believe Miss Lindsay’s father really intends to sell her baby to the highest bidder or not,” Ben said firmly.  “I AM reasonably certain, however, that Miss Lindsay believes her accusations are true, and as Roy here said to me yesterday, I’M of the mind that where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”

“. . . and what stake do YOU have in this, Mister Cartwright . . . if you don’t mind me asking?” Polly demanded.

“My family and I want to help Miss Lindsay . . . if she’s of a mind to let us,” Ben replied.   That was all he was prepared to say at that moment.

“Miz McPherson, I couldn’t help but notice y’ sounded real sure o’ yourself just now when ya said y’ believe Miss Lindsay’s story,” Roy quietly observed.   “Most, includin’ me, are shocked, ‘n at best don’t honestly know WHAT t’ believe.”

“Sheriff Coffee, I know for fact Mister Lindsay has been serving as a baby broker to the very rich in San Francisco . . . oohh, I’d say for the better part of the last five . . . maybe six years now at the very least,” Polly said grimly.  “Maybe longer.”

Roy frowned.   “Don’t tell me the ladies workin’ f’r YOU have . . . .”

“No, Sheriff Coffee,”   Polly shook her head.   “Even at the best of times . . . under the very best of circumstances, brokering with one of MY girls, who finds herself in the family way, is a very chancy business.   I do all I can to protect my girls of course, but I’m afraid even my best efforts amount to being little more than doing nothing at all.   I trust we ALL understand each other?”

“I do,” Roy snapped.

Hoss and Ben merely nodded.

“I DID have occasion to make use of Mister Lindsay’s services once, however,” Polly continued in a very quiet, very subdued tone of voice.

“I thought y’ just got through sayin’ y’ never used him when one o’ the ladies workin’ for ya found herself in the family way,” Hoss said with a bewildered frown.

“I haven’t,” Polly affirmed.   “No . . . the mother-to-be was NOT one of my working girls . . . she was my daughter.”

“Sister Anne?!” Ben queried, astonished and shocked.

Polly nodded.   “Yes, Mister Cartwright.   Sister Anne.   Her given name is Margaret.   I call her Maggie.”   She sighed.   “She was the one thing in my life untouched by what I’ve become,” she sadly continued, “or so I thought.   Maggie’s father . . . . ” A wistful half smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.   “A charmer, that one, with all his pretty words, and his poetry.   He was the only ’decent’ man who ever talked to me about marriage.”

“What . . . happened to him, Miz McPherson?” Hoss ventured.

“Hoss!” Ben admonished.   “I don’t think that’s—”

Polly held up her hand.   “ ‘S ok, Mister Cartwright.   Lord above knows I‘m not welcome in this town‘s many circles of ‘polite’ society,” she said with a touch of rancor.   “Never have been . . . never will be.   My telling the truth after all these years won’t change anything for me, but if it can help my daughter . . . . ”   She looked over at Roy Coffee expectantly.

“T’ be up front ‘n honest, Ma’am, what happens t’ Sister Anne . . . Maggie . . . is gonna be up t’ a jury of her peers,” Roy said.   “Right now, she stands charged o’ kidnappin’ Miss Lindsay . . . a minor in t’ eyes o’ the law, ‘n recklessly puttin’ her life in danger.   If Miss Lindsay dies, your daughter could be lookin’ at a manslaughter charge.”

“Though I can’t condone what Maggie‘s done, after talking with Miss Lindsay myself, I can understand why she took the action she did,” Ben anxiously pressed.   “Your daughter can’t stop Tobias Lindsay from claiming custody of his daughter and her baby, but maybe . . . just maybe . . . YOU can.”

“. . . and takin’ into account the fact that your daughter don’t have any kind o’ criminal record prior t’ all this, if she IS found guilty by her peers in a court o’ law, anything you hafta say might incline a judge t’ be lenient when it comes t’ handin’ down a sentence,” Roy added.

Polly sighed, and turned toward the window in her downstairs parlor that looked out upon a back alley strewn with garbage.   “I guess it all boils down to what it says in The Good Book about the sins of the father being visited upon the son,” she began.   “Only in THIS instance, it’s the sins of the mother being visited upon the daughter.   Godfrey McPherson, Maggie’s father, walked out on me . . . on US . . . soon after I told him I was with our child.   He never even said goodbye.   I woke up one morning, and he was gone.   I found out later he was married to a very wealthy woman and, though he tended to stray . . . a lot . . . sooner or later, he ALWAYS went back home to Mama and her money.

“I had Maggie in a charity hospital in St. Louis,” Polly continued.   “Most women in my position would’ve let the baby go for adoption, but I couldn’t.   I LOVED her father, and God help me, I still do to this day.   I figured if I couldn’t have the man, I’d take consolation in having his child.   The minute I was back on my feet, Maggie and I left St. Louis, she with a handful of baby things given us by the folks running the charity hospital and me with little more than the clothes on my back and a stolen name.”

“A stolen name?!” Hoss echoed with a puzzled frown.   “What do you mean by that?”

“I listed Godfrey as Maggie’s father on her birth certificate, and, though I never married him, I, nonetheless, claimed to be his widow,” Polly replied.   “I took any job that was offered me . . . emptying bedpans in a hospital . . . waiting tables . . . cleaning houses . . . but the pay was . . . I’ll be charitable and just say it wasn’t near enough to support me AND Maggie.   I . . . felt I had NO choice but to . . . to offer the only commodity I had to offer . . . namely myself.

“By the time I arrived here in Virginia City, I had enough put by to pay rent on a small house on D Street and set out my shingle as it were,” she continued.   “It wasn’t easy . . . in fact, at times it was damned near impossible, but I shielded Maggie as best I could from my, shall we say less than sterling reputation?   When she turned six, I sent her to a good boarding school out in San Francisco, where very few, if any, had even heard about Polly McPherson and the burgeoning Virginia City Social Club.   Summers and school holidays were spent with my older sister and HER family.”

“Paul Klein’s mother?” Ben asked.

Polly nodded.   “I couldn’t visit often, but I wrote . . . sent birthday and Christmas presents . . . supported her financially, and as my business began to flourish, I was able to help out my sister and her family a little, too.   Maggie was all set to leave for a very fine finishing school back east, when she became involved with a young man who ended up leaving HER in the family way.”

“Was HE married, too, like Sist— like . . . Maggie’s pa?” Roy asked.

“No, but he was ENGAGED to be married,” Polly replied.   “The planned wedding, in MY humble opinion, amounted to being more of a business venture, one that united new money and impoverished nobility together in Holy Matrimony.”

“Is THAT when you went t’ Tobias Lindsay?” Roy asked.

“Actually?   Mister Lindsay came to ME, Sheriff,” Polly replied, “with an offer from the boy’s father of twenty thousand dollars in gold, in return for my letting Maggie’s baby go for adoption.”

“. . . ‘n the both of ya agreed t’ this?” Roy asked.

“I did,” Polly said bitterly.   “Maggie, bless her heart, wanted to keep that baby, more than just about anything.   She loved the father, she claimed, and though she never came right out and said so, I think she entertained fanciful notions about that boy coming back to claim her and the child.   I, at least, had no such illusions about Godfrey.”

“So YOU in effect SOLD your own grandchild for twenty thousand in gold?” Roy demanded, shocked and appalled.

“Yes, I did, Sheriff Coffee,” Polly shot right back, defiant and angry, yet very much on the defensive, “and if I had it to do over, I’d do the exact same thing.”   She squeezed her eyes shut and counted to ten.   “Mister Lindsay assured me that Maggie’s baby would be placed in a good home . . . where she would have a mother and a father . . . she would be well fed, clothed, educated, and would lack for nothing,” she continued, with eyes still closed and jaw tightly clenched.   “As for the twenty thousand in gold . . . that was for Maggie and me to put as much distance as we possibly could between us and Virginia City, and have something to live on until I received the money from the sale of my assets here.

“Maggie, though . . . .” Polly chuckled mirthlessly, and shook her head.   “When she found out about the devil’s bargain I struck with Mister Lindsay, she swore . . . on the grave of the father I’d for so many years told her was dead . . . that she wanted nothing more to do with me.   I expected she’d be angry, but she was only sixteen years old.   I’m not so stupid as to think she’d get over it . . . a woman NEVER truly gets over putting a child up for adoption, even if it IS in the best interests of that child.   But I honest and truly believed she’d at some point pull herself together and move on, even if she never forgave me for what I’d done.”

“She left ya?” Hoss gently asked.

Polly nodded.   “For three years, I heard nothing from her or about her,” she continued, her voice tremulous.   “Then, a year . . . maybe a year and a half ago, I was a patient in the convent hospital suffering from female troubles.   The n-nurse who looked after me . . . . ”

“Sister Anne?” Ben asked.

“Yes.”

“Mrs. McPherson, are you willing to testify to all this in a court of law?” Ben asked.

“Yes, Mister Cartwright, I am . . . but on one condition.”

“. . . and that is?”

“I won’t name the man who sired my daughter’s baby,” Polly said firmly.   “My silence was also part of the agreement and I mean to honor it.”

“Miz McPherson, you might be able t’ help your daughter if she’s found guilty ‘n the judge hearin’ the case happens t’ be inclined toward leniency,” Roy said candidly, “but, I’m afraid your testimony alone ain’t gonna be enough t’ keep Miss Lindsay ’n her baby outta Tobias’ hands.    We need evidence . . . good, solid, concrete evidence that shows him t’ be guilty o’ what amounts t‘ peddlin’ human flesh.   Otherwise, it comes down t’ being his word against yours.”

“Dadburnit it, Roy . . . what’s it gonna take?!” Hoss demanded, outraged at the prospect of handing Cara Lindsay and The Li’l One over to the likes of Tobias Lindsay.

“It’s gonna take a lot more ‘n we got right now,” Roy growled back.

“I got a wire from Joe earlier,” Ben said slowly.   He reached into the pocket of his shirt and drew out a folded piece of paper.   “Here.   Read for yourself.”

Roy took the paper from Ben’s hand, unfolded it, and silently read the message over a couple of times.   “This Miz Crawleigh Joe mentions . . . she that cousin o’ Miz Danvers?   The one you ‘n that Pinkerton friend o’ Adam’s put outta business?”

“Yes, Roy, she is,” Ben replied.   “Adam’s friend found enough evidence of cruelty against that woman to close down her orphanage and foundling home for good.”

“Seems t’ ME, Jack found enough t’ lock her up for the next ten years or so, too,” Hoss grimly added his two cents worth.   “I, for one, would be real interested in knowin’ why she’s runnin’ around loose, free as a bird.”

“I’m gonna look into that, Hoss,” Roy said, “believe you me!   Ben?”

“Yes, Roy?”

“I need t’ know more about the investigation that friend o’ Adam’s conducted at the orphanage ’n foundling home Miz Crawleigh ran out in Ohio,” Roy said.

“I have a copy of Jack’s report at home, locked up in my safe,” Ben replied.

“Good.   I’ll be out soon as I can t’ look it over,” Roy said.   “Takin’ Miz Crawleigh’s past history into account, if . . . ’n it’s a real big if . . . we can prove Tobias knew about that woman’s past when he hired her t’ look after his daughter, then y’ just might be able t’ show him t’ be an unfit father.”

Mother Catherine, meanwhile, stood just outside the open door to the guest room, and for a moment watched Sister Anne care for the young girl, now tossing and turning amid crumpled, sweat soaked bed linens.   “What can I do to help?” the mother superior asked as she stepped into the room.

Sister Anne gasped.   “M-Mother S-Superior!   H-How . . . when did you—?!” she stammered, nearly dropping the cloth she had been using to bathe Cara’s face and neck.   “I’d thought . . . I’d HOPED—”

“. . . this would be the very last place anyone would think of looking for you?” Mother Catherine queried with eyebrow slightly upraised.

Sister Anne nodded.

“You were right,” Mother Catherine said quietly, as she walked over and took her place on the other side of the bed.   “No one WOULD think to look for you here . . . unless they realized you had no place ELSE to go.”

“Gabe . . . .” Cara moaned, her voice hoarse.   “No . . . y-you can’t . . . you can’t stay . . . danger . . . if . . . if m-my father finds you . . . .”

“She’s been talking to Gabe since daybreak yesterday morning,” Sister Anne confessed in a very small, very frightened voice.

“We’ve sent for the doctor,” Mother Catherine said as she drew up a chair close to the bed and sat down.

“W-We?” Sister Anne queried with fast sinking heart.   “Oh Dear Lord, n-not . . . not Monsignor Kramer . . . .”

Mother Catherine shook her head.   “By this time, I‘m sure the ‘good’ monsignor knows you and Miss Lindsay are missing . . . no keeping that from him, I‘m afraid, but he doesn‘t know where you are.”

“Then who—?”

“The Cartwrights,” Mother Catherine replied, as she gently eased the bedclothes away from Cara’s bad leg, “. . . AND Sheriff Coffee.”

Sister Anne swallowed nervously.   “What of Miss Lindsay’s father?”

“I was told that he was in San Francisco on business when he finally received word of his daughter’s disappearance a couple of days ago,” Mother Catherine replied.   “Assuming he left immediately, he won’t reach Carson City for another five days at the very least.   “Sister Anne?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“When was the last time you changed Miss Lindsay’s bandages?

“I don’t know,” Sister Anne replied, dolefully wagging her head back and forth.   “Three . . . maybe four hours ago . . . I‘ve been concentrating on trying to bring down her fever, I . . . I guess I forgot about her bandages.”

“I’ll see to it,” the mother superior said, rising.   “Where might I find hot water and clean bandages?”

“There’s plenty of hot water on the stove in the kitchen downstairs, and clean bandages in the armoire behind me,” Sister Anne replied, in the tone of one utterly defeated, and resigned to whatever consequence was about to befall her.

Mother Catherine nodded, then started for the door.

“Mother?”

She paused.   “Yes, Child?”

“I’m truly sorry for any trouble I’ve brought to you and . . . and to our order,” Sister Anne said, “but even so . . . if I had it to do over?   I’d have done EXACTLY the same.”   This last was spoken with a touch of defiance.

“I know, Sister.”

A soft, but insistent knock against the guest room door drew the attention of the two women from their conversation.   “Yes?   Who is it?” the mother superior called out.

Doctor Paul Martin threw the door open and strode briskly into the room.   “Mother Gibson, I’d be much obliged if you’d stay and assist,” he said, taking charge of the situation.

“Of course,” Mother Catherine immediately assented.

“Doctor, what ab—!?”

Paul turned and glared at Sister Anne.   “I think it would be best if YOU waited downstairs,” he said curtly.   “Mother Gibson?”

“Yes, Doctor Martin?”

“We’re going to need boiling water, and lots of it.”

“It’s already on the stove,” Mother Catherine replied.   “I’ll go fetch some.”

“Thank you,” Paul said grimly.   “While you’re downstairs, would you please ask Hoss to remain in case we have need if him?”   His eyes moved to Cara’s badly infected leg and lingered.

“I will, Doctor,” Mother Catherine promised . . . .

Sister Anne leapt to her feet the instant her sharp ears picked up the soft, rhythmic slapping of feet descending the stairs in the narrow corridor just outside Polly McPherson’s formal parlor.   She bolted from the room, nearly colliding head on with Mother Catherine as she moved from the last step onto the floor.

Hoss, Ben, and Roy, also rose, one at a time, and followed at a slower pace.   Paul Klein remained on the settee, his heart racing, and eyes glued to the backs of the three older men as they filed out of his aunt’s parlor.

“Mother!” Sister Anne cried out in anguish.   She reached out and seized hold of Mother Catherine’s forearm with a painful, vice like grip.   “Mother, please . . . how IS she?”

“I’m afraid Miss Lindsay’s in a very bad way, Child,” the mother superior replied.   She, then, raised her head, making eye contact with Hoss.   “Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Doctor Martin asked that you stay . . . in case he’s . . . he’s forced to amputate.”

“A-Amputate?!” Sister Anne gasped, as she released her hold on the mother superior.   She sank down onto the next to last step, wagging her head back and forth very slowly.   “Dear God in Heaven . . . WHAT have I done?” she moaned.

“Your actions haven’t HELPED Miss Lindsay,” Mother Catherine said, quiet and firm, yet not without a measure of kindness, “but, in all likelihood, it’s MY opinion we’d be facing this eventuality anyway.”

“M-Mother Gibson . . . you tell Doc Martin I’ll be right here, if ‘n when he needs me,” Hoss said, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach.

“I’ll tell him,” Mother Catherine promised.   She, then, turned, and quickly made her way down the short length of corridor to the kitchen.

Roy Coffee silently walked over to Sister Anne, who remained seated on the step, with arms wrapped tight around her knees, staring off into space through eyes, round and unblinking.   “Margaret McPherson, you’re under arrest,” he said, placing his hand on her shoulder, “you ’n Paul Klein both.”

“No!” Sister Anne, Maggie, protested.   “Not PAUL!   He had no idea I . . . well, that I w-was taking Miss Lindsay from the hospital without permission.”

“I had a pretty good idea, Cousin.”

Roy turned, and much to his surprise, found Paul Klein standing in their midst.

“. . . this business of sneaking the buckboard outta the rectory stable ‘n meeting YOU outside the hospital in the dead o’ night . . . you bringing Miss Lindsay HERE of all places . . . .” Paul continued, “well, I’ll put it THIS way . . . it doesn’t take a genius to put two ‘n two together ‘n come up with four.”

“Paul, no!” Sister Anne begged, with tears streaming down her face.   “Please, I don’t want YOU getting into trouble for . . . well, f-for something I practically had to twist your arm to—”

“Yeah . . . you twisted my arm alright, but still ‘n all I went along with ya,” Paul said.

“Why?” Roy very quietly asked.   “If you knew what Sister Anne here was up to, and you’d like as not end up in hot water ‘way in over your head if ya got caught . . . why’d you decide t’ go along with this crazy scheme SHE . . . .” he inclined his head towards the young nun, still seated on the next to last step, wringing her hands, “. . . cooked up?”

“I don’t get out much, Sheriff Coffee, but I’ve heard bits ‘n pieces about that gal’s father,” Paul said grimly.

“Your intentions were good, ‘n . . . maybe your hearts were in the right place ‘n all, but I’m still gonna hafta arrest ya for kidnappin’ ‘n at this point, endangerin’ Miss Lindsay’s life by removing’ her from the hospital,” Roy said with a heavy heart.   “If Miss Lindsay DIES . . . the both of ya could be lookin’ at a possible charge o’ manslaughter in addition t’ everything else.”   He paused.   “Do you both understand that?”

“I understand, Sheriff,” Sister Anne replied, her voice a dead monotone.

Paul nodded.   “A-Are you taking Ma—uhhh, Sister Anne ‘n me to down to the jail right now?” he asked.

“Yes, Son,” Roy replied.   “The doc ‘n mother superior have everything in hand upstairs, so there’s no reason for either one of ya to remain here.”

“Sister Anne . . . Paul . . . I’ll let you know about Miss Lindsay as soon as I hear something,” Ben promised.

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright,” Paul murmured, then turned and gallantly helped his cousin to her feet.

Cara walked arm-in-arm with Gabe through a dream garden suffused with a gentle white light that seemed to emanate from every leaf, every flower petal, every blade of grass.   For the first time since the untimely death of her mother, she felt happy . . . honestly and truly happy . . . and at peace.

 “Gabe, if my father comes and finds you—”

 “He won’t,” Gabe said with a quiet confidence filled with all the strength of the mightiest fortress.

 . . . and at long last, Cara believed him.   “Gabe?”

 “Yes, Cara?”

 “Where are we going?”

 “There‘s someone waiting for you,” Gabe replied.

 “There is?” Cara queried with a puzzled frown.   “Who?”

 “Someone who loves you every bit as much as I do.”

 Somewhere in the far distance, she heard another take a deep ragged breath, hold, then exhale; and in that other world so very far away . . . .

“Mama,” a young child-woman by the name of Cara Lindsay whispered, then breathed her last.

“She’s gone,” Paul Martin murmured softly, his heart heavy.

 Mother Catherine traced a small cross on the dead girl’s forehead with her thumb, and murmured a quick prayer:  “May you find rest, peace, and happiness in the arms of our Lord.”

“Amen,” Paul responded.   He, then, gently pulled the sheet up over Cara’s head.   “I . . . wish I could have done more.”

“You did everything you could, Doctor,” Mother Catherine said very quietly.   “Looking at that poor child’s leg . . . to be brutally frank, I don’t honestly think it would have mattered if Sister Anne HADN’T taken her from the hospital.”

“I’m NOT talking about now, Mother Gibson,” the doctor said bitterly, “I’m talking about right after that poor child’s mother died.”

Hoss swallowed nervously, then rose to his feet the minute he saw Paul Martin emerge from the dark shadows of the narrow hallway, and step across the threshold into the parlor.   “Doc,” he ventured his face pale, and voice filled with grim resignation.   “I . . . I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be for . . . well, for somethin’ like this.”

“ ‘S ok, Hoss,” the doctor said, his voice barely audible.   “Miss Lindsay . . . well, it seems she won’t be needing that amputation after all.”

Ben leapt to his feet, nearly giddy with relief, believing that Paul Martin had at the eleventh hour found a miracle lying somewhere at the bottom of that black bag of his.   “Paul . . . thank the Lord, that’s wonderful—”   His words of gratitude abruptly ended in a soft, anguished moan when the sawbones lifted his head.   “No,” he murmured softly upon catching a good hard look at Paul Martin’s pale, stricken face.   “Oh, Dear God, no . . . .”

“Doc, does that mean that M-Maggie . . . I m-mean Sister Anne’s going to be charged with . . . with murder?” Polly demanded, her face white as a sheet.

“Now mind, Mrs. McPherson . . . your daughter acted irresponsibly when she took Miss Lindsay from the hospital, and to that end, she IS guilty of abducting a young lady, not yet the age of majority . . . . ”

“. . . but, it’s my opinion as a doctor that the actions of Sister Anne and Paul Klein did NOT cause her death,” Paul Martin grimly told the sheriff an hour after pronouncing Cara Lindsay dead.

The lawman and doctor stood before the fireplace in Polly McPherson’s parlor facing each other with backs almost painfully erect, arms hanging loosely at their sides, and faces set with the same grim resolve as a pair of fighters in a ring getting ready to square off.   Polly McPherson and Mother Gibson sat together on the ornate French provincial settee, with Ben and Hoss standing directly behind them.

“So . . . YOU’RE sayin’ had Sister Anne ‘n Paul Klein NOT taken Miss Lindsay from the hospital . . . that she’d have died anyhow?” Roy asked.

“That‘s EXACTLY what I‘m saying,” Paul replied with a curt nod of his head for emphasis.   “Now, don’t get me wrong, Roy . . . Sister Anne’s actions . . . and Paul Klein’s as well . . . WERE ill considered and reckless, but in my opinion did NOT cause Miss Lindsay’s death.   If ANYONE’S directly responsible, it’s the individual who inflicted that burn on her leg, and I‘m willing to testify to THAT in a court of law if necessary.”

“I’m gonna need a report after you’ve done your post mortem exam, Doc,” Sheriff Coffee said.

“You’ll have it before noon today,” Paul vowed.

“Sheriff?” Mother Catherine ventured.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Now that Miss Lindsay is no longer with us . . . what happens to her baby?”

“Since Tobias is his daughter‘s next o’ kin, I‘m legally bound t’ turn that baby over to him when he comes t’ claim his grandson,” Roy replied.

“WHAT?!” Ben exclaimed, angry and outraged.   “Roy, no!   You can’t!”

“Ben, I don’t like it any more ‘n YOU do,” Roy shot right back, his voice rising, “but unless you can prove Tobias t’ be unfit, the law I’VE sworn t’ uphold ‘n defend says that’s exactly what I gotta do.”

“Joe?   Joe Cartwright?”

The youngest of Ben’s sons glanced up sharply upon hearing his name.   He had spent the better part of the last hour seated at one of the tables in the back of the Silver Morgan Saloon in Carson City, gently nursing a mug of beer with a heavy heart.   “Jack Cranston . . . right?” he queried as he rose and politely offered his hand.

“That’s right,” Jack replied, as he firmly took Joe’s proffered hand.   He grinned.   “I’m pleasantly surprised you remembered after all these years.   Last time I saw YOU . . . well, you couldn’t have been any older than your young nephew.”

“You’re not the kind of guy a starry eyed kid’s likely to forget,” Joe said.   He invited Jack to sit with a gesture toward the unoccupied chair to his left.  “I got a wire from Pa saying you were headed this way.   I didn’t figure on you getting here so quickly, though.”

“I took a freight wagon out of Sacramento,” Jack explained, as he and Joe sat down.   “Fewer stops that way, and when we DID stop, it was just long enough to change horses.”

“A freight wagon?!” Joe echoed, with a chortle.   “Big guy like you?   I’ll bet THAT cost a pretty penny . . . . ”

“. . . chump change for the Pinkerton clients who have engaged my services,” Jack returned with a wry smile.

“Pa also said in his wire that you’re willing to share information you’ve already dug up on Tobias Lindsay,” Joe said as they sat down.

“As long as it doesn’t compromise the identity of my clients,” Jack said, before turning and signaling to one of the saloon girls circulating among the tables.   “You mind me asking what your father’s interest in Tobias Lindsay is?”

“It’s a long story, Jack, and given my druthers, I’m thinking I’d like to go someplace where we can talk privately,” Joe said, casting a pointed glance over toward a half dozen cowhands now taking their seats at a nearby round table.   “I’m checked in at the Comstock Hotel across the street.   We could go to my room if you’d like . . . . ”

Jack flashed Joe a roguish grin.   “I’m checked in at the Comstock Hotel, too . . . in the presidential suite,” he said, as he and Joe rose.

“The presidential suite?!” Joe echoed incredulously.   “You’re joking, right?”

“Nope.   I’m dead serious.”

Joe chuckled softly and shook his head.   “Your clients picking up the tab for this, too?”

“Yep,” Jack replied.   “Have you eaten yet?”

Joe shook his head.   “I was just about to g’won over to the restaurant at the Comstock Hotel when I got this wire from Pa.”   He reached up and patted overtop the inside pocket of his green jacket.   “After I read it . . . well, I lost whatever appetite I had.”

“I . . . hope it wasn’t bad news . . . .”

“No, leastwise not as far as my family‘s concerned,” Joe hastened to reassure, “but what Pa had to say DOES have to do with Tobias Lindsay.”

“Let’s g’won back to my room,” Jack suggested.   “We can have the hotel’s room service send us up a couple of nice juicy steaks and a good bottle of whiskey to wash ’em down.”

“Sounds good to me,” Joe replied . . . .

Upon reaching Jack’s room at the Comstock Hotel, Joe shared everything he knew, beginning with the morning his pa and big brother found the baby on their doorstep and concluding with everything he had learned from Abigail Jarvis, seeing Vivian Crawleigh at the telegraph office, and the wire he’d not long ago received from Ben informing him of Cara Lindsay’s passing.

Jack silently ruminated upon everything Joe had just told him, as he cut what remained of his  enormous slab tender prime rib steak into bite sized pieces.   “She actually told your father and sister that Mister Lindsay . . . her father . . . wants to sell her baby . . . in so many words?” he finally ventured.

Joe slowly nodded his head.   “That’s what Pa said.”

“That’s . . . quite an accusation for a young lady to make against her own father.   Does your pa believe her?”

“Pa’s not sure WHAT to believe,” Joe replied, as he jabbed the last piece of steak from his plate with his fork, “but he IS of the mind that Miss Lindsay believed her allegations were true.”

Jack took hold of the whiskey bottle sitting on the table between them and held it up.   “More whiskey?” he asked.

“Yeah, but not much . . . just half a glass maybe . . . .”

“Say when.”   Jack picked up Joe’s glass and began to pour.

“That‘s enough,” Joe said when the glass was about a third of the way full.

“The thought of a man doing what amounts to selling his own flesh and blood’s enough to boggle the mind,” Jack mused, as he poured the remainder of the whiskey into his own glass.

“You can say that again,” Joe wholeheartedly agreed before raising the glass in hand to his lips and downing its contents in a single gulp.

“Even so, I’M actually inclined to agree completely with the late Miss Lindsay.”

“Really?” Joe queried, mildly surprised.

Jack nodded.

“Have you by chance unearthed proof that Mister Lindsay plans to sell his daughter‘s baby?” Joe asked hopefully.

“Nope,” Jack replied with a doleful sigh.   “All I have is a real strong gut feeling, which, unfortunately, won’t hold up in a court of law.”

“So, how, exactly, do your clients figure into all this?”

“As I told Adam, they’re a couple of wealthy San Francisco socialites, who, for whatever reason can’t have children of their own,” Jack explained.   “About six . . . maybe seven years ago now, they adopted a baby girl through Tobias Lindsay, who died just before her second birthday of what‘s commonly known as bad blood.[vi]”

Joe‘s jaw dropped.   “What?!” he exclaimed, incredulous.   “H-How in the world could a . . . an innocent baby—?”

“Her mother would’ve passed the illness on to her either in the womb or at birth,” Jack replied with a touch of rancor.   “My clients want to sue Mister Lindsay for delivering damaged goods.   THEIR words, Joe, not mine.”

“. . . and they hired YOU to find evidence to support their case?” Joe asked, appalled at the thought of a baby being looked upon as nothing more than a marketable commodity.

“THEY hired the Pinkerton Agency.   I got the assignment,” Jack replied.

“You said they adopted this baby six or seven years ago?  If they were going to sue Mister Lindsay . . . why did they wait so long?”

“I wonder about that myself,” Jack admitted, then shrugged, “but mine is not to question why.   I saw something very interesting among the adoption papers my clients have in their possession, however . . . . ”

“Oh?” Joe queried.   “And what might THAT be?”

“A copy of their baby’s birth certificate.”

“So . . . do the parents turn out to be anyone I know?” Joe asked.

That wry, sardonic tone of voice and eyebrow slightly upraised, so reminiscent of one Adam Stoddard Cartwright, brought a smile to Jack’s face.   “Well, that all depends, Joe.   Are you acquainted with a man by the name of ‘Father Unknown’?”

“Common name, but no.  I’m not acquainted with anyone with that moniker,” Joe replied with a chuckle.   “Tell me something, Jack. Is this guy a wealthy man, with a wife who doesn’t understand him and a whole passel of kids?”

“More likely a young man born into a nouveau riche family, whose social climbing parents seek to merge their financial assets to a family of nobility living in genteel poverty that would otherwise be looking down their long, aristocratic noses at them,” Jack added.

“Sounds to me more like a business merger than a marriage,” Joe observed with a grimace.

“That’s about the size of it,” Jack agreed.

“So, who’s the mother?” Joe asked.   “Or is SHE listed as unknown, too?”

“The MOTHER of the baby my clients adopted was a young girl just out of school, who was living with relatives in San Francisco at the time,” Jack replied.   “She was about to leave for a prestigious finishing academy for young ladies back east somewhere when her delicate condition was discovered.   Her name is Margaret McPherson, and I recently found out she’s living in YOUR neck of the woods, Joe.”

“Virginia City?”

Jack nodded.

“The only McPherson in Virginia City that I know of is Polly McPherson,” Joe said.   “She’s the madam of the Virginia City Social Club, and, too old, I think, to be the mother of a child who‘d be around seven or eight years old now, if she were still alive.”

“Ah, but this Polly McPherson you just mentioned is plenty old enough to be that child’s grandmother,” Jack pointed out.

Joe frowned.   “Her grandmother?!” he echoed, bemused.   “Well doesn’t that beat all.   I was under the impression Mrs. McPherson was left widowed shortly after she was married and never had any children.”

“Chances are most of the good people of Virginia City were never acquainted with Margaret McPherson or they’ve forgotten all about her because her mother packed her off to a posh boarding school in San Francisco,” Jack explained.   “Summer vacations and holidays were spent with Mrs. McPherson’s older sister.”

“All things considered, I can’t say as I blame Mrs. McPherson one bit,” Joe said.   For a moment, his thoughts drifted to Lotus O‘Toole, a very good friend of his, now dead, and her son, Timmy.   “Had that child stayed with her mother, she would’ve had a very difficult time of it growing up.”

“You speak like someone who knows,” Jack quietly observed.

“Second hand, I suppose,” Joe replied.   “A good friend of mine named Lotus O’Toole.   She went to work at the Silver Dollar Saloon after both her parents and her maternal grandparents died in a fire that burned down the part of town where the Chinese live.   Lotus was only fifteen years old.   Like Miss Lindsay, she also had a son born out of wedlock.   The both of ‘em had a very rough time of things.

“I tried my best to help, but she always turned me down,” Joe continued.   “In HER mind, it was accepting charity and . . . and she w-was bound and determined to pay her own way in this world . . . and Timmy’s w-way— ”   He abruptly broke off, and angrily wiped his eyes against the heels of his hands.   “Sorry, she . . . Lotus DIED last fall, Jack.”

“I’m sorry, Joe,” Jack offered kindly.

“Thanks,” Joe murmured softly.   “Lotus and Timmy both had a real rough time of things.   It’s good Mrs. McPherson had someplace to send her daughter.”

“Indeed.”

“So . . . what’s become of Margaret McPherson since she had the baby and let her go for adoption?”

“I found out she took the veil not long after.”

“She’s a nun?!”

Jack nodded.   “Nursing order, I think, since she’s presently serving at Saint Mary’s Hospital in Virginia City.   My, umm, sources tell me she attends church at Saint Mary’s in the Mountains, but rarely ventures into town otherwise.”

“Margaret . . . Sister Margaret . . . Jack, I don’t think there IS a Sister Margaret serving at Saint Mary’s Hospital,” Joe said.

“When Margaret McPherson took her final vows, she took Sister Anne as her vocation name.”

“Sister Anne?” Joe gasped.

“Then, you DO know her?”

“I know OF her,” Joe replied.   “Pa and Stacy said she was one of the nurses who was caring for Cara Lindsay, and—   Dear God!   Jack, I just realized . . . Miss McPherson . . . Sister Anne has bad blood . . . and she’s in a nursing order of nuns?!   She could’ve spread what she has to . . . who knows?   Hundreds of patients?   Thousands, maybe?”

“To my knowledge, there’s only two ways someone infected with bad blood can pass it on to another,” Jack said quietly.   “Through intimate relations, or an infected mother passing it to her child in the womb or when she gives birth.”

“Is there a cure?”

Jack shook his head.   “No.   Not really . . . and a mutual friend of your brother’s and mine, an old sawbones on one of the ships we crewed together, said that virtually all of the methods people tout as cures DON’T cure and more often than not, they’re actually worse than the disease itself,” he said with a shudder.

“I saw a couple of very good friends die of bad blood,” Joe said somberly.   “It‘s . . . let’s just say it‘s not a real good way to go and leave it at that.   How much longer do you figure Sister Anne has?”

Jack sighed and shook his head.   “Hard to say.   Some people live for many years with the disease and end up dying from complications associated with old age,” he replied.   “Others go through periods of remission and suffering relapses, and some end up dead within a year or two.”

“Kind of like hauling a whole buckboard full of nitroglycerin over rough terrain, on a hot summer day isn’t it.”   Joe’s words were more a statement of fact rather than a question.   “A man’s got every chance of reaching his destination alive, IF he’s very careful . . . but there’s every chance he could end up being blown to bits along the way because his horse stumbled . . . one of the wheels of his buckboard rolled over a small rock in the road the wrong way and jostled one of the barrels a little too much . . . or the temperature climbed a mite too high.”

“That pretty well sums it up.”

“I can’t help but feel sorry for Sister Anne,” Joe mused aloud.   “Even if she CAN’T pass her illness on to the patients in her care, I kinda doubt she’d be allowed to continue serving as a nurse.”

“Probably not,” Jack agreed.

“You think she knows?  About being infected with bad blood, I mean.”

“Off hand, I’d say that chances are she DOESN’T know,” Jack said, “but she needs to be told . . . sooner as opposed to later.”

Joe nodded.   “I s’pose,” he agreed with a doleful sigh.   “Jack?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“What are your plans for tomorrow?”

“First off, I’d like to see if I can run down our old ‘friend’, Vivian Crawleigh,” Jack said with a scowl, grimacing upon uttering her name, as if he had just bitten into a morsel of food with an incredibly foul taste.   “Given her reputation for cruelty, that woman needs to, at the very least, answer for the scars on Miss Lindsay’s back and the burn on her leg your father said was intentionally inflicted.”

“. . . and perhaps for Miss Lindsay’s death as well.” Joe added.

“I’m not sure I like what you gentlemen are implying,” Vivian Crawleigh said primly the following morning.   She stood in front of the fireplace in the formal parlor of Tobias Lindsay’s home, clad in a plain long sleeved white cotton blouse, and a full skirt made from wool dyed brown.   Her back was straight as a poker and her hands were folded, with fingers tightly interlaced, just below her bosom.

“I’m not implying anything,” Jack Cranston said blandly.   “I merely asked a simple, straightforward question.”

Vivian closed her eyes and exhaled a long, drawn out sigh.   “For the third and LAST time, Mister Cranston, I was hired to look after Mister Lindsay‘s daughter,” she responded, sparing no energy to conceal her annoyance.   “I was responsible for preparing her meals . . . seeing that she was properly bathed, dressed, and groomed every morning . . . making sure she took her medicine according to the doctor’s instructions, and that she got a decent night’s sleep.”

“What about discipline?” Jack asked.

“If you’re asking me whether or not I disciplined Mister Lindsay’s daughter, the answer is NO,” Vivian replied, meeting Jack’s steely glare without flinching.   “Mister Lindsay made it quite clear that HE would be the one to mete out discipline if his daughter required it.”

“Then . . . YOU’RE saying that Mister Lindsay was responsible for the scars on his daughter’s back and the burn on her leg?” Jack asked.

“I said NOTHING of the kind!” Vivian shot right back, her face all of a sudden a shade or two paler than was the norm.   “I don’t appreciate you putting words in my mouth, Mister Cranston.”

“Mrs. Crawleigh, which is it?” Joe demanded, his voice deadly calm.   “Did you burn her leg and put those scars on her back or did her father?”

“. . . and what’s THAT supposed to mean?” Vivian imperiously demanded as she turned and glared murderously down at Joe, seated before her in the middle of the settee directly facing the fireplace.

“Mister Cartwright and I KNOW that Cara Lindsay hasn’t set foot out of this house from the time she was found to be with child until the night she ran away from home,” Jack explained.

“. . . and how in the world would you know THAT?” Vivian demanded.   The wariness in her eyes gave lie to the bluster and blow heard in her tone of voice.

“Your neighbors,” Joe said quietly.

“That busy body at the post office, like as not,” Vivian growled.

“No matter,” Jack said blandly.    “The fact remains that you and Mister Lindsay were the only two people who came in contact with that girl.   If HE’S not responsible for the scars on her back and the wound on her leg, then YOU are.   It‘s as simple as that.”

“Mister Cranston . . . Mister Cartwright . . . this conversation is OVER,” Vivian said curtly.   “I trust you can find your own way out?”

Jack rose to his feet with a languid grace surprising in a man of his size.   Joe followed suit.   “Mrs. Crawleigh, you’re coming with us,” the former said.

“You‘re joking!”

“On the contrary, Ma’am, I‘m dead serious.   Mister Cartwright and I placing you under citizen’s arrest.”

“Citizen’s arrest?!” Vivian echoed incredulously.   She pulled herself up to the very fullness of her height and slammed her balled fists down on her hips.   “On what charge?”

“How about we start with murder, Mrs. Crawleigh?” Joe queried.

“That’s absurd!   Now if you gentlemen, and I use that term very loosely, will excuse me, I have a lot to do and—”

“It’s not as absurd as you might think, Ma‘am,” Joe argued.   “Miss Lindsay’s dead.   She died sometime yesterday morning, according to a wire sent by my father.   He also told me that the cause of her death was a burn on her leg that became gangrenous.”

“You’re LYING!” Vivian accused, her voice rising.

Joe dug into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a slip of paper folded in half.   “Here’s the message I got from the telegraph office,” he said curtly as he unfolded the message and thrust it in her direction.   “Read it for yourself.”

Vivian snatched the proffered sheet of paper out of Joe’s hand, and opened it.   “All right . . . so Miss Lindsay IS dead, may God rest her soul,” she grudgingly acknowledged, “but I had nothing . . . nothing whatsoever to do with that poor child‘s death.”

“Well, frankly, Ma’am, I find that very difficult to believe,” Joe said grimly.   “Taking into account what my sister‘s told me, and—”

“What do you WANT from me?” Vivian cried.   “Mister Cranston, isn’t it ENOUGH that you and Mister Cartwright’s father have deprived me of my livelihood . . . something  I’d worked and trained very hard for . . . something I’d dedicated my entire life to— ”

“I’ve done a lot of things in my life, which I’ve come to deeply regret, Mrs. Crawleigh,” Jack freely admitted, “but shutting down that so called orphanage you were running out in Ohio doesn’t number among them.”

Vivian’s jaw dropped, and her eyes went round as a pair of large serving platters.   Joe was half afraid those orbs of deep violet were going to explode right out of their sockets at any moment.

“The only thing I DO regret is that I failed to unearth sufficient evidence to convict you of murder as well,” Jack continued.

“How DARE you, Sir!” Vivian exclaimed, angry and highly indignant.   “How dare you?”

“Ma’am, need I remind you that the evidence against you for cruelty is a matter of public record out in Ohio?” Jack immediately interjected, hoping against hope to silence that self-righteous tirade sitting on the tip of her tongue before she could even think of giving it utterance.   “Furthermore, if memory serves, you were sentenced to a lengthy prison term, as well.”

“For things I was wrongly accused of,” Vivian immediately shot right back, the instant she found an opening, “on trumped up charges—”

“Mrs. Crawleigh, the way I see it,” Jack pressed, raising his voice slightly, “you have two choices.   You can tell us what you know about Miss Lindsay‘s injuries or you can tell it to judge and jury when you go on trial for murdering her, AFTER you‘ve finished serving out your prison sentence in Ohio.”

“You arrogant, insufferable—” Vivian cried, her face beet red.

“Mrs. Crawleigh, if Mister Lindsay’s the one responsible for inflicting that burn on his daughter’s leg, it’s in YOUR best interests to testify against him,” Joe pointed out.

“HOW is my testimony against Mister Lindsay in my best interests, Mister Cartwright?” Vivian demanded.   “You’ve made it quite clear that you’re going to had me over to Sheriff Dudley after we’re through with our little chat.”

“We’re required to do so by law, Ma’am,” Jack said.   “You ARE a wanted fugitive.   However, if Mister Lindsay’s guilty of inflicting the burn that led to his daughter’s death, HE will go on trial for murder, not you.”

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Vivian returned.

“Well, as I recall, you were sentenced to twenty years in prison after being found guilty for cruelty and a few other assorted charges,” Jack replied.   “With, oohhhh maybe another five years added for taking flight, you’re looking at twenty-five years, with maybe a year or two off for good behavior.   A long time to be sure, but far better than being sentenced to life in prison or death for murdering Miss Lindsay, don‘t YOU think, Mrs. Crawleigh?”

“I see your point,” Vivian responded with the air of one utterly and completely defeated.   “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“We’re listening,” Jack said, as he folded his arms across his chest . . .

Part Four

Vivian Crawleigh began to pace in front of the fireplace, her feet beating a slow, even rhythm against wood floor and bricked hearth.   She unconsciously clasped and unclasped her hands, which remained positioned just beneath her bosom.   “I’ve not the slightest idea who was responsible for the scarring and open wounds on Miss Lindsay’s back,” she began, “and that, Gentlemen, is the God’s honest truth.”   She, then, lapsed into a cold, stony silence.

“Mrs. Crawleigh . . . .” Jack quietly prompted.

Vivian abruptly stopped, turned, and glared down at the two men seated together on the settee, Joe first, then Jack.   “I had absolutely nothing to do with that burn on her leg,” she fearfully blurted out the words.   “That was entirely Mister Lindsay’s handiwork.”

Joe‘s posture immediately straightened.   He frowned.   “You saw him do it?” he demanded.

“Yes.”

Upon hearing her reply, Joe felt a sudden, dizzying rush of blood to his head.   His hands began to shake.   He slowly drew his fingers together, forming a pair of rock hard fists in a desperate attempt to keep them steady.   He squeezed his eyes tight shut for a moment and drew in a deep ragged breath.  A moment later, he opened his eyes, slowly, and asked in a voice, deadly calm, “Do you mean to say you just stood there and watched without doing anything to STOP him?”

“What in the world could I have done to stop HIM?” Vivian demanded, flinching away from the raw fury burning in Joe’s emerald green eyes.   “Mister Lindsay is a big, robust man, while I’m . . . well, I’m not a young woman anymore and my health is no longer what it was.   He could have swatted the likes of me aside, just as easily as he could’ve swatted a gnat!”

“You could’ve gone for the sheriff,” Joe returned, his voice rising.

“. . . AND WHAT COULD HE HAVE DONE?” Vivian yelled back.   “MISTER LINDSAY WOULD’VE TOLD HIM HE WAS METEING OUT PUNISHMENT!   PUNISHMENT, MISTER CARTWRIGHT THAT, I MIGHT ADD, WAS RICHLY DESERVED!”

“NO!”  Joe hotly protested, as he shot right off the settee to his feet.   “DOESN’T MATTER WHAT MISS LINDSAY DID OR DIDN’T DO!   SHE DIDN’T DESERVE TO BE HURT LIKE THAT!”

Jack reached up and took firm hold of Joe’s wrist.   “Joe, please!  Calm down,” he admonished in a very quiet tone of voice.

Joe glared at Jack for a moment, before dropping back down into his seat, in manner not unlike a very heavy rock plummeting from a high mountain place to the earth.

“The girl had it coming,” Vivian declared, righteously indignant, yet very much on the defensive.

Joe opened his mouth to respond, but immediately slammed it shut again when Jack turned and shot him a warning glare.

“Mrs. Crawleigh, what did Miss Lindsay do to merit such harsh punishment?” Jack asked.

“It wasn’t anything Miss Lindsay did or didn’t do,” Vivian replied.   “It was what she said.”

“. . . and that was?” Jack prompted.

“Things no young girl has any business saying to her father,” Vivian hedged.

“What did she say, Mrs. Crawleigh?” Joe demanded through clenched teeth, the angry scowl already on his face deepening.

“Mister Cartwright, I am a pious woman,” Vivian passionately declared.   “I simply can’t bring myself to repeat—”

“All right, Ma’am, let me ask you this,” Jack interjected.   “Am I correct in assuming she condemned her father to an eternity in what The Good Book refers to as an unquenchable lake of fire, and perhaps suggested her paternal grandmother’s moral character was, um, less than sterling?”

“Yes, among other things,” Vivian replied, “but the final straw . . . .”  she shuddered delicately, “was when she accused her father of . . . of . . . .”

“Of what?” Joe impatiently snapped out the question.

“That girl accused her own father of fouling upon her mother’s memory!” Vivian cried.   “Only she didn’t put it so politely!”

“Is that when Mister Lindsay . . . .”

“Yes, Mister Cranston,” Vivian replied, “that’s when Mister Lindsay grabbed her by the hair, dragged her out to the kitchen, lifted one of the covers from the stove top, and held it against her leg.”

“How hot was the stove?” Jack asked.

“Very hot,” Vivian answered.   “I had just finished cooking our supper.”

Her reply left both men were too stunned to speak.   Jack had seen more than his share of the horrifying consequences wrought by the violence men and women were capable of inflicting upon one another during his years as a Pinkerton man.   He had, to a small degree, learned to harden himself against what he saw in order do his job.   But, the thought of a father so grievously wounding his own daughter . . . .

Jack shuddered.   A quick glance at Joe’s face, and those round, staring eyes, told him the younger man was equally horror struck.

Vivian recoiled from the shock, anger, and revulsion she saw in their faces.   “Don’t look at me like that,” she snarled, raising her hands as one might to ward off a rain of physical blows.   “I told you before that Mister Lindsay’s a big, strong, powerful man.   There was nothing I could have done!   Absolutely nothing!”

“Maybe the sheriff’s hands were tied legally, Mrs. Crawleigh, but you STILL could’ve insisted on fetching the doctor,” Joe returned through clenched teeth.   “If you HAD?  Miss Lindsay might still be alive.”

“Mister Lindsay would’ve sent for the doctor, well, if not that night, then certainly the very next day, if he’d felt the need,” Vivian insisted.   “If he hadn’t by the time he left for San Francisco on a business trip a few days after, I had every intention of doing so.”

“Why didn’t you?” Jack demanded.

“That fool girl took it into head to run away.”

“Can you blame her?” Joe argued, his voice shaking with anger, and the deep, profound sadness now welling up inside him for a young girl who, based on all he learned since the morning she had left her baby at the kitchen door of his family’s home, had wanted nothing more than to be loved.

“Mister Cranston . . . .”   Vivian turned to appeal to the older, bigger man, “Mister Lindsay needed that girl and her baby ALIVE.  He had plans—”   She abruptly broke off.

“I know,” Jack said in a polite, yet frigid tone.   “He planned to sell his own grandson and broker his daughter into a loveless marriage.”

“I have no great love for Mister Lindsay,” Vivian said stiffly, with a sour grimace, “but, even so, I MUST take exception to you accusing him of peddling his own flesh and blood.   Everything he did . . . all the plans he made were for his daughter’s own good and that of her bastard child as well.   It’s too bad that stupid, ungrateful girl couldn’t see that.”

“You can’t tell me that Mister Lindsay had nothing to gain from the plans he made for his daughter and grandson,” Joe argued.

“It’s all a moot point now that Miss Lindsay’s dead and her son is out of Mister Lindsay’s reach,” Jack observed.   For the time being at least.   He rose and took Vivian none too gently by the forearm.

“Mister Cranston!” Vivian cried, outraged and highly indignant.   She tried to pull her arm free from his grasp, but her struggles were in vain.   “Unhand me this instant!”

“We’re going to the sheriff’s office, Mrs. Crawleigh,” Jack said, his face set with grim resolve.

“The sheriff’s office?!” Vivian echoed, incredulous.   “Why?   I TOLD you I didn‘t—”

“I know,” Jack said, “you told us you didn’t murder the girl, and I believe that.”

“Then why—?!”

“You ARE a fugitive from justice, Mrs. Crawleigh, and if you want to avoid being charged with anything related to Miss Lindsay’s death, you need to tell Sheriff Dudley exactly what you told us.”

Sheriff Amos Dudley extinguished his cigar stub against the heel of his boot upon hearing the front door of his office open; and, after dropping it into the metal bucket placed alongside his desk, he glanced up.   Two men, one aged in his mid-twenties, if he was to hazard a guess, the other older, late thirties at least, maybe forty-ish, both looking grim as a schoolmarm about to lower the boom on an unruly pupil, approached his desk ushering in a sour faced old woman between them.

The duly elected lawman of Carson City was roughly the same age and height as his old friend, Roy Coffee, but weighed in somewhere between thirty to forty pounds heavier.   His hairline began to recede when he was seventeen, and his hair, what remained, had turned completely gray before the age of thirty.   Amos pushed back his chair and rose.   “Good morning, Gentlemen . . . Mrs. Crawleigh, isn’t it?”

Vivian nodded.

“What can I do for ya?”

“We have information about a young lady who disappeared from her home about a month ago,” Joe said.

“The young lady’s name, Mister . . . . ?”

“Cartwright, Sir.   My friend here is Mister Cranston, ”   Joe inclined his head toward the Pinkerton man, “. . . and it seems you already know Mrs. Crawleigh.”   He paused for a moment.   “The young lady’s name is . . . WAS . . . Lindsay.   Miss Cara Lindsay.”

“Was?” Amos queried with left eyebrow slightly upraised.

“Last night, I got word from my father that Miss Lindsay died sometime the day before yesterday in Virginia City,” Joe replied.

“Grab a couple of chairs and sit down,” Amos said, gesturing to the half dozen hard backed chairs lined up against the wall to his left.   He resumed his seat and waited while Joe walked over, grabbed two chairs, one for Jack, the other for Vivian, then made a second trip to get a chair for himself.   “All right . . . suppose you gentlemen tell me what you know about Miss Lindsay.”

Joe shared everything he knew beginning with the discovery of Cara’s baby lying in a tattered basket next to the kitchen door of the Ponderosa ranch house, and ending with Miss Lindsay’s untimely death.

Amos leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his broad chest.   He ruminated over everything Joe had just told him, then slowly lifted his head.   “Miss Lindsay’s baby still with your pa, Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Mister Cranston, you mind telling me what YOUR interest in this is?”

Jack reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew his badge.   “I work for the Pinkerton Agency, Sheriff,” he explained, “and I’m currently working a case that involves Mister Tobias Lindsay.”

“I know you can’t name the clients you’re working for, but can you at least give me an idea as to how Mister Lindsay figures into your case?”

“Long story short, Sheriff, I’m working for a couple of San Francisco socialites who adopted a baby girl using Mister Lindsay as mediator,” Jack explained.   “Their daughter died two years later of bad blood, and now they want to sue Mister Lindsay for, in THEIR words, delivering damaged goods.”

“They sound like real nice people,” Amos sardonically observed.    “What about Mrs. Crawleigh?”

“She’s a wanted fugitive, Sheriff,” Joe replied.   “If you send wires to the Police Department in Baltimore and the Delaware County Sheriff’s Office out in Ohio, they’ll confirm it.”

“I can vouch for Delaware County,” Jack said.   “I was hired by Mister Cartwright’s father to investigate Mrs. Crawleigh and an institution she ran there called the Lucia Churchill Hayes Home for Orphans and Foundlings.   I found more than enough evidence to charge her with numerous counts of cruelty and shut down that home.”

“Sheriff Dudley, none of this is true!” Vivian hotly protested.

“Wire the Delaware County sheriff, Sir.   It’s ALL a matter of public record,” Jack argued.

“I have every intention of doing so, Mister Cranston,” Amos heartily assured Jack and Joe.   “In the meantime, Mrs. Crawleigh, I’ll have to hold you here until I hear back from the Delaware County Sheriff and the Baltimore City Police Chief.”   He reached out to take hold of her forearm.

Vivian blanched and took a step backward.   “Surely you don’t intend to lock me up in your jail.”

“I have no choice, Ma’am,” Amos said.   “If the Delaware County Sheriff and the Baltimore City Police Chief don’t back up Mister Cartwright and Mister Cranston’s allegations, you’ll be free to go.”

Vivian turned and glared at Joe and Jack now standing in front of the sheriff’s desk.   “The both of you can go to blazes if you think I’m going to give testimony against Mister Lindsay NOW,” she sneered.

“It’s your choice, Ma’am, but, as I said before, if you don’t give testimony against Mister Lindsay, YOU’RE the one who’s going to be charged with and be tried for murdering his daughter,” Jack was quick to remind her.   “If you’re found guilty, and I think the chances are good you WILL be, you’ll go to prison for the rest of your life.”

“If the judge doesn’t sentence you to hang, Mrs. Crawleigh,” Joe added.

Vivian immediately changed her mind and agreed to make a statement.   She might be a very old woman by the time she finished serving out her sentences in Ohio and Baltimore, plus extra time for her escapes, but at the very least, she had a chance of breathing free air again, even if that chance was a slim one.   The sheriff asked the president of the bank across the street and his deputy to hear her testimony, then sign the deposition as the two requisite witnesses in accordance with the law.   Joe and Jack waited outside, the latter seated on the bench next to the door of the sheriff’s office, while the former impatiently paced back and forth.

When Sheriff Dudley finally stepped outside, his face was a shade or two paler than was normal for himself, and he felt a slight twinge of nausea.   Joe immediately stopped pacing, and Jack rose slowly from his place on the bench.   “That was a harrowing account to say the least,” he murmured softly, while wagging his head slowly back and forth.   “I understand now why that poor girl ran away.”

“Sheriff Dudley . . . .”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“Will Mrs. Crawleigh’s testimony be enough to challenge Mister Lindsay’s fitness to be guardian for his infant grandson?” Joe asked eagerly, as a spring of hope began to well up inside him.

Amos collapsed heavily into the bench Jack had just vacated.   He pulled a fresh cigar from his shirt pocket, bit off one end, then spit it out.   “You . . . intent on suing Mister Lindsay for custody?” he asked, as he shifted slightly, and pulled a small box of matches from his right back pocket.

“My pa is.”

Amos mournfully shook his head, then struck a match against the sole of his boot.   “Mister Cartwright, to be up front ‘n honest . . . . ” he paused just long enough to light his cigar “. . . if your pa goes to court with only Mrs. Crawleigh’s testimony, horrifying though it may be, he just might have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning his case.”

For a moment, all Joe could do was stare down at the sheriff, through eyes, round and unblinking.   Amos winced against the young man‘s intense, reptilian like stare.

“Y-You’re kidding . . . right?!” Joe demanded his voice barely audible.

“I wish I was, Mister Cartwright.   I wish to high heaven I was,” the sheriff replied in a somber tone.

“Sheriff Dudley, what more do we need in the way of evidence?” Jack asked, as he placed a firm, steadying hand on Joe’s shoulder.

“From where I sit, your pa’s case would be a hellvua lot stronger if Mister Lindsay confessed to inflicting the injury on his daughter—”

“I, for one, ain’t holding my breath on that score,” Jack grumbled, his heart plummeting like a millstone suddenly dropped into a very deep lake.

“. . . OR,” Amos pushed on, “if you boys could scare up a witness or two who can corroborate Mrs. Crawleigh’s story.   Otherwise . . . . ”

“I know, Sheriff,” Jack said dolefully.   “The case boils down to his word against hers.”

“Right,” Amos replied, “and taking into account Mrs. Crawleigh ain’t exactly the most reliable witness in the world . . . .”

“Are you saying we should just throw in the towel?” Joe demanded.

“Gentlemen,” Amos said, his face brightening with the light of a sudden flash of inspiration, “perhaps you should take a copy of Mrs. Crawleigh’s deposition to a good lawyer.   You’ve got nothing to lose, and who knows?   Maybe he can find a trick or two up his sleeve that’ll help you out.”

“Pa’s lawyer, Lucas Milburn’s, a good man,” Joe said quietly.   He, then, turned his attention to Jack.   “I think you ‘n I’d better head out for Virginia City first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll have a copy of Mrs. Crawleigh’s deposition ready for you tomorrow morning,” the sheriff promised.   “Just stop by my office before you leave.”

“Thank you, Sheriff . . . we will,” Jack replied.

“Sheriff?”   Tom McGovern, the young man who worked at the telegraph office, approached the lawman a few moments after Joe and Jack had left.

“Yes, Tom?” Amos queried.   “What is it?”

The young man swallowed, as he nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other.   “I, um, just got a wire for Mrs. Jarvis from the Marshal in Princeton,” he said.   “It’s about her son.”

“I . . . take it the news isn’t good?”

Tom shook his head.   “Mrs. Jarvis’ son is, well, he’s dead, Sir.    Seems he was in some kinda street accident back last September.”

“September?!” Amos echoed incredulously.   “That marshal sure took his good sweet time sending that wire.”

“Says here there were a lot of downed lines between here and there through a good bit of the winter, and they, well, they had some trouble identifying him,” Tom explained.

Amos scowled.   “Any idea as to WHY they had so much trouble identifying him?”

“Maybe you’d better read the message.”  Tom placed the small scrap of paper into the sheriff’s outstretched hand, before collapsing into the nearest chair.

The wired message from Princeton was short and right to the point.   The Jarvis boy had been killed in a street accident, just as Tom had said, and the marshal did, indeed, have a difficult time identifying him.  His body was found in an alley, presumably not far from where the accident had taken place.  There was no wallet; nothing that offered a clue as to the identity of the young man or his next of kin.  A drawing had been made post mortem, and placed in the local newspaper.  The police had also handed out flyers with the young man’s picture and posted them in public places.

But no one came forward to identify the dead man or claim his body.

The young man was finally given a temporary burial until his next of kin could be notified.   Shortly after Christmas last year, a couple, aged in their mid-forties by all appearances, happened to see a flyer with the young man’s picture, and were able to identify him.   They were returning home from San Francisco, after having spent most of the summer visiting their eldest son and his family.  The Jarvis boy had apparently met them when he boarded a train east in Saint Joseph, Missouri, and traveled with them as far as Princeton, New Jersey.

Amos sat down at his desk, opened the top drawer to his right, and drew out pencil and paper.   “I want to send a message right back to the marshal.”

“Yes, Sir.” Tom murmured, as he began to fidget.

Amos glanced up sharply with an exasperated sigh the fifth time the young telegraph operator uncrossed his legs and crossed them once again.   “Tom, this’ll only take another minute.   Can’t you sit still for—?!”

“Sheriff Dudley, please!   You’ve GOT to do me a favor,” Tom begged as he leapt to his feet.   “Mrs. Jarvis set a lot o’ store by that son of hers, and I . . . I . . . .”

“Come on, Lad.   Spit it out.”

“Could you, maybe see y-your way clear to, um . . . well to delivering this message to her?”   Tom’s hand, holding tight to the transcribed message, trembled slightly as he gazed earnestly into the lawman’s face through eyes round as saucers, desperately pleading.

Amos sighed again, then reached out his hand to take back the message.   “I’ll take care of it,” he agreed with much reluctance.   “Now you keep still ‘til I finish writing out my reply to Princeton’s marshal.”

Abigail Jarvis started violently out of a deep slumber upon hearing what sounded like someone, a very big, very strong man perhaps, pounding  against her front door with a sledge hammer.   The door opened, eliciting a cry borne of pure horror.   With heart pounding, she unconsciously seized hold of the arms of the overstuffed chair she occupied with white knuckled intensity, and pushed herself hard against its back.

“M-Mother?”   It was her second daughter, Annabelle Carter, clad in an old, faded blue gingham housedress and a white apron.   Her face was pale and drawn.   A fine sheen of flour covered her hands and arms clear up to her elbows.

An anxious frown deepened the lines and creases already etched into the flesh covering her brow.   “Annabelle, what is it?” Abigail queried, and she reached out and took hold of her daughter’s trembling hands.   “It’s not . . . oh dear!   Surely Brett’s not taken a bad turn!”

Annabelle vigorously shook her head.   Brett, her youngest, had been a sickly child almost from the day he was born.   “No, Brett’s fine,” she said, her voice tremulous.   “Just fine.”   She closed her eyes and took a deep, ragged breath.   “Mother, it’s Gabe.”

A bright, if weary, smile lit up Abigail’s care worn face.   “You’ve heard from him?” she queried.   “Oh, thank the Good Lord, I’ve . . . .”   The remaining words sitting right at the tip of her tongue abruptly died before she could utter them upon catching sight of the sheriff standing behind Annabelle, a little to the right.   All of a sudden she felt light headed and dizzy.   “Wh-What about Gabe?” a voice demanded from a far distant place, a voice she barely recognized as her own.

“Mother, Sheriff Dudley just received word that . . . that Gabe’s dead,” Annabelle said with tears streaming down her cheeks.   “L-Last September . . . some kind of street accident.”

Abigail’s complexion lost what little color she had, leaving her feeling horribly light headed.   Her eyes darted back and forth between her daughter’s face and that of the sheriff, in manner not unlike a trapped, frightened wild animal caught in the light.   She struggled for breath against muscles within her chest that had, all of a sudden, changed from flesh and blood into thick slabs of hard, immovable granite.   There was an intense surge of blinding panic, followed by a strange sense of relief at the thought she was about to keel over and join her beloved son in death.

“M-Mother?” Annabelle fearfully prompted.

Abigail gasped.   She squeezed her eyes tight shut against agony that rose up, consuming her with all the sudden intensity of a flash flood in the dry arroyos out in the desert.  She raised her head slowly, and howled like an angry, terrified animal caught in a trap.

The following morning, Joe and Jack decided that renting a couple of good fast horses from a livery stable would see them home quicker than taking the stage.   Joe had wired Ben the day before informing him that he and Jack Cranston would arrive home by suppertime the next day.   Jack, in the meantime, arranged to have their bags sent to Virginia City on the next Overland stage out.

Joe and Jack stopped by the sheriff’s office at eight o’clock sharp, following a big, filling breakfast at the hotel.

“Here’s your copy of Mrs. Crawleigh’s deposition, Gentlemen,” Amos said, while handing a sealed envelope to Joe.   “However, I feel I should warn you there may be a new wrinkle in this case.”

“I sure hope it’s one that’ll help us,” Joe said, as he tucked the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“To be honest, I have no idea what bearing it may have on your case,” Amos said, “but yesterday afternoon, not long after we parted company, I got word from Princeton that the father of Miss Lindsay’s baby is dead.”

“What?!”  Joe exclaimed, incredulous.   “When?   How did it happen?”

“He was killed in a street accident sometime last September,” Amos replied.

“September?” Joe echoed.   “Any idea why it’s taken until now for the marshal in Princeton to send word of Gabe’s death?”

“The wire mentioned downed wires last winter and some difficulty identifying him,” Amos answered.

“Dear God,” Joe murmured.  “H-How did Mrs. Jarvis . . . ?”

“Not well, I’m afraid,” Amos said.   “I’m so glad I thought to ask her daughter to go with me.   The doc ended up having to sedate her.”

“Sheriff, would you mind giving Mrs. Jarvis my condolences?” Joe asked.   “And let her know, too, that if there’s anything my family and I can do for her . . . . anything at all, not to hesitate to ask.”   He fell silent for a moment, then added.   “I’d tell her myself, but I’m afraid we didn’t part too amicably when I visited her yesterday.”

“I will,” Amos promised.   “In the meantime, I wish you, and your father, too, Mister Cartwright, all the best when you take Mister Lindsay to court.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Joe said as he and Jack shook hands with the lawman.

“. . . and if there’s anything I can do to help YOU, let me know.”

“We sure will, Sheriff Dudley,” Jack promised.

At a few minutes past noon, Abigail Jarvis slowly opened her eyes to a strange room, made dim by the curtains pulled over the windows.   Her throat burned, her entire face ached, and her eyelids felt as if they were swollen as happened on those occasions . . . .

“. . . I cried and cried and feared I’d NEVER stop crying,” she murmured very softly.

. . . like the day she received news of her parents’ deaths during an influenza epidemic out in Topeka . . . .

 . . . the day her beloved husband, Ray, up and keeled over suddenly in the midst of spring plowing from what the doctor later said was due to brain hemorrhage . . . .

 . . . and yesterday, when she learned that Gabe—

Gabe?

No.

Gabe was in Princeton, studying at the College of New Jersey[vii].   He ought to be finishing up for the semester soon, if he hadn’t already . . . in fact, she expected a letter from him any day now, telling her that he had made the dean’s list.   It DID trouble her that apart from the one letter she received from a way station somewhere along the way . . . .

But, NO!   He couldn’t possibly be . . . .

A soft knock on the door set into the wall directly facing the curtained window mercifully scattered her confused, troubling thoughts to the four winds.

“Mother?”

It was Annabelle.

“May I please come in?”

“Yes,” she croaked, astonished at how hoarse her voice sounded.

“It must have been a dream,” Abigail silently mused.   “All this nonsense about Gabe . . . it HAS to be a dream.   A monstrously horrible dream!”

Annabelle entered the room.   The waning sunlight streaming in around the edges of the curtains gave just enough light to enable Abigail to see her daughter’s pale face and swollen red rimmed eyes.   She moaned softly as grief again pierced her heart like a sword.

“Mother!”   With heart in mouth, Annabelle bounded across the short distance between the open door and the bed on which her mother lay.

“It’s . . . it’s NOT a dream . . . is it,” Abigail sobbed.

“What’s not a dream?” Annabelle queried anxiously, as she drew up a chair alongside the bed.

“G-Gabe.   I thought . . . . I HOPED . . . it was all just a . . . just a horrible, horrible dream, but it’s not, is it.”

Annabelle closed her eyes for a moment and vigorously shook her head.   “No,” she murmured, her voice barely audible.

Abigail began to weep once again.   “Dear God!” she sobbed.   “D-Dear God, what have I . . . what have I done?”

Frowning, Annabelle reached out and placed a gentle, comforting hand on Abigail’s shoulder.   “Mother?” she queried, bewildered.   “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve wronged your brother,” Abigail replied, her voice filled with despair, “and all of us, too . . . in the worst way possible.”

“If you’re blaming yourself for Gabe’s death because you sent him off to college—”

Abigail buried her face in her hands and shook her head.   “No, I don’t blame myself for that,” she moaned.

“Then what—?!”

Abigail took a deep breath, then told her daughter about the devil’s bargain she had struck with one Mister Tobias Lindsay.

“Coffee, Mister Cartwright?   Hop Sing just make fresh pot,” the Chinese member of the Cartwright family announced as he ambled into that area of the great room designated as Ben’s study, where the family patriarch had been working the better part of the day to bring his ledgers up to date.

“Yes, thank you, Hop Sing,” Ben responded, grateful for the momentary distraction.   He placed his pencil on the desk alongside the open book before him, rose to his feet, and stretched.   “Do I smell peanut butter cookies baking?”

Hop Sing grinned.   “Hop Sing just take out of oven.   Will bring when they cool.”

“Thank you . . . .”   Ben’s voice trailed off to silence upon hearing the sound of a horse entering the yard.

Hop Sing frowned.   “Who that?” he demanded.

“Could be Hoss and the men finished rounding up the calves early,” Ben speculated.

“Uh oh.”   The ferocious scowl on his face evaporated into a comical look of horror.   “Hop Sing better hide cookies!”

The almost insistent pounding against the front door a moment later quickly dispelled the notion that Hoss had finished up his work and returned home early.   “I’ll see who it is, Hop Sing,” Ben said, as he briskly moved out from behind the desk.   Upon opening the door, he found Kevin O’Hennessey, one of the younger ranch hands, standing just beyond the threshold.

“Your mail, Mister Cartwright,” Kevin said, as he handed Ben copies of the Territorial Enterprise and the Clarion from the town of Gunlock [viii], along with a few assorted bills and advertisements, “and George at the telegraph office asked me to bring you this,” he continued, drawing Ben’s attention to the small envelope on top of the pile.   “He said it’s from Joe, and that it’s urgent.”

“Thank you, Kevin,” Ben said as he placed the stack of mail down on the credenza.

Kevin nodded his head and politely touched the rim of his hat, then took his leave.

Ben closed the front door, then scooped up the mail from the credenza.  As he slowly meandered back to his desk, he slipped a single sheet of paper out of the envelope from the telegraph office.   The message read:

“From:  J  Cartwright                                                                                                                                    Carson City

To:  B Cartwright                                                                                                                                              Virginia City

Pa,

V Crawleigh in jail.  On way home with deposition.  Need to see Mr Milburn at once.   Will explain on arrival.

Joe.”

Ben placed Joe’s message down on top the ledger lying open on his desk, then called for Hop Sing.

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?” Hop Sing queried, as he bounded from the kitchen into the great room.

“I just got a wire from Joe telling me he’s on his way home,” Ben quickly explained.   “I’m going into town to meet him then we’re going to pay Lucas Millburn a visit.”

“This about Little One?”

Ben nodded.   “I think so.”   He sighed.   “I just hope and pray it’s good news for our side.”

“Hop Sing hope and pray so, too,” Hop Sing solemnly promised.   “You and Little Joe come home for supper?”

Ben thought the matter over for a moment, then shook his head.   “I think we’d better plan on having dinner in town,” he replied, as he buckled his gun belt on and grabbed his Stetson off its customary peg next to the front door.

“So just Mister Hoss, Miss Stacy and Mrs. Fielding for supper?”

“That’s right,” Ben confirmed.

Lucas Milburn placed Mrs. Crawleigh’s deposition on the roll top desk before him, then paused momentarily, long enough to remove his reading glasses and gently massage his eyelids.

“Well?” Joe impatiently prompted, as the lawyer turned to face the three anxious men seated in a half circle behind him.

It had been a very full day for Lucas Milburn, Esquire, with a court date that took up most of the morning, reading over three contracts to make certain all was on the up and up for all parties concerned, drawing up a will for one Wilberforce McKinley . . . .

“. . . finally, after months and months of nagging on my part,” the lawyer grimly mused, his thoughts momentarily turning to the man’s money grubbing second wife, and the two spinster daughters by the first who almost certainly would have been left impoverished in the absence of a last will and testament . . . .

. . . and beginning the first draft for an upcoming court case, the Widow McClure[ix] . . . .

“. . . bless her soul . . . .”

 . . . vs. one Caleb Durfee McCormick, nephew and heir of the late, unlamented Durfee brothers, Flint and Ev[x].   Incredibly, Caleb’s greed, stinginess, his arrogance and conceit made Uncle Flint seem a humble, generous man by comparison.   Lucas had readily agreed to meet with the Cartwrights and Jack Cranston at five thirty, after he had officially closed up shop for the day.

“Joe, I have good news and bad news,” Lucas said slowly.   “Now that both of the babe’s parents are deceased, any agreement between Mister Lindsay and Mrs. Jarvis regarding their grandson can be set aside.”

A bright smile illumined Ben’s face.   “Lucas, that’s wonderful!” he exclaimed.

Lucas raised his hand in manner like a policeman, intending to bring street traffic to a stop.   “If the child’s parents have not made their wishes regarding custody known . . . in writing . . . the law favors the father’s next of kin, unless, of course, Mister Lindsay can prove them unfit.”

“I . . . can’t say I think much of Mrs. Abby for making the deal she did with Mister Lindsay,” Joe said, “but I know she did it because she thought it best for her son.”

“In MY humble opinion, that’s certainly no worse than the idea of Mister Lindsay allowing a couple of socialites out in San Francisco to adopt his grandson for a large sum of money,” Lucas observed wryly.   “At any rate, if Mrs. Jarvis herself or her daughters’ families wish to assume custody of Gabe’s son, the law would, more than likely favor their petition.”

“Mister Milburn . . . suppose none of Gabe’s next of kin wants to take custody of the Li’l One?” Joe asked.

“In that case, I’m afraid that custody would be granted to Mister Lindsay . . . unless, of course, you can prove him unfit.”

“Lucas . . . .”

“Yes, Ben?”

“Taking into account Mrs. Crawleigh’s deposition and everything else we’ve told you . . . what are our chances of proving Mister Lindsay unfit?”

Lucas’ gaze took in all three men sitting before him.   “Unless you can scare up a witness who can corroborate Mrs. Crawleigh’s testimony or somehow prove that Mister Lindsay was aware of her penchant for cruelty, I’m afraid your chances are slim to none,” Lucas replied, his voice filled with sorrow.

“But Mrs. Crawleigh’s penchant for cruelty is a matter of public record out in Ohio,” Joe protested.

“I’m afraid that doesn’t necessarily mean that Mister Lindsay was aware of it when he hired her to care for his daughter,” Lucas explained.   “Ben, it might behoove you to ask Roy to wire the sheriff of Delaware County, Ohio and ask whether or not Mister Lindsay inquired about Mrs. Crawleigh’s references . . . lawman to lawman.”

“Excellent idea,” Ben agreed.   “We’ll see Roy after we’ve finished our business here.”

“Mister Milburn?”

“Yes, Mister Cranston?”

“Would it be ethical for you to wire Mrs. Jarvis and appraise her of her rights regarding her grandson?” Jack asked, as he, Ben, and Joe slowly rose to their feet.

“It would not only be ethical, but my bounden duty,” Lucas replied.   “I will be more than happy to take care of that for you, but the final decision, of course, is Mrs. Jarvis’.”

“We understand,” Ben said wearily, as he, Joe, and Jack shook hands with the lawyer in turn.   “Thank you, Lucas.”

“You‘re more than welcome, Ben,” Lucas said, rising.   “All of our efforts five years ago to save Cara, may God rest her soul, failed, but maybe . . . just maybe . . . we can do something now to help her young son.”

After concluding their business in Virginia City, and sharing a meal at the International Hotel Restaurant, Ben, Joe, and Jack set out for the Ponderosa and the log ranch house the Cartwright family called home.   The three men rode in companionable silence for a time, each one mulling over all they had shared with one another concerning the baby the Cartwrights affectionately knew as the Li’l One, Polly McPherson and her daughter, aka the former Sister Anne; and the Pinkerton clients on whose behalf Jack was investigating Tobias Lindsay.

“Ooooo da widdy biddy boo boo,” Joe cooed to the baby lying securely in his arms late the following morning.

After devouring a big breakfast, one fit for a king, the Cartwrights and their guest adjourned to the living room, taking the settee and the two chairs by the fireplace.   Irma Fielding had hastily excused herself to tend to her baby daughter upstairs, while Hop Sing set himself to the task of clearing the table, washing the dishes, and setting the pots and the frying pan to soak.

“Did you miss me, Li’l One?” Joe murmured softly.  The baby’s mouth curved upward when he tickled his chin.   “Hey!   Will ya look at that look at that!” he crowed.   “He’s smiling!   He DID miss me!”

“Hmph!   Fat lot YOU know, Grandpa!” Stacy chortled.  “That’s gas!”

“Since when did YOU become such a high ‘n mighty expert on babies, Little Sister?” Joe demanded, favoring Stacy with a withering glare.

“I’m not,” Stacy admitted with a smug, cat-that-ate-the-canary grin.   “But, Mrs. Fielding is . . . so’s Pa!”

Joe turned expectantly to his father.   “Well, Pa?” he queried.

“I’m afraid your sister’s right,” Ben admitted, trying very hard not to smile.  His success in that endeavor was questionable at best.

“Gas,” Joe said with a frown.

“I’m afraid so, Son,” Ben said with an amused half smile.   “If Mrs. Fielding were to go away for a few days, he might miss HER, because she feeds him, but as far as the rest of us are concerned, at his age right now, one face is like another.”

“Bite your tongue!” Joe responded with mock severity.   He, then, returned his attention to the infant still resting in his arms.   “Don’t you listen to them, Li’l One,” Joe crooned.   “Just because you’ve got a little gas doesn’t alter the fact that you must‘ve missed me something awful.”

“I doubt that,” Hoss guffawed.   “With Pa, Li’l Sister, Hop Sing, Mrs. Fielding, ’n me t’ spoil him rotten, why I’d be real surprised if he even gave YOU a moment’s thought.”

“OK, I admit that yes, Mrs. Fielding DOES feed him, and yes, the lot of you gave him lots of love and cuddles while I was gone,” Joe magnanimously allowed, “but none of YOU speak his language.”

Hoss turned to Stacy, grinning from ear to ear, his blue eyes sparkling with impish delight.   “Y’ wanna know somethin’ Li’l Sister?”

“What’s that, Hoss?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t be surprised about Joe here bein’ the only one who speaks the Li’l One’s language,” Hoss pointed out, with a wicked grin.   “He IS our BABY brother after all . . . .”

“For YOUR information, Biggest Brother of Mine, I happen to be the YOUNGEST SON,” Joe retorted without missing a beat.   “Our KID sister, who, I might add, is mighty disrespectful to her elders, is the official BABY of this family.”

Stacy responded by sticking out her tongue.

“Back at you, Kid,” Joe said, before returning the gesture.

“All right, the three of ya settle down,” Ben admonished his younger offspring.   “We have company, remember?”

“I hope you’re not admonishing them on MY account, Mister Cartwright,” Jack said with a bold grin.

“. . . and speaking for myself, I’m becoming well accustomed to Hoss, Stacy, and Joe teasing each other,” Irma Fielding added, as she made her way down the stairs.  “It’s taken some getting used to on my part, but I can’t deny that here, it seems to be the hallmark of a happy home.”

“He IS a cute little guy,” Jack remarked with a wistful smile, as he turned his attention to the baby.

“Yeah, he sure is,” Stacy agreed.   “. . .  uh, Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Think maybe WE could adopt him?”

“No, no, no, no!” Hop Sing answered Stacy’s question as he entered the living room bearing a tray with a pot of just brewed coffee, cream, sugar, and six cups, saucers, and spoons.   “No adopt!   No sir!   Hop Sing spend all day, every day, do nothing but cook, es-specially if baby end up with appetite like Number Two Son!”

Joe threw back his head and laughed.   “Hop Sing’s gotta point there.”

“Very funny,” Hoss growled.

“Pa?”  Stacy ventured as the mirth began to fade.   “What did Mister Milburn say?   Do we have a chance of getting custody of the Li’l One?”

Ben shared with her and Hoss everything that the family lawyer had told them.   “Mister Milburn’s sending a wire to Mrs. Jarvis letting her know she or her daughters can sue for custody with a very good chance of winning,” he concluded.   “Sheriff Coffee will also send a wire to the sheriff of Delaware County out in Ohio to find out whether or not Mister Lindsay asked about Mrs. Crawleigh before he hired her to look after Cara.”

“You mean whether or not he knew about her being a monster from hell?” Stacy asked with a shudder.

“Yes.   I mean exactly that,” Ben replied.

“You needn’t worry about her one bit, Kiddo,” Joe said quietly, taking due note of her pale face, and trembling hands.   “Sheriff Dudley has her locked up tight in the Carson City Jail.   The only question now is, does she get shipped back to Baltimore or Delaware County first to serve out her jail sentences.”

“. . . and if you add time for breaking jail . . . well, I strongly doubt that monster from hell’s going to ever draw a breath of free air again, Stacy,” Jack added.   “Not in this lifetime anyway.”

Irma Fielding, meanwhile, stole a glance at the watch pinned to her blouse.   She, then, rose to her feet and walked over to Joe.   “Mister Cartwright, it’s time for me to put this Li’l One down for a nap.”

Joe’s face fell.   “Can’t I hold him for just a few more minutes?” he begged.

Irma resolutely shook her head.   “I believe we’ve had this discussion before about the importance of keeping babies on schedule, Mister Cartwright,” she reminded him as she held out her arms.

Joe sighed.  “You have a good nap, Li’l One,” he said wistfully, as he handed the baby over to Irma.

Mrs. Fielding started for the stairs, then abruptly stopped and turned.   “Mister Cartwright?” she queried, focusing her attention on Ben.

“Yes, Mrs. Fielding?”

“I thought I overheard you telling the others that Mister Milburn said the father’s family has prior claim on this child over and above Mister Lindsay’s.   Is that right?”

“Yes . . . IF the father’s next of kin, his mother and sisters’ families in this case, WANT to adopt him.”

“I remember the Jarvis family, of course, but I can’t say I knew them all that well,” Irma said slowly.   “Are they decent people?”

“They were when Mister Jarvis worked for us,” Hoss replied.

Irma nodded, satisfied with things as they stood for the time being at least.   “I’m so relieved,” she murmured softly.

“It’s not a given, Mrs. Fielding,” Ben hastened to remind her.   “We’ve not heard from the Jarvis Family . . . probably won’t until later on today or sometime tomorrow.”

“Oh come now, Mister Cartwright,” Irma admonished.   Her mouth curved slightly upward forming a Mona Lisa kind of smile.   “How could they NOT want this child?   After all, this child’s father was their only son and brother.”

“I can, I will, and I shall!” Abigail Jarvis resolutely declared with a sharp, emphatic nod of her head.   She stood before her place at the foot of the small kitchen table in the home of Annabelle and Wayne Carter, respectively her daughter and son-in-law, with posture almost painfully erect, arms folded tight across her chest, glaring murderously down at her two older daughters and their husbands.

Annabelle closed her eyes and slowly counted to ten.   “Mother,” she wearily begged, “would you please stop and think for a minute?   Caring for a new baby is hard enough on a mother, who’s young and healthy.   You aren’t a young spring chicken anymore, and you’ve NOT been well since Papa died.”

“I know I’m not a young woman anymore,” Abigail grudgingly admitted, “but I’m doing much better health wise.   The doctor said so when I saw him last.”

“He ALSO said you need lots of rest,” Annabelle argued, “something you’re not going to get trying to take care of a new baby.”   She paused, and in that moment of silence, earnestly beseeched the Almighty that her mother would, for once in her life, listen to reason.

“Mother, Annabelle’s right,” Mary Jane Stryker, the eldest of Ray and Abigail’s offspring, said wearily.   She had recently passed her thirtieth birthday, and was due to give birth to her seventh, and, from all appearances, the biggest of the babes she had already brought into the world.   Her hands and fingers were red and swollen.   The simple gold wedding band on the third finger of her left hand had was now two or three sizes too small,   The plain, well-worn light green wrapper she wore, stretched tight across her well rounded belly.

“I’ll find a way!” Abigail stubbornly held her ground.   “That child is all I have left of Gabe, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him go.”

None of this was going as Abigail had hoped or planned.   Yesterday evening, Sheriff Dudley had presented her a wire from a lawyer in Virginia City informing her that, if she or her daughters wished to sue for custody of Gabe’s baby, they stood an excellent chance of having their petition granted.   For the first time since hearing the devastating news of Gabe’s demise, she felt a slender, fragile ray of hope pierce through the suffocating veil of grief that had settled upon her heart.

Abigail had asked the sheriff if he might stop by Annabelle’s house to ask her if she might invite her sisters and their husbands to her home so that she, Abigail, might impart to all of them the good news concerning Gabe’s baby son.   He had graciously agreed to do her bidding.   When she had gone to bed last night, Abigail was so sure that one of her daughters would jump at the chance to adopt this baby.   He was all that remained now of their brother.

Perhaps she should have taken it as a warning things would not go well when her youngest daughter, Karen, had begged off at the last minute, citing a severe migraine.   But poor Karen, bless her heart, had been prone to sick headaches almost from the instant her menses began.   Now that she and her husband, Albert Harris, were expecting their first, those headaches came with greater frequency.   Her older daughters, Annabelle and Mary Jane were present, however, along with their husbands.   But, much to Abigail’s anger and bitter disappointment, both made it clear they were not amenable to adopting their brother’s child.

“Mother, I wish we could, but we CAN’T!” Mary Jane moaned softly.   “Not with six children and a new baby of our own!”

“But Naomi and Elsie Mae are old enough to help out,” Abigail ardently pressed.   They were Nathaniel and Mary Jane’s eldest.

“They DO help out!” Mary Jane returned irritably.   “They help me with the house cleaning, the laundry, gathering eggs, and milking our cows.   They also mind the younger children while I fix our meals, and on top of all that, they’re doing quite well in school.   They’re a big help, and not once have they ever complained.”

“But, Abigail . . . surely you’ve not forgotten that Mary Jane’s had a much harder time with this baby than she did with any of the others,” Nathaniel said very quietly.   “After the baby comes, Naomi and Elsie Mae are going to have their hands full doing their mother’s work along with their own until Mary Jane’s back on her feet.   Caring for TWO new babies . . . it’s too much!   It’s plain and simply too much.”

“How about YOU, Annabelle?” Abigail turned hopefully to her second born.   “You and Gabe were always very close—”

“Abigail, have you forgotten that we’re on the edge of financial ruin?!” Wayne exclaimed, angry and incredulous.   “ALL of us . . . Annabelle and me . . . Nathaniel and Mary Jane . . . our neighbors . . . even YOU . . . lost all of our crops last year to draught!”

“But you said you got a loan from the bank,” Abigail cried.

“That loan was just enough to buy seed for this year’s crop and keep food on the table,” Wayne shot right back.

“Mother, as things stand now, David desperately needs a new pair of boots,” Annabelle rushed to her husband’s defense.   “The ones he has now are nearly worn through the soles.   I hope and pray he doesn’t outgrow them before we sell our harvest in the fall.”

“There’s also the medicine and doctor’s visits for Brett,” Wayne added.   “The costs of both are very dear.   I thank God the doc lets us pay him as we can, but the pharmacist isn’t so forgiving.”

“What about that agreement with Mister Lindsay?” Mary Jane asked.

A strangled, guttural cry escaped from Abigail’s throat.   She had completely forgotten about that.

“Agreement or no, Mister Lindsay has as much claim on Gabe’s son as we do, seeing as how he’s the baby’s maternal grandfather,” Nathaniel said.

“I was told the law usually favors the father’s family,” Abigail said hopefully.

“Usually?” Wayne echoed, not unkindly.  “Sounds to ME like we’ll need to hire a lawyer and go to court to get custody of Gabe’s child.   That costs money, Abigail . . . money none of us have.”

“Mother . . . didn’t you tell me yesterday that your agreement with Mister Lindsay includes him placing the babe in a good home?” Annabelle ventured cautiously.

“Yes, but—”

“Then we have to be satisfied with that,” Annabelle said firmly.

Abigail angrily pushed back from the table and jumped to her feet.   “NO!” she yelled.   “NO, NO, NO, NO!   I WON’T HAVE IT, DO YOU HEAR ME?   I.   WON’T.   HAVE IT!”

“Mother, please!” Mary Jane begged.   “I wish we COULD take Gabe’s child, but the reality—”

“I’M SICK TO DEATH OF HEARING ALL OF YOUR ‘I WISHES’ AND ALL OF YOUR ‘WE CAN’TS!’ ” Abigail shouted, her face turning beet red, and contorting with raw fury.   She glared murderously at Annabelle first, then over at Mary Jane.   “YOU’RE ALL NOTHING BUT A BUNCH OF SELFISH—”

Mary Jane buried her face in her hands and began to cry softly.  Her husband, Nathaniel immediately left his place at the table and took up position behind his distraught wife.   He began to gently massage her shoulders.

Annabelle slowly rose from her chair, her entire body trembling with her own rising anger.  “NOW LOOK WHAT YOU’VE DONE!” she yelled back, inclining her head toward her sister and brother-in-law.

“Annabelle, sit down,” her husband, Wayne, said in a firm tone of voice.

Annabelle glared at Wayne for a moment, then did as he’d asked, angrily crossing her arms over her chest.

Abigail opened her mouth to respond, with a glitter of triumph shining amid the fires of rage burning in her eyes.

“. . . and that’ll be enough out of you, too, Abigail,” Wayne said curtly, favoring his mother-in-law with a warning glare.   “I’m very sorry about Gabe.   I really am.   I loved him.   He was the baby brother I never had.   But we have to face the facts.”

“Fine!” Abigail contemptuously spat.   “Since it would appear that all of you are too selfish to do your duty by your brother, then it falls to ME!”   She stepped away from the table and strode briskly toward the back door.

“Mother, where are you going?” Annabelle demanded.

“Home,” Abigail snapped.

“All right, Abigail, give me time to hitch the team—”

“Don’t bother!”  Abigail rudely cut Wayne off.   “I’ll walk!”

Annabelle exhaled a loud, exasperated sigh.   “Mother, for heaven‘s sake—”

Ignoring her daughter, Abigail turned and beat a straight path toward the kitchen door.   She threw the door open, and as she stepped across the threshold, she collided headlong with her grandson, David.

“Ma!” David cried, as he ably danced around his grandmother, without offering excuse or apology, and ran straight to Annabelle.   “Ma!” he cried, grabbing hold of her hand.   “You’ve gotta come outside quick!”

Annabelle opened her mouth, intending to scold her son for his complete lack of manners toward his grandmother.   Upon catching sight of his pale face and eyes round with fear, her admonition evaporated.   “David?” she queried.   “What’s the matter?”

“It’s Brett!   He can’t breathe!”

“I’ll go fetch the doc,” Wayne said, his own face all of a sudden a few shades paler than was his norm.   He paused at the kitchen door just long enough to grab his hat, coat, and holstered revolver.

“Wayne, I’m going with you,” Abigail said as a plan of action began to take shape in her mind.

“Abigail, this trip’s going to be hard and fast over some pretty rough ground,” Wayne said curtly as he strapped on his holster, then slipped on his coat.

“I don’t care.   I coming with you.”

“Suit yourself,” Wayne sighed.   “But, if you’re not in the barn by the time I’m ready to go—”

“I’ll be there as soon as I grab my coat.”

“Annabelle, is there anything Mary Jane and I can do?” Nathaniel asked, after Abigail ran out of the common room, where the Carter family took their meals and spent their evenings together.

Annabelle shook her head.   “You g’won.   Get Mary Jane home.”

A tense, uneasy quiet descended upon Abigail and her son-in-law, Wayne, like a heavy pall, almost from the instant the buckboard began to move.   Abigail sat as far from Wayne as the confines of the seat allowed, with arms folded tight across her chest, and eyes fixed straight ahead.   Her troubled, angry musings churned a mile a minute.

“I WILL get custody of Gabe’s son!” Abigail silently vowed.   “As God is my witness, I will, no matter what it takes!”

It was grossly unfair that Gabe would never have the chance now to study, to make something better of himself than that small plot of dirt upon which Ray, may he rest in peace, had spent every last cent of the inheritance he had received from his uncle.  To make matters worse, Gabe had, more than likely, been laid to rest in an unmarked pauper’s grave.   Abigail wished with all her heart they could bring Gabe’s body home and lay him to rest alongside his father, as would be proper, but disinterring and transporting him clear across the country was far beyond their woefully inadequate means.

“Look, Abigail . . . .”

She started violently upon hearing her name spoken.

“. . . I’m sorry,” Wayne continued, as he eased his horses from the narrow road that led to the farm house in which he and his family lived, onto the road that led into Carson City.   “I know how you feel—”

“No, Wayne!” Abigail angrily cut him off.   “Unless YOUR only son dies, leaving behind a child . . . the ONLY child he’ll ever have in this life, and you come to find out he’s out of your reach—”   She abruptly broke off, unable to continue.

“All right!   Maybe I DON’T know entirely how you’re feeling,” Wayne said curtly.   “I wish Annabelle ’n me could do something, but we just can’t.”

“I know,” Abigail replied, in a tone of voice stone cold.   “You and Annabelle both made that quite clear.”

“This past winter has been hard on Brett,” Wayne continued.   “I swear, he’s had more asthma attacks since just before Christmas, than he’s had all last year, and lately, those attacks have been getting WORSE.”

“I didn’t know,” Abigail murmured softly.

“What with Mary Jane having so much trouble with this baby,” Wayne continued, “and YOU being sick yourself, Annabelle ’n me . . . we didn’t want to add to your troubles.  Now can you understand why we can’t take Gabe’s child?”

Abigail nodded.

“Abigail, what about Karen and Al?” Wayne suggested hopefully.   “All that money he inherited when his mother died—”

“Al’s gambled away most of that inheritance, Wayne,” Abigail said contemptuously, “and what little he’s not lost playing cards, he spends on rotgut.”

“He’s still got that job at the hotel,” Wayne pointed out.   “It might not pay a whole lot, but it’s still a steady income.”

“If Al’s still got that job at the hotel, and mind you, that’s a very big if, he’s not going to have it for long,” Abigail said bitterly.   “Karen told me last week that Al’s boss said the next time he comes to work drunk, he’s fired.”

“I’m sorry, Abigail.   I had no idea.”

“Karen begged me not to say anything to Annabelle or Mary Jane,” Abigail said.   “Seems SHE doesn’t want to add to your troubles either.”

The two fell silent once again, and remained so for the duration of the trip.

“I must go to the telegraph office first thing,” Abigail silently mused.   She had to let that lawyer in Virginia City know that she WAS interested in suing Mister Lindsay for Gabe’s son.

There was, of course, the matter of getting herself to Virginia City and paying for the lawyer.   If she sold her farm, the cattle, buckboard, tack, and the two horses, she figured she ought to get enough to pay those expenses and buy a small town house in Carson City, with enough back yard to keep a few chickens, grow a kitchen garden just outside the back door, and maybe, just maybe have some room to spare for a toddler to play.

For income, she could sell some of the eggs, and take in sewing.   She was an excellent seamstress, after all.   When her daughters were little, she had made all of their clothes, and received many compliments on a job well done.   She hadn’t picked up needle and thread in recent years, except to mend a hem, perhaps, or sew on a button, but surely, she’d not lost her skill.

“I know it won’t bring in much,” Abigail silently, reluctantly admitted, but surely it would be enough to take care of herself and Gabe’s baby.

That evening in Virginia City, Tobias Lindsay arrived on what would have been the four o’clock stage had it not been delayed nearly three hours by a slide of rocks, mud, and ice, which had to be cleared from the narrow mountain road.    Though wearied, physically and emotionally, due to all the changes wrought by his daughter’s disappearance and subsequent death, he was gratified, nonetheless, to see that the end of what he perceived to have been a long, arduous journey was at long last in sight.   His immediate plans for the evening were to find suitable lodging . . . .

“. . . then supper and early to bed,” he silently mused.   He toyed with the possibility of paying a visit to his wife’s final resting place, then almost immediately dismissed the idea with an indifferent shrug of his shoulders.   “It’d be dark before I could even reach the livery stable let alone ride all the way out to the cemetery.”

Maybe tomorrow . . . IF he could find the time.   There was much to be done, after all, beginning with the disagreeable task of disposing his daughter’s remains.   “Damned stupid little bitch!” Tobias angrily muttered under his breath.   “After all that I’ve done for her and that bastard child she whelped . . . .”

He had arranged a brilliant marriage for her . . . that is, as brilliant as could be arranged given her circumstances.    Quentin Forsythe Glover, aged a mere half dozen years younger than Tobias himself, was, to borrow his father’s words, “an insipid weakling of a man,” who seemed bound and determined to retain his bachelorhood.   His father, Forsythe P. Glover, was equally bound and determined that not only would his only son take a wife, but that they would provide him with at least one grandchild before he went to his grave.

“We’d have been set . . . very WELL set . . . for the rest of our lives,” Tobias muttered, his voice filled with bitter regret.   Forsythe P. Glover was the senior partner of Glover, Lattimer, and Drake, one of the most prestigious law firms in San Francisco.   The Monday following their children’s wedding, he would have gone to work as a lawyer in said firm, giving him, finally, at long last, a real, honest to goodness chance of reclaiming the high pinnacle that was his until the death of his beloved wife.

And in due course . . . .

“The firm would’ve become known as Glover . . . Lattimer . . . Drake . . . and LINDSDAY,” Tobias murmured softly.   Closing his eyes, he could almost see himself standing once more in a courtroom, brilliantly defending some rich man’s son who had landed himself in trouble with the law and winning . . . .

“. . . against all odds . . . in the face of the most damning and compelling of circumstantial evidence . . . .”   He could almost smell the sweet fruits of victory, and taste them upon his tongue.

But Cara’s death, brought about by her own stupidity and gross negligence on the part of that ineffectual woman he had hired to care for her, had robbed him of all that.   “A viper!” he spat contemptuously.   “She was a viper my wife, may God rest her soul, and I nursed to our bosoms.”   The girl had killed, no!   MURDERED! her own mother; and now, just when he stood upon the threshold of what promised to be a fresh start and a very lucrative living, Cara had as good as slammed the door of opportunity shut right in his face.

The nine thousand dollars he anticipated receiving from the Cunninghams . . . .

“. . . Percy Shelley . . . .” Tobias muttered with a grimace of utter disgust, “and his once lovely wife, Hyacinth . . . .”

. . . coupled with the proceeds from the sale of all his assets in Carson City would have been more than enough for him to go elsewhere.   But for a man of his age . . . given his limited credentials, the prospect of starting over now, entirely from scratch, was every bit as daunting as slogging through the Sierra Nevadas in the dead of winter on foot.

“. . . of course there’s ALWAYS money to be made in the kind of work I’ve BEEN doing since Eleanora died,” he silently observed, then sighed.   “Quite a come down though for a man once destined for greatness . . . .”

Tobias waited until the other passengers, among them two young men from Sacramento headed for an ivy league university back east; a nervous, not-so-young mail order bride bound for Mormon Springs in the company of a dour looking older woman; and a harried young mother with two cranky young children in tow, exited the stage coach.

“When’s the next stage for Carson City?” Tobias demanded as he stepped up to the ticket window.

“Noon tomorrow,” Hiram Peabody[xi], the station manager affably replied.

“After that?”

“Two o’clock.”

“Any after that?”

“Nope.”  Hiram shook his head.   “Last stage for Carson tomorrow leaves at two.”

Tobias slapped a couple of paper bills down on the counter.   “Give me a ticket for the two o’clock stage bound for Carson City tomorrow,” he ordered.   He would be horribly pressed for time to make that stage given all that he had to do, but right now, more than just about anything, he wanted to shake the dust of Virginia City from his boots and be gone.

“Here y’ are, Sir,” Hiram said as he held out the ticket.

Tobias snatched the proffered ticket right out of Hiram’s hand, then strode briskly over to the driver, who, with the help of another man, was taking the passengers’ luggage down from the top of the stagecoach.

“Now that’s what I call a real nice, friendly fellow,” Hiram sardonically muttered under his breath with a wry roll of his eyes heavenward.

Tobias grabbed his carpet bag, then looked around for Angus Dawson, the stagecoach driver.   “Hey . . . YOU!” he called out the instant he spotted him.   “Can you direct me to the International Hotel?”

Angus bristled against the rude, condescending form of address.   “Down the street ‘n—”

“ ‘S ok, Mister Dawson.   I’LL see to it Mister Lindsay here gets t’ the International Hotel.”

Angus nodded and politely touched the rim of his hat.   “Much obliged, Sheriff Coffee,” he said with gratitude deeply heartfelt.   He’d had more than enough of Mister Lindsay and his grand, high falootin’ ways.   He, then, turned his attention back to helping the other passengers sort out their luggage and find decent lodging for the night.

“So . . . to what do I owe the ‘honor’ of you coming to meet me at the stage, Sheriff Coffee?” Tobias, meanwhile, inquired, his voice heavily laden with sarcasm.

“You’ve come t’ take custody o’ the baby boy, who’s in Ben Cartwright’s care out at the Ponderosa,” Roy evenly replied.   “That right?”

“Are you ASKING me or ACCUSING me?” Tobias demanded in the same imperious tone of voice a proud king or a very rich man might use when addressing the lowliest servant in his household.

Roy brought his hands up to chest level, with thumb and finger tips touching, then lifted his head and met Tobias’ intense gaze without flinching.    “Just askin’,” he calmly responded.

“All right, then . . . yes,” Tobias said curtly.   “I HAVE come to assume custody of my grandson.   According to the LAW, Sheriff—”

“I KNOW what the law says,” Roy adroitly cut him off, in the hope of nipping a potential long winded tirade square in the bud.   “If you’re thinking’ you’re gonna be able t’ just ride out to the Ponderosa come morning, ’n take that baby . . . I’m afraid it ain’t gonna be that simple.”

“Just what the hell’s THAT supposed to mean?” Tobias demanded.

“First off,” Roy drawled, “there’s been a challenge as t’ your fitness as guardian t’ that young man.”

“From WHO?!” Tobias queried, outraged and highly indignant.    “Ben Cartwright?   Or . . . . ”   A mirthless chortle exploded from between his lips, slightly parted.   “. . . is it that quack, son-uva-bitch, Paul Martin?   He was relentless in his attempts to have Cara taken away from me, almost from the instant my wife died until the day my daughter and I moved to Carson City.”

“As I recall, ‘bout half the folks livin’ in Virginia City at that time were of the same mind,” Roy observed in a bland tone of voice.

“That’s true,” Tobias reluctantly allowed, “but no one was as persistent as the ‘good’ doctor . . . except maybe Ben Cartwright.”   He grimaced as one might upon inhaling an exceptionally foul odor.   “But, be that as it may, Sheriff,” he continued, his voice rising, “NO one . . . not Paul Martin, not Ben Cartwright . . . nor anyone ELSE in this damned backwater of a mining town could prove I was unfit then, and they sure as hell won’t NOW.”

“That, o’ course, remains t’ be seen,” Roy said.   “But that ain’t the only fly in the ointment, Mister Lindsay.   Seems the father o’ that grandson o’ yours—”

“What about my grandson’s father?” Tobias demanded warily.

“T’ make a long story short, Mister Lindsay,” Roy said, taking perverse joy in the news he was about to impart to the arrogant son of a rattlesnake standing before him.   “Lucas Milburn got a wire from Mrs. Jarvis a few hours ago sayin’ she intends t’ sue for custody o’ her son’s baby.”

“Stupid woman!   She’s wasting her time and money.  Mrs. Jarvis and I have an ironclad agreement.”

“I know all about that agreement,” Roy replied.  “What YOU don’t seem t’ realize is Mrs. Jarvis stands a good chance o’ getting custody o’ her grandson, agreement or no.”

Tobias frowned.

“It appears that the law more often than not favors the claims of t’ FATHER’S family in cases like this one,” Roy elaborated.

“So what?” Tobias returned, all bluff and bluster.   “As the boy’s maternal grandfather, at the very least, I have equal claim; and given that the mother was my ONLY child, while Mrs. Jarvis still has three daughters, and many grandchildren—”

“That’ll be up t’ Judge Faraday t’ decide,” Roy rudely cut him off.   His eyes, then, dropped to the carpet bag valise Tobias held before him, its handle clasped in both hands so tightly his knuckles had turned a bloodless white.   “That all your luggage?”

“Yes,” Tobias replied through clenched teeth.   “I thought I’d be concluding my business here in time to leave on the two o’clock stage tomorrow.”

“Looks like ya figured wrong!”   Roy ignored the dark, murderous scowl Tobias leveled in his direction upon his stating the painfully obvious.   He turned slowly and began to amble in the direction of the International Hotel.

Tobias unconsciously fell in step alongside the sheriff, his troubled thoughts churning along with his stomach.   The only good to come out of this recent turn of events was he no longer had to make good on paying for an Ivy League college education for the boy who had sired his bastard whelp upon his daughter.  But, with Cara dead, the wedding between her and Quentin Forsythe Glover was off, which meant no position with the Glover, Lattimer, and Drake law firm, no second chance to pursue the greatness that should have been his, and no handsome salary.

Still, all wasn’t completely lost.   The nine thousand dollars he stood to collect from the Cunninghams upon delivery of his daughter’s baby and what he would realize from the sale of his assets in Carson City would be enough to head somewhere . . . anywhere . . . that was far, far away from Virginia City, a dead wife and child, and all his shattered dreams of what might have been.

“Thank you for seeing me safely to the International Hotel, Sheriff Coffee,” Tobias said sardonically when he and the lawman reached the steps leading up to the main lobby entrance.

“My pleasure,” the sheriff responded in a wry tone.   He, then, turned to leave.

“Just a moment, Sheriff Coffee,” Tobias said curtly.

“What is it, Mister Lindsay?”

“I’m sure you can appreciate my wanting to get this farce of a custody hearing over and done as soon as possible,” Tobias began, grimacing when he spoke the words custody hearing.   “Virginia City holds nothing for me but a lot of painful memories.   The sooner I can leave for good and all, the better.”

Roy dutifully refrained from adding that he could hardly wait to see the last Tobias Lindsay’s retreating back when he finally left Virginia City “for good and all.”

“So, if you would be so kind as to tell me WHEN that custody hearing is to be?” Tobias demanded in a sullen tone of voice.

“No date’s been set just yet,” Roy replied.   “I’ll be headin’ straight t’ Judge Faraday’s office t’ let him know you’re here.   Then, I expect, you’re gonna need a reasonable amount of time t’ prepare . . . maybe hire yourself a lawyer t‘ represent—”

“When you see Judge Faraday, you can tell him that I AM fully prepared to go ahead with this . . . this ludicrous exercise in ’justice’, and that I intend to represent myself,” Tobias rudely cut the lawman off mid-sentence.

Something about a man representing himself in matters of law having a fool for a client flitted through Roy’s mind.   “All right, Mister Lindsay, I’ll Tell Judge Faraday you’re ready t’ go, sooner the better.”

“I would appreciate that very much, Sheriff Coffee.”

“Come on, Boys,” Annabelle Carter, weary and irritable, admonished her three older sons, the following morning.   She had honest and truly thought they were going to lose Brett yesterday afternoon.   Thankfully, he rallied, but the fear and anxiety lingered.   She was also filled with remorse about the altercation they had all had with Mother during the course of that hastily called family meeting, and guilt over her adamant refusal to adopt Gabe’s infant son.   “Time to get yourselves dressed and ready for school.”

“Aww, Ma!   Do we hafta?” Arthur Carter, Artie to family and friends, whined.   He was Annabelle and Wayne’s second youngest.   “I didn’t get no sleep last night—”

“Any,” Annabelle snapped, “and yes, you DO have to go to school.”

“But, Maaa-aaaahh . . . .”

David, the oldest, rose, and quietly pushed back his chair.   “Come on, Artie,” he gently urged.   “Ma says we gotta go to school, we gotta go to school.”

“How come Brett gets to stay home?” Artie whined.

“Arthur Simon Carter, you know very well that the doctor said Brett‘s to stay home and get plenty of rest,” Wayne said curtly.   “Now do what your mother said.”

“Yes, Sir,” Artie murmured softly, instantly cowed upon hearing his father say all three of his names.

“Artie . . . and, you, too, Quentin!   Brett suffered a very bad attack yesterday . . . the worst he’s ever had!” Annabelle sternly admonished her two middle sons.   “David?”

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“You and your brothers g’won and get dressed in OUR room,” she said, addressing her eldest in a tone of voice less stern.   “I’ve laid out your clothes on our bed.”

David nodded, then ushered his younger brothers into the bedroom shared by their parents.

Wayne rose, after his three older sons had left the room, and downed the last of his coffee.   “I’ll g’won and get the wagon hitched,” he said.

“Wayne?” Annabelle queried, as she set herself to the task of clearing away the breakfast dishes.

Wayne paused at the kitchen door.  “Yes, Annabelle?”

“Did Mother . . . h-how was she when you left her off in town yesterday?”

“Angry,” Wayne replied, “very angry . . . and hurting.”   He sighed and dolefully shook his head.   “Between you ‘n me, I can’t say as I blame her,” he continued.   “First, she finds out Gabe’s dead, then she’s told he left a son, but none of us can take him in.”

“I feel awful about that, too,” Annabelle said quietly.   “I don’t know . . . maybe we should take Gabe’s son.”

“I wish we could, Annabelle,” Wayne said, equally as miserable, “but we can’t.”   He paused for a moment, just long enough to cast a furtive glance toward the open door to his and his wife’s bedroom.   When he resumed, he lowered his voice.   “I hate myself for even thinking this, but I can’t help worrying how much further that doctor visit yesterday and the new medicine are going to set us back.”

“I know,” Annabelle replied, fearful and anxious.

“Tell you what.   After I drop the boys off at school, why don’t I stop by and look in on your mother?” Wayne offered.

“Oh, Wayne, would you?” Annabelle cried, feeling a small measure of relief.   “I’d appreciate that very much.”

 “What in the hell does a man have to DO around here to get himself a damn lousy cup of coffee?” Tobias silently groused, while drumming his fingers against the top of the table.   His eyes darted from the entrance to the International House Restaurant over to the closed door of its kitchen.   Not a single waitress in sight!   He yanked his watch out if his vest pocket with enough force to sever the chain to which it was attached.   “Oh for the love of ….”   He stuffed the chain back into his vest pocket with a long string of monosyllabic invectives, then, with an exasperated sigh, flipped up the watch cover.   The time was exactly three minutes later than when he had last checked.

The restaurant was crowded, more so than was typical for a Thursday morning.   The patrons, most of them locals, amicably chatted amongst those within their own party and with others seated at nearby tables.   At the door, friends and neighbors warmly greeted each other while patiently waiting to be seated.   Tobias felt a pang of loneliness, and for a moment, he feared it would completely overwhelm him.

“. . . not OUR sort of people!”

His mother’s voice, imperious and filled with disdain, echoed in the ears of his inward hearing.   His jaw clenched, and that tiny soft place deep within his heart once again hardened into stone.

“Excuse me, Sir . . . .”

Tobias straightened his posture and favored the waitress, a young woman by the name of Patty Lynch, with a cold, withering glare.  “I’m grateful you deigned to show yourself,” he rudely cut her off, his voice filled with sarcasm.

“I-oh dear!   I’m so sorry,” Patty meekly stammered out an apology.   “It’s, well . . . we don‘t usually have so many people at this time of the morning, and—”

“. . . you’re short of staff,” Tobias finished with a melodramatic sigh.   “Frankly, Miss, I could care less.   Now if you’d be so kind as to bring me a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, Sir,” Patty made note of that on her order pad.   “Have you decided on what you’d like to have for breakfast?”

“Just bring me the damned coffee!” Tobias ordered through clenched teeth and rigid jaw.

Patty unconsciously took a step backward upon getting a good look at his murderous scowl, round, bulging eyes, his pale complexion, and the bright scarlet patches now appearing on his cheeks and neck.    “I, uhhh . . . y-yes, Sir . . . sorry,” she stammered, shocked and frightened by the intensity of emotion she saw reflected in his face.   “I-I’ll get your coffee right away.”   She turned and fled toward the kitchen.

A few seconds after the waitress had departed, Tobias began to drum his fingers once more against the table top.    He had hoped to get word about the date of the custody hearing last night, or this morning, but so far, none had come.

Tobias had slept very little the night before, which was small wonder given the lumpy mattress and walls thinner than the wallpaper covering them.  Still and all, he would’ve likely dozed off anyway, being as exhausted as he was from his journey to this God forsaken pit of a city, had it not been for the big nasty fly that seemed to have dropped into what should have been a very fine, smooth ointment.

“Damn that Jarvis woman!” Tobias cursed very softly.

Without her that damned custody hearing would have amounted to nothing more than an annoyance, and a couple of days delay.   The law stated unequivocally that his daughter’s next of kin, himself, be granted custody of his grandson, unless it could be shown he was unfit.   Not even the high and mighty Ben Cartwright could change that . . . .

“. . . nor can he prove it,” Tobias silently groused, “not all those years ago after my wife died . . . and not now!”  

But Abigail Jarvis suing for custody changed everything.   Sheriff Coffee was absolutely right about the law more often than not, favoring the next of kin of the orphaned child’s father.   Should that happen, the loss of that nine thousand dollars due upon delivery of Cara’s baby would be the very least of his worries.

“If I lose custody, the Cunninghams will sue, that’s certain,” Tobias silently ruminated, with a shudder.   A judge would, like as not, find in their favor.   Even if they sued only to recover the money already paid him . . . .

“. . . fat chance of THAT!” he groused silently.  “Greedy, money grubbing, rubes like the Cunninghams will never be happy unless and until they’ve bled me dry!”

“Well upon my soul . . . Mister Lindsay?   Mister Tobias Lindsay?”

The rude jolt from his fearsome musings left him dazed and visibly shaken.   He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in a desperate attempt to calm himself and regain a small measure of composure.   A moment later, Tobias opened his eyes, turned, and found himself gazing up into the dismayed faces of an older couple, aged perhaps in their mid to late fifties, standing at his elbow.

“Oh dear,” the woman murmured contritely.   “I’m so sorry—”

“Do I know you?” Tobias demanded in a peevish tone of voice.

“It’s, umm, been a while,” the man said sheepishly, “but you defended our youngest boy, Mitch, when he was accused of murdering a card sharp . . . what . . . .?”   He frowned.   “Five years ago?   Six or seven maybe??”

“Devlin,” Tobias murmured softly, his voice filled with bitterness.   The last thing he wanted was to be confronted by that high pinnacle from which he had fallen.

“You DO remember,” John Devlin said with a friendly smile, wholly oblivious to Tobias’ emotional state.   “We had no idea you were in town—”   His words abruptly terminated in the face of his wife’s warning glare.   “Oh,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

“Mister Lindsay, we’re so sorry to hear about your daughter’s passing,” Martha Devlin kindly offered.   “If there’s anything we can do . . . anything at all . . . .”

“Thank you for your kindness, Mrs. Devlin, but there’s nothing—”   Tobias abruptly stopped mid-sentence, as the nebulous early stages of a plan began to form in his mind.   “On second thought . . . perhaps there IS something you can do,” he said slowly.   He inclined his head toward the two empty chairs at his table, then signaled to Patty.   “Please . . . won’t you sit down?”

Patty mentally braced herself against another round of verbal abuse as she reluctantly crossed the room to Tobias’ table.   “Y-Yes, Sir?” she queried warily.

“Mister and Mrs. Devlin, will be joining me for breakfast,” Tobias informed her in an imperious tone of voice. “See that it’s put on my hotel tab?”

“Yes, Sir.”   Patty turned expectantly toward the Devlins.

“Oh, Mister Lindsay . . . we couldn’t impose—” Martha immediately protested.

Tobias favored her with a mirthless smile that gave Patty the shivers.   “Please.   I insist,” he said smoothly, as he rose and held out the chair for Martha.

“Come on, Martha,” John quietly urged.   He pulled out the chair on the other side of Tobias and sat down.   “It’s all right.”

“Well . . . I s’pose,” Martha murmured, feeling very uncertain.   She sat down in the chair that Tobias so gallantly held for her, and allowed him to gently push it and her under the table.   “I’m . . . not real hungry,” she said, turning her attention now to Patty.   Her words, demurely spoken, drew a look of astonishment from her husband.  “I’d like a slice of toast with butter, maybe a dollop of preserves on the side, and a cup of coffee.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Patty murmured, as she flipped the pages of her order pad back to Tobias’ and jotted down Martha’s order.   “What can I get you, Mister Devlin?”

“Well, uhh . . . speaking for myself, I’m hungry as a bear,” John proclaimed.   “A couple of eggs, over easy, a slice of ham, fried potatoes, a couple slices of toast, and coffee.”

Patty dutifully jotted down John Devlin’s order, then, with fear and trepidation, turned to Tobias.   “H-Have you, ummm . . . changed your mind about . . . about h-having breakfast, Sir?” she ventured.

“I’m still not very hungry, but I should eat something, I suppose,” Tobias drawled.   “Why don’t you simply double what Mrs. Devlin ordered?”

“Yes, Sir.”   Patty made note of that on her order pad, before turning and briskly making her way across the dining room toward the kitchen.

“You’re, umm . . . here to get your grandson?” John ventured after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“John!” Martha gasped.   Two splotches of red blossomed on her cheeks.   “Honestly!   That’s none of our—”

Tobias held up his hand.   “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Devlin,” he said quietly, then returned his attention to John.  “To answer your question, Sir, yes.   I AM here to assume custody of my grandson.”

John smiled.   “I’m glad to hear it.   The boy should be a real comfort to you—”

“I’m afraid it’s not going to be so easy,” Tobias quickly interjected.

Martha frowned.   “Why ever not?” she demanded.   “You ARE the boy’s only next of kin.”

“I’m afraid not,” Tobias responded with, he hoped, was the right amount of pathos.   “The babe’s paternal grandmother has decided to sue for custody as well.”

“That’s awful!” Martha cried.

“Now, Martha,” John said quietly as he reached over and patted his distraught wife’s hand, “it could be she’s lost her only child, too.”

“If that were the case, Mister Devlin, I would relinquish my claim on the boy in her favor in a heartbeat,” Tobias lied.   “But, I know for fact she has three grown daughters and several grandchildren.”

“That’s not right,” John said with a scowl.   “Mister Lindsay, perhaps the judge might take that into consideration.”

“I doubt it,” Tobias said morosely.

“What a horrible, selfish woman!” Martha heatedly declared, with an emphatic nod of her head.

“I . . . as strange as this may seem, Mrs. Devlin, I can’t bring myself to blame HER,” Tobias said very quietly.   He knew for certain that he was coming across as sincere, and perhaps generous as well, by the shocked look on her face.   “She probably wouldn’t be suing for custody at all, if someone else hadn’t been pushing her.”

“Any idea as to who that someone else might be?” John asked.

“I know exactly who’s behind this,” Tobias replied.   “Ben Cartwright.”

John and Martha exchanged glances filled with shock and dismay.   “That’s terrible,” the former declared.   “I never thought for a minute Ben could be so cruel.”

“Even so,” Tobias sighed.   “I can’t fault Mister Cartwright entirely.”

“I must say that’s very generous of you, Mister Lindsay,” Martha said, highly indignant.

“I’m sure you remember how things were after Eleanora died . . . before my daughter and I moved to Carson City . . . .”

“I’d be less than honest if I said I didn’t,” John reluctantly admitted.

“I lived with my mother until her passing a couple of years ago,” Tobias said.   “She . . . well, to make a long, sad story very short, she saved my life.   Got me off the drink . . . got me going to church, too, even if I WAS kicking and screaming at the beginning . . . . ”

“Sudden tragedy’s laid many a man low . . . and many a woman, too,” Martha said briskly.   “The important thing is you’ve changed . . . and for the better by the looks of things.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Devlin,” Tobias said quietly, while resisting an inclination to sardonically roll his eyes.

“Frankly, I’m SURPRISED at Ben,” Martha continued.   “He, of all people, is no stranger to sudden tragedy and death.   John and I know for a fact how much comfort his sons . . . and that daughter of his, too . . . have been over the years.   To try and take all that’s left of Mister Lindsay’s wife and daughter—!” she angrily sputtered.   “How could Ben do that?”

John, noting that his wife’s eyes blinked to excess, deftly reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and withdrew a clean, neatly folded handkerchief.   “There, there, Martha, don’t be getting yourself so worked up,” he said briskly, as he thrust his handkerchief into both of her outstretched hands.   “Mister Lindsay?”

“Yes, Mister Devlin?”

“Is there anything we . . . .” John inclined his head toward Martha, “. . . can do to help?”

“Perhaps you and Mrs. Devlin could put in a good word for me with Mister Cartwright?”

“Of course,” John agreed.   “It’s the least we can do.”

“Ben?   Hey, Ben . . . Stacy . . .  please!   Would you wait up a minute?”

Ben and his daughter turned, then smiled upon catching sight of Lucas Milburn, lawyer and a very good friend of the Cartwrights for many years.

“Good morning, Mister Milburn,” Stacy said by way of greeting, while the portly man, aged in his late forties, paused to catch his breath.

“Good morning, Stacy,” Lucas huffed and puffed.   He closed his eyes, straightened, then drew in a deep ragged breath.   “How’re you doing?   I heard you were pretty sick this past winter.”

“I’m fine!” Stacy stoutly proclaimed.   “Doctor Martin said I could g’won back to school starting today . . . .”   She sighed and wryly rolled her eyes heavenward.   “Pa keeps telling me I still have to get my rest—”

“I’m only following doctor’s orders, Young Woman,” Ben chided her gently.

“So glad I ran into you,” Lucas said.   “Saves me a trip out to the Ponderosa.”

Ben’s smile immediately faded.

Lucas took another deep breath, then smiled.   “Don’t worry, Ben.  It’s NOT bad news!” he said, as he pulled out a clean, white handkerchief from his coat pocket.   “Quite the opposite, in fact.  I got a reply to the wire I sent to Mrs. Jarvis yesterday—”

“She and her family want the baby!”   Stacy exclaimed.   It took every ounce of strength and will to keep from jumping up and down.  Upon catching the scowl her father leveled in her direction, however, her exuberance immediately evaporated.   “Oops!   I’m sorry, Mister Milburn.   I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

“That’s quite all right, Stacy,” Lucas graciously accepted her apology, as he dabbed at the beads of sweat dotting his forehead.   “But, yes.   Mrs. Jarvis intends to file for custody of her son’s baby,” he confirmed.   “She left Carson City this morning, and will be arriving today on the afternoon stage.”

“That’s wonderful!” Stacy said with a big smile.   She, then, turned to her father.   “Pa, we have a chance now!”

“No guarantees,” Lucas quickly warned, “but, yes.   We have a very good chance of keeping that baby out of Mister Lindsay’s hands.”

“Stacy, you need to get a move on,” Ben said.   “Miss Johnson will be ringing the bell in a few minutes.   You don’t want to be late for school your first day back. ”

“No, I suppose not,” Stacy had to agree.   “See you at home later?”

Ben nodded.   “You have a good day.”

“I’ll try,” Stacy said without enthusiasm.   “Bye, Pa . . . and you, too, Mister Milburn.”

“Sounds like that daughter of yours isn’t very eager about going back to school,” Lucas remarked with an amused grin, as he and Ben turned and ambled back to his office.

“No,” Ben admitted, “but she understands that a good education is a necessary thing, and I see to it she does her best.”

“I know you do, Ben,” Lucas quietly observed, though privately, he was of the opinion that anything beyond learning just enough alphabet to enable her to read and sign her name, and enough of sums to perform simple addition and subtraction was wasted on a girl.   His eldest, Carol, would be leaving school at the end of the year, and come summer would begin learning from her mother what a young woman truly needed to know:  how to keep an orderly, well run household.

“Have you heard anything from Judge Faraday about a hearing date?” Ben asked when they reached Lucas’ office.

Lucas shook his head.   “Not yet, but I expect we’ll have a date later on today, now that Mister Lindsay’s in town and—”

“Mister Lindsay‘s here?!”   Ben frowned.   “When did HE arrive?”

“Roy said yesterday evening, around seven o’clock,” the attorney replied.   “Seems he was counting on getting custody of his grandson something of a foregone conclusion.   He . . . . ”   Lucas grinned.   “Well, let’s just say he wasn’t in the best of moods when he found out Mrs. Jarvis intends to sue for custody.”   He chuckled.   “You want to know something, Ben?”

“What’s that, Lucas?”

“I know this ill becomes me,” Lucas ventured with a touch of regret, “but I sure wish I could’ve seen the look on Mister Lindsay’s face when Roy told him about Abigail Jarvis.”

“I’d be less than honest myself, if I didn’t admit to wishing the same thing,” Ben replied with an amused half smile.

“Damn that Jarvis woman!” Tobias muttered under his breath, when, after parting company with the Devlins, he began making his way from the restaurant to the hotel lobby.   It wasn’t his fault that stupid son of hers got himself killed because he hadn’t the good sense, more than likely, to look before crossing a busy street.

In addition to having that agreement with Mrs. Jarvis, one she entered into eagerly of her own free will, he remembered sourly, Tobias knew that she and her daughters were a bunch of dirt poor farmers, nearly drowning in debt.   Furthermore, the woman herself was in poor health.   Logically any judge with an ounce common sense would deny her petition for custody on those grounds, but there were no guarantees.

A bark of a woman’s mirthless laughter assailed Tobias’ ears as he exited the hotel, jolting him from his troubled musings.   “Oh, Honey . . . that’s OLD news!” she said scornfully.

“B-But . . . Mrs. Kirk just told me that this morning.”

Tobias turned and saw two women seated primly on the bench next to the hotel entrance.

The younger woman . . . Tobias judged her to be around his age, maybe a bit older . . .  was a complete stranger to him, but her companion, that portly woman with snow white hair . . . .

“We‘ll I‘ll be!” Tobias mused with a predatory smile.   The Devlins putting in a kind word to their good friend, Ben Cartwright on his behalf would be all well and good, of course, but if that white haired old biddy was as he remembered, then maybe . . . just maybe, she could single handedly turn this whole sordid mess back around in his favor.   This wouldn’t be the first time a judge would be swayed by public opinion, and it would be far from the last.

Tobias removed his hat and approached the two women seated on the bench.   “Excuse me, Ladies,” he ventured politely.   He, then, focused his attention on the elderly, white haired woman.   “Have I the pleasure of addressing Miss Clara Mudgely?”

The old woman’s head snapped upward, and for a moment, she leveled an imperious, yet wary scowl at the well dressed, slender man standing before her.   “Who’s askin’?” she snapped.

“Tobias Lindsay, Esquire, Ma’am,” Tobias responded, holding out his hand.   “It’s been a long time . . . you may not remember me . . . .”

The scowl evaporated, as a sly smile oozed its way across her thin lips.   “Oh, I remember YOU, Sir,” Clara replied.   “What do you want?”

“I’d like to, umm, visit a while, if you have a few minutes,” Tobias replied.

Clara’s companion rose.   “Perhaps I should be on and about my own business,” she said hastily.

“Don’t let me chase you away,” Tobias said, his bland tone betraying none of the revulsion now rising up from the pit of his stomach.   He sat down on the bench beside Clara Mudgely, then patted the empty place beside him.   “Please sit down, uhhh . . . . ?”

“Mrs. Adams,” the other woman replied, as she resumed her place on the bench.   “Mrs. SETH Adams.   My husband is president of the First Mercantile Bank of Virginia City.”   This last she added with a proud puffing of her chest.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Adams.”

“So!” Clara interjected, effectively putting an end to the polite small talk.   “What, exactly, do you want to talk with me . . . I mean with US . . . about, Mister Lindsay?”

Part Five

“What in the world is Miss Mudgely prattling on about now?” Maxine Pettigrew, who with her sister, Letty Mae Harris, owned and ran the C Street Café, silently wondered, as she stepped inside the general store.

The church organist seemed to be in very animated conversation with Amelia Jared, the proprietress, and Audrey Schmidt, widow of the recently deceased Lionel Schmidt, a farmer who, for the better part of the last decade, had made a very good living selling vegetables, milk, and eggs to some of the restaurants and boarding houses in town.   Audrey had sold the farm after Lionel’s death, and purchased a small but comfortable house in one of the more respectable neighborhoods.  She made her living by taking in sewing and selling eggs from chickens she kept in her tiny backyard.

“I think it’s disgraceful!” Clara declared, her voice rising.  She punctuated her words with an emphatic nod of her head.  “When I think about how Ben Cartwright just about bent himself over backwards to give the likes of Culley Mako[xii] . . . and . . . and that Trace Cordell[xiii] . . . .” Clara shuddered delicately “. . . the benefit of the doubt, but he won’t a respectable man like Tobias Lindsay—”

“Tobias Lindsay,” Maxine murmured softly, as she stepped up to the counter.  “Now THERE’S a name I’ve not heard in a dog’s age.”

“Miss Pettigrew . . . what do YOU think?” Audrey demanded in a booming baritone voice that could have easily carried an entire city block, had the door to the general store had been standing open.

“About WHAT?” Maxine asked warily.

“About Ben Cartwright refusing to give Tobias Lindsay the same benefit of the doubt he gave those two ex-convicts,” Audrey was only too happy to elaborate.

“First off, Culley Mako was an innocent man,” Maxine pointed out.

“But Trace Cordell wasn‘t,” Clara declared with a smug grin, “and I say if THEY were deserving of a second chance, then how much more so is Tobias Lindsay?”

“Hmpf!  It’s too bad no one was able t’ help that daughter o’ his, poor li’l lamb,” Amelia declared with righteous indignation.  “He beat that poor child within an inch of her life right here in the middle of this store once just ‘cause she asked me for a piece o’ penny candy.  I saw him do it with m’ own two eyes.”

“Does it NOT occur to you, Mrs. Jared, that perhaps Mister Lindsay was spanking his daughter for being forward?” Audrey challenged.

“I KNOW the difference between a spankin’ ‘n a beatin‘,” Amelia returned in a frosty tone of voice.  “What I saw was a beatin’ pure ‘n simple.”

“I saw the deplorable way he treated that child of his, too,” Clara admitted with much reluctance, “but all that was . . . what?  Five years ago now . . . six?  That’s more than enough time for a man to mend his ways.”

“That’s very true, Miss Mudgely, but I, for one, trust Ben Cartwright,” Maxine maintained.  “If HE’S raising questions as to whether or not Tobias Lindsay’s a fit guardian for his grandson, then, he must have a very good reason.”

“YOU just say that because without HOSS Cartwright and his big appetite, that li’l café you and your sister run would go out of business in less than five minutes,” Audrey accused.  “As for YOU, Mrs. Jared, the Ponderosa does a lot of business with you and Mister Jared.”  A sly smile slowly spread its way across her lips.  “I’ve ALSO heard JOE Cartwright’s sweet on your Lilly Beth.”

“That may be so, Mrs. Schmidt, but I’d STILL agree with Miss Pettigrew even if the Cartwrights’d never set foot in this store,” Amelia declared.  “Ben Cartwright’s got a good head on his shoulders ‘n he’d never go chargin’ into somethin’ like this if there wasn’t somethin’ to it, if y’ get what I mean.”

“I agree with you one hundred percent, Mrs. Jared,” Maxine said, “and, Ladies . . . .” she turned, her eyes coming to rest on Audrey’s face for a moment, then shifting to Clara’s “. . . for the record?  Although the Cartwrights occasionally patronize the C Street Café, they’re far from being my best customers, because as good a cook as my sister is, Hop Sing’s even better.”

“Well, I still say Ben Cartwright’s WRONG!” Clara said, then turned to Amelia.   “How much do I owe you?”

“A pound of coffee . . . half pound of sugar . . . three cans of beans . . . that’ll be a dollar seventeen, Miss Mudgely,” Amelia replied.

“Hmpf!  Highway robbery!” Clara snorted as she opened her reticule and groped for the change that had settled on its very bottom.  She dropped the coins into Amelia’s outstretched hand one at a time, before turning heel and leaving with her purchases, walking at a very brisk pace.

“I wonder what’s got her so all fired up about Tobias Lindsay of all people?” Maxine queried, her eyes glued to the church organist‘s retreating back.

“You heard about that baby left by the Cartwrights’ kitchen door?” Amelia asked.

“Yes . . . .” Maxine answered.

“ ‘n you also know that the babe’s mother’s Tobias’ daughter, Cara?”

“Yes.  I heard that, too.”

“Well Miss Mudgely just got through tellin’ us that Mister Lindsay’s in town,” Amelia said curtly.  “Somethin’ about a custody hearin’.”

“Custody hearing?!” Maxine echoed with a bewildered frown on her face.

“That’s right . . . a custody hearing!” Audrey declared with an emphatic nod of her head.

“Surely Ben Cartwright’s not trying to take Mister Lindsay’s daughter away from him after all these years!” Maxine exclaimed.  “That child must be of age by now!”

“Almost, but that‘s a moot point,” Audrey said, eager to bring Maxine up to date on the latest news.  She paused dramatically, then, with a smug, victorious smile, continued, “Mister Lindsay’s daughter‘s dead, Miss Pettigrew.  She died . . . .”  Audrey fell silent again, this time to do some mental figuring.  “I think it’s been two, maybe three weeks now . . . not long after giving birth to a baby boy.”

“Child bed fever?” Maxine asked.

“I don’t rightly know,” Audrey confessed with an indifferent shrug.

“So, how does Ben Cartwright figure into all this?” Maxine asked, looking from one woman to the other.

“After she left her baby on the Cartwrights’ doorstep,” Audrey replied, “the girl somehow . . . ended up in Saint Mary’s Hospital.”

“Hmph!” Amelia derisively snorted.  “If y’ ask ME, Clara Mudgely’s either makin’ the whole thing up or some o’ her own gossip’s just come back full circle on her,” she vigorously declared.  “Wouldn’t be the first time . . . .”

“All right!  So Miss Mudgely tends to exaggerate a bit,” Audrey reluctantly admitted.

“A bit?” Amelia echoed, incredulous.  “Mrs. Schmidt, if that woman exaggerated any more, she’d be out ‘n out lyin’ right through her pearly white teeth!”

“Maybe so,” Audrey grudgingly allowed, “but that doesn’t mean there’s not a kernel of truth in what she said.  But THAT’S not the point!”

“What IS the point, Mrs. Schmidt?” Maxine asked.

“The point is . . . a man CAN mend his ways in five or six years,” Audrey argued, “and I, for one, think Ben Cartwright ought to give Mister Lindsay the same benefit of the doubt as he did to Cully Mako and Trace Cordell, especially since his baby grandson can be of great comfort to him now with his wife and daughter BOTH gone.  Next time I see Mister Cartwright, I have every intention of giving that man a piece of my mind.”

Maxine wanted very much to question whether or not Audrey Schmidt could afford such a loss, but decided to keep her peace.

“Miss Pettigrew, you orderin’ for yourself ‘n your sister, or are ya orderin’ for the C Street Café?” Amelia asked.

“Both,” Maxine replied.   “I have two lists.”

“You just leave ‘em both with me,” Amelia said.  “I’ll get Virgil ‘n Bert t’ deliver your orders once Lilly Beth ‘n I get everything together.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Jared, much obliged to you,” Maxine said as she handed Amelia her lists.  She started across the room to the door, then paused after she had taken less than half a dozen steps.  “Mrs. Schmidt?”

“Yes?”

“Did Miss Mudgely happen to mention how and why Mister Lindsay’s daughter ended up in Saint Mary’s Hospital?  It runs in MY mind she and her father moved to Carson City not long after Mrs. Lindsay died.”

“No, she didn’t,” Audrey replied with a bewildered frown.  She silently pondered the question Maxine had raised, then shrugged.  “Of course the girl DID have a baby after all . . . .” she ventured.

“That still don’t explain how in the ever lovin’ world that gal ended up HERE . . . in Virginia City,” Amelia argued.  “Like Miss Pettigrew just said, the Lindsays live in Carson City.”

“So?” Audrey queried.

“So . . . Carson City’s got a doctor, even if they don’t have a hospital, ’n he’s a real fine one, too, from what Doc ’n Mrs. Martin’ve told me,” Amelia said.  “Why would that gal come all the way here . . . to Virginia City to have her baby?  It don’t make sense.”

“Maybe so,” Audrey acquiesced, “but that’s still not the point.”

“Maybe that IS the whole point,” a new voice said very quietly.

The three women glanced up and found Jolynn Potter standing in their midst, with her two youngest children in tow.  Her husband worked as a bookkeeper for Seth Adams at the First Mercantile Bank of Virginia City.

“What do you mean by THAT?” Audrey demanded.

“Mrs. Blanchard . . . the woman who comes in and cleans my house once a week?   Well, she also cleans Kirk’s Hostelry,” Jolynn began.

“So WHAT?”

“Mrs. Schmidt, will you for heaven’s sake shut your mouth and let Mrs. Potter finish?” Maxine sternly admonished.  She, then, turned to Jolynn.  “Please, go on,” she urged.

“Well, Mrs. Blanchard happened to overhear Mrs. Kirk and her daughter talking, and . . . to, um make a long story short, it seems Mister Lindsay hired Myra Danvers’ dreadful cousin, of all people, to take care of his daughter,” Jolynn eagerly imparted the information to a captivated audience.

“Is she the same cousin Mrs. Danvers threatened to wire about taking custody of Stacy if Ben refused to marry that insipid little school teacher who found herself in the family way without benefit of a husband?” Maxine asked.

“The very same!” Jolynn confirmed.

“. . . ‘n how did the Kirks come t‘ find out ‘bout all this?” Amelia demanded, favoring Jolynn with a jaundiced glare.

“According to Mrs. Blanchard, Mrs. Kirk just happened to be outside the telegraph office when Sheriff Coffee sent a wire asking someone out in Ohio asking whether or not Mister Lindsay’d wired about . . . .”   Jolynn frowned, as she tried to recall the name of Myra Danvers’ cousin.  “It was . . . I think it was Crawl . . . something . . . .”

“Crawleigh?” Maxine asked.

Jolynn brightened.  “Yes!  That’s it!  Crawleigh!”

“Hmm!  Curiouser and curiouser,” Amelia muttered under her breath as she returned to the counter with Audrey Schmidt’s order.

Elmer McFarlane, secretary to Judge John Faraday, rose from his place on the bench next to the door of Lucas Milburn’s office, upon catching sight of the attorney and Ben Cartwright approaching.  Standing roughly the same height as Joe Cartwright, he had a frame reed slender, coal black hair that he most fastidiously kept short, and grayish brown eyes, magnified three times their normal size by a pair of thick lens glasses, worn to correct an astigmatism and severe near sightedness.  Though popular with the ladies in town, none, to date, had apparently caught his fancy.

“Good morning, Mister Milburn,” Elmer greeted the attorney, then, upon catching sight of Ben Cartwright in his peripheral vision, he turned to include the rancher in his gaze as well.  “Mister Cartwright!  Good!  I’m glad YOU’RE here, also.  This saves me having to find someone to take me out to the Ponderosa.”

Elmer’s fear of horses had become the stuff of legend among the citizenry of Virginia City.

“What can we do for you, Elmer?” Ben asked.

“Barring any unforeseen happenstance befalling Mrs. Jarvis, Judge Faraday has set the day after tomorrow as the date for the hearing . . . his chambers, at ten o’clock,” Elmer informed the two older men.   “That should allow ample time for her to rest from her trip and for you, Mister Milburn, to bring her up to date on how things stand.”

“Yes,” Lucas agreed, “more than enough.”

“Mister Cartwright, the judge asked me to find out whether you still intend to sue for custody of the baby,” Elmer said, turning his attention to Ben.

“I’m willing to withdraw my petition in favor of Mrs. Jarvis,” Ben replied.

Elmer quickly made mental note of that, then asked, “Mister Milburn, does that mean you’ll be representing Mrs. Jarvis?”

“I will if she wants to retain my services,” Lucas replied.  “Tell John . . . Judge Faraday . . . I’ll let him know later this afternoon, after I’ve had a chance to meet with Mrs. Jarvis.”

“Did y’ wipe your feet?” Clarice O’Neill, the judge’s housekeeper and cook, said by way of greeting as her employer, Judge John Faraday, trudged through the front door.  She was a plump Irish woman, aged in her mid-forties, with frizzled red hair and a pair of luminous emerald green eyes.

Mrs. O’Neill, bless her heart, was every bit as bossy as she was efficient.  This character trait had caused a great deal of friction early on, especially with his late wife, Opal, but she had proved herself invaluable when Opal out of the clear blue collapsed from what Doctor Martin later diagnosed as softening of the brain which resulted in apoplexy[xiv].   She cared for his wife with ‘all the patience of a saint,’ to borrow her own words, cooked meals, cleaned house, and after Opal died, she ran interference when the steady stream of sympathizing friends became too much.  As time passed, John Faraday learned to see the humor in Mrs. O’Neill’s heavy-handed ways.

“Yes, Ma’am . . . I wiped my feet,” John replied.  His dealings with one Mister Lindsay had left him feeling drained and irritable.

“You look a mite under the weather,” Clarice bluntly observed, as she dutifully took his hat and coat.  “You’re not comin’ down with somethin’ . . . are ye?”

“No, I’m NOT ill,” John replied.  “I’m going to go upstairs for a little while and—”

Clarice hung the judge‘s coat and hat on the brass rack placed in the corner beside the front door.  “You SURE you’re feelin’ all right?” she pressed with a dubious frown.   “Perhaps a nice hot toddy with a bit o’ brandy—”

“I‘m NOT sick, just tired,” John said firmly, laboring mightily to keep his rising ire in check.  “A short rest will be more than sufficient.”

“I’ll be keeping’ your meal warm, then,” Clarice replied.  She turned, intending to return to her domain, that being Judge Faraday’s large yellow kitchen, then paused before having gone half a dozen steps.  “Umm, Judge Faraday?”

“Yes, Mrs. O’Neill?”

“There’s something I need t’ be gettin’ off me chest,” Clarice said, as she straightened her posture and folded her arms across her ample bosom.

“You may speak your peace,” John invited taking note of the solemn look that had appeared on her face and the gravity in her tone of voice.

Clarice closed her eyes and took a deep breath.  “Children can be a great comfort when a beloved wife or husband dies,” she began.  “Lord above knows, I don’t know how in the world I would’ve carried on after Trevor, may God rest his soul, died . . . if I hadn’t had our youngest daughter, Brigid.  Same can be said o’ grandchildren, too.”

“Yes . . . that’s very true,” John had to agree, his thoughts momentarily flitting to the late Frank Owens and the young granddaughter everyone called June-Bug.  He’d found a great deal of solace and a new lease on life as well in the lively, outgoing golden haired child, after learning that his daughter, Margie, had died bringing the babe into the world[xv].  “Mrs. O’Neill . . . is there a point to this?” he asked.

“I . . . well, I s’pose I’m tryin’ t’ ask ye if . . . if you might find it in your heart t’ . . . well, t’ grant Mister Lindsay custody o’ his grandson,” Clarice stammered, all of a sudden feeling flustered.  “Poor man . . . with his wife, ’n daughter both gone, may God rest their souls, that boy’d bring him a whole lot o’ comfort now . . . .”

“Thank you, I’ll bear that in mind,” John said, taking great care to keep his tone of voice neutral while he inwardly seethed.  “May I ask you a question?”

“I s’pose,” she agreed with an indifferent shrug.

“How did you come by this information?” John asked.

“About Mister Lindsay and the custody hearin’?”

John nodded.

“When I took a couple o’ Brigid’s dresses t’ Mrs. Schmidt for mendin’, I overheard her ’n that banker’s wife . . . .”   She frowned for a moment.   “For the life o’ me, her name’s just gone right out of me head.”

“Mrs. Adams, perhaps?” John prompted.

“Yes, yes!  Mrs. Adams!” Clarice proclaimed joyfully.  “She and Mrs. Schmidt were talking about it when I walked into the house.”

“The hearing?”

Clarice nodded.  “Neither of them were very happy with Ben Cartwright . . . not in the least,” she said.

“Am I correct in assuming that they feel I should grant Mister Lindsay custody of his grandson as well?” the judge asked.

“Ooh, Mrs. Schmidt was,” Clarice replied.  “Mrs. Adams . . . well, she seemed more shocked by the whole thing, especially when she heard that Mister Cartwright of all people was tryin’ to take Mister Lindsay’s grandson from him, what with his circumstances, ‘n all . . . .”  Her voice trailed off briefly upon seeing the troubled, angry look on the judge’s face.  “Have I spoken out of turn, Judge Faraday?” she queried, with a touch of defiance, yet wary.

“No, Mrs. O’Neill, you’ve said nothing out of turn,” John said stiffly, “but I would appreciate it very much if you not discuss this with anyone else.”

“I won’t,” Clarice solemnly promised . . . .

The day set for the custody hearing dawned bright and sunny with an icy nip in the air.

“Snow in air!” Hop Sing proclaimed as he served up a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, ham, fried potatoes with green peppers, and hot, fluffy biscuits fresh out of the oven.

“Aw, come on, Hop Sing,” Hoss protested with a grimace.  “It ain’t gonna snow.   Why Spring’s just around the corner—”

“Snow!” Hop Sing insisted.  “Old Man Winter last blow of trumpet!”

“Horn, Hop Sing,” Joe corrected with an amused grin.  “Old Man Winter’s last blow of the HORN.”

“Horn . . . trumpet . . .  same thing,” Hop Sing said with a dismissive wave of his hand.   “Still snow.  Hop Sing make sure everybody dress warm.”

“How do you know it’s going to snow?” Stacy asked, with a dubious frown.

“Hop Sing knee ache,” he replied.  “Always ache when snow coming.  Also, Mister Hank say Missus Everett joints hurt, more than usual.  Also ache when snow come.”

“That’s true . . . .” Stacy murmured softly, as she cast an anxious eye out of the dining room window.

“Well, snow or no snow, we need to eat up,” Ben admonished his offspring and Jack Cranston.  “That hearing starts at ten o’clock sharp, and Judge Faraday doesn’t take very kindly to tardiness.”

“Hmph!  Judge Faraday sounds a lot like Miss Johnson,” Stacy chortled.

“All the more reason YOU need to get a move on, Young Woman,” Ben said firmly.   “School starts promptly at NINE o’clock.”

“Yes, Pa.”

First came the voices, women most of them judging by timbre and pitch, all talking at once, though neither Roy nor Clem could make out any words.  The consonants and vowels blended into a mish mash of humming, not unlike that of angry hornets.  The sheriff exchanged a bewildered glance with his deputy as he reached for the coffee pot, warming on the stove, to pour himself a second cup.

Then, all hell broke loose.

The early morning stillness was abruptly shattered when the double doors at the entrance to the sheriff’s office flew open and slammed against the wall with a thunderous bang.  Roy started violently, dropping the nearly full pot of coffee on the floor.  His right arm also jerked upward, causing him to spill an entire mug of coffee all down the front of him.  Clem, who was seated at the sheriff’s desk, leapt to his feet, sending an assortment of reports, wanted posters, and unopened mail flying, creating a debris field measuring roughly three feet out from the desk in all directions.

A stream of irate women surged into the sheriff’s office, with one Della Mae Wyatt in the lead.

Aged in her late forties, Della Mae quite literally stood head and shoulders above most of her peers, men as well as women.  She saw the world around her in stark contrasts of black and white, thanks to her father and mother, respectively an itinerant preacher and school teacher turned helpmeet.  Right was right, and wrong was wrong, no exceptions, no quarter allowed for extenuating circumstances.

Della Mae had become president of the Virginia City Christian Church Ladies’ Guild the day after the fiasco folks in Virginia City still referred to as The Wedding of the Century, after Myra Danvers stepped down in disgrace, with the blessing of the church pastor, Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt.  The good reverend had never publicly expressed his opinion on the matter, but it was common knowledge that he STILL blamed Mrs. Danvers for the installation of a still in the church basement and the fire caused by the explosion of said still that burned the church to the ground.

“GREAT JUMPIN’ JEHOSAPHAT!” Roy bellowed, as shock gave way to anger.   With a murderous scowl on his face, he beat a straight path across the room on an intercept course with Della Mae, with his back poker straight, shoulders back, jaw jutting forward, and mouth set with grim determination.  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT THE SAM HILL YOU LADIES THINK YOU’RE DOIN’—”

“We have a petition, Sheriff Coffee, that demands a terrible wrong be set right,” Della Mae rudely cut the lawman off mid-sentence.  She held out a single sheet of paper neatly folded in thirds.

“WE DEMAND THAT YOU PRESENT IT TO JUDGE FRADAY,” Janet Greeley, wife of he who owned a lucrative silver mine christened Vein Glorious, shouted from the back of the gathered crowd of angry women at the same time Roy angrily snatched the petition from Della Mae‘s out stretched hand.

Janet’s words set off a flurry of angry, discordant murmuring.

Roy placed thumb and forefinger into the sides of his mouth and let out a shrill whistle, which easily carried above the din.   “Now you ladies just settle yourselves down!” he ordered.  “First off, I ain’t givin’ this petition or anything else t’ Judge Faraday, ‘til I’ve had a chance t’ read it!”

“By all means, Sheriff,” Audrey Schmidt, standing behind Della Mae, just a little to the right, said, “you’ll find it short, sweet, and right to the point.”

Roy unfolded the sheets of paper, and saw that the petition itself was as Audrey Schmidt had said.  “Judge Faraday,” he read aloud, “we the undersigned citizens o’ Virginia City demand you grant Mister Lindsay sole custody o’ his baby grandson.  Now that he is alone, bereft o’ wife ‘n daughter, it is the only right ‘n moral thing t’ do.”

“DO WHAT‘S RIGHT!” Janet Greeley shouted.

A half dozen women immediately took up the chant at the top of their voices.  Two or three others joined, then, suddenly, all of them were shouting, “DO WHAT’S RIGHT!  DO WHAT’S RIGHT!  DO WHAT’S RIGHT!”  Della Mae began to clap her hands in time with the chanting.  Audrey Schmidt and Hannah Adams began to stamp their feet.

“IF YOU LADIES DON’T SETTLE DOWN RIGHT NOW, SOOO HELP ME, I‘M GONNA THROW THE LOT O’ YOU IN JAIL!” Roy Coffee roared.

“ON WHAT CHARGE?”  That was Audrey Schmidt.

“DISTURBIN’ THE PEACE’LL DO FOR A START!” Roy angrily shot right back.

A sullen, angry silence descended upon the sheriff’s office and hung there, like a pall.   Roy quickly glanced at the signatures covering the next four pages, noting that most belonged to the irate women now thronging his office.  An exasperated sigh escaped from between his thinning lips.  “All right, I’ll deliver this t’ Judge Faraday—”

The women broke into loud, raucous cheering, as they turned to one another hugging and shaking hands.

“. . . but I hafta warn ya, you’re wastin’ your time.”

Della Mae stepped directly in front of Roy Coffee, and glared down into his face.  “. . . and what’s THAT supposed to mean?” she imperiously demanded.

“It means Judge Faraday’ll rule accordin’ t’ what the law says . . . period,” Roy returned, unmoved by Della Mae’s posturing.  “Don’t matter none how many names y’ get on that petition, or how much you ladies yell ‘n scream, y’ ain’t gonna influence him one way or t’other.”

Della Mae snatched the petition out of Roy’s hand with a powerful sweep of her arm.   “Well, we’ll just see about that!” she vowed.  “Let’s go, Ladies.”  She turned heel and marched out of the sheriff’s office, her eyes blazing with righteous indignation, head held high, and arms vigorously swinging at her sides.

The other women silently fell in behind their leader and filed out in a single line.

“Clem,” Roy said, after the last had left.

“Yes, Roy?”

“You’d best get on down t’ the courthouse ‘n warn Judge Faraday . . . ‘n Ben Cartwright, too.”

“Good morning, Judge Faraday,” Joe Cartwright wearily greeted the judge as he, his brother, and Jack Cranston filed into the judge’s chambers in a single line.  Doctor Martin, Mother Gibson, Mrs. McPherson, and Mister Lindsay were already present and seated around the circular table in the center of the room.  “My father—”

Tobias, who had, for the last few minutes, seemed very intent on studying his left thumbnail, glanced up sharply.  “Judge Faraday,” he began, rudely cutting off Joe mid-sentence, “I was given to understand that this hearing was to begin promptly on the dot of ten.”

“Your watch must be running a few minutes fast, Mister Lindsay,” the judge said with a pointed glance over at the regulator clock hanging on the wall to his left, centered above the enormous roll top desk given him by his late wife in honor of his appointment to the bench.  “I’m sure the elder Mister Cartwright will be here momentarily.”  He, then, turned his attention to the Cartwright brothers and the Pinkerton man in their company.   “Gentlemen, please come in and take a seat.”

The three men nodded their thanks, then began to divest themselves of coats, hats, scarves, and gloves.

“Judge Faraday . . . .”

“What is it NOW, Mister Lindsay?”

“I can understand why the Cartwright boys are here, but I demand to know who that man is . . . .”  Tobias thrust arm and pointing finger at Jack Cranston, “. . . and what he has to do with this hearing.”

“Mister Cranston at your service, Sir,” Jack coolly introduced himself.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Pinkerton badge.  “This hearing may have some bearing on a case I’m presently working.”

“I ob—”

“Please, sit down, Mister Cranston,” John very quickly interjected in the hope of forestalling yet another tirade from the pretentious Tobias Lindsay.  His tendency toward vitriolic long windedness since his arrival in town a few days ago had left the judge with more than a belly full.

“Your Honor,” Tobias pressed.  “I object—”

“Your objection will be duly noted, Mister Lindsay, but for the time being, I’VE decided to allow Mister Cranston to remain.”

A moment later, much to Judge Faraday’s relief, Elmer McFarlane, Abigail Jarvis, and Lucas Milburn, whom Abigail had officially engaged to represent her, arrived, with Ben Cartwright bringing up the rear.

“Right on time, Mrs. Jarvis . . . Mister Cartwright, and you, Lucas,” John greeted them, as he very pointedly glanced once more at Tobias, just as the clock began to strike the hour of ten.

All of the men present rose, as Elmer gallantly held Abigail’s chair, with the exception of Tobias.  He glared murderously at the slight, frail looking woman, as she took her place at the table.  She, though inwardly trembling, maintained a calm, aloof outward façade.

“This hearing to determine custody of the foundling child—”

“That child is no foundling, Your Honor,” Tobias interjected with just enough condensation to make the judge’s blood boil.  “He is MY grandson.  I think it would be more appropriate to refer to him as Baby Lindsay.”

“This hearing to determine custody of the FOUNDLING child left at the kitchen door of the Cartwright residence is in session,” John repeated through clenched teeth.  “Mister Lindsay, if you interrupt me again, I will have you removed.  Do I make myself clear?”

Tobias cast a sullen glare over at the judge, but said nothing.

“Do.  I.  Make.  Myself.  Clear!”

An exasperated sigh exploded from between Tobias’ thinned lips and clenched jaw.   “Yes, Your Honor,” he responded, taking no pains to conceal his rising ire and frustration.

Judge Faraday silently counted to ten, then took a deep breath.  “Please rise,” he instructed all of the witnesses, adding, “as you are able,” upon taking due note of Abigail Jarvis’ weakened physical condition.  He, then, turned to his secretary.  “Mister McFarlane, if you would administer the oath?”

Elmer immediately rose to his feet.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, please raise your right hands?”

The witnesses silently complied.

“Do each of you solemnly swear that the testimony you are about to give is the truth, so help you God?”

The witnesses responded, “I do,” in unison.

“You may be seated,” the judge said.  After everyone had resumed their seats, John turned his attention to Ben.  “Mister Cartwright, please tell us about the baby found at your kitchen door.”

“Hoss and I found him lying in a basket . . . an old, worn out one that Hop Sing had recently put out on our trash heap next to our kitchen door,” Ben began.  “There was a note tucked inside asking us to care for the baby.”

“Do you have that note with you?”

“Yes, I do.”  Ben reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and withdrew a sheet of paper, neatly folded in half, and quietly handed it to Judge Faraday.

John nodded his thanks as he took the proffered note.  He unfolded and read it aloud.   “What condition was the baby in when you found him?”

“He was warm, so I figured he hadn’t been out there for very long,” Ben replied, “and when Doctor Martin came out to examine the baby, he said—”

“I’ll question Doctor Martin about the baby’s physical health later,” John said.  “How did you come to the conclusion that Mister Lindsay’s daughter, Cara, was the mother of the baby left on your doorstep?”

Ben quietly, and with reluctance, shared with the judge and the others gathered, how he and Doctor Martin had come to the conclusion that Cara Lindsay was, in fact, the baby’s mother.

“Then, according to your deposition, you and your daughter, Stacy, went to Saint Mary’s Hospital to see Miss Lindsay.  That right?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Why?”

“After reading that note, it was clear . . . to ME anyway . . . that the baby Hoss and I found at our kitchen door was left by his mother.  I wanted to help her and the baby.”

“When you and your daughter visited Miss Lindsay, she admitted to leaving the baby at your kitchen door?” the judge asked.

“Yes, she did,” Ben replied.

“Did Miss Lindsay tell either you or your daughter WHY she chose to abandon her baby at YOUR kitchen door?”

“Yes,” Ben replied.  “She told us she didn’t want her father to find her baby because he intended to sell him to the highest bidder out in San Francisco.”

“Your Honor, I OBJECT!”

Judge Faraday frowned.  “Mister Lindsay, I’m warning you—”

Tobias slowly rose to his feet, the smooth, languid movement of his body at disconcerting odds with the muscles of his face so rigidly set and the intensity of his glare.  “Judge Faraday, if you think for one minute I‘m going to sit here silent and allow Ben Cartwright to malign me and—”

“Mister Lindsay, if you don’t sit down right now, this instant, I WILL ask Sheriff Coffee to remove you from these proceedings,” John stated his voice calm, yet with a firmness that conveyed he would countenance no further discussion on the matter.

Tobias dropped back down into his chair.

“For the record, Sir, Mister Cartwright did not accuse you of anything,” John said stiffly.   “He merely repeated what your daughter told him.”

“We can’t know that for certain,” Tobias petulantly argued, “seeing that his only collaborating witness is HIS own daughter.”

“Mister Lindsay, that’s not true!” Mother Gibson declared, angery and indignant.  “The sisters who cared for her and I—”

“Ladies and Gentlemen, if we can continue?” the judge queried, glaring over at Tobias first, then at the mother superior.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Mother Gibson murmured, embarrassed and contrite.

Tobias’ scowl deepened, and his fingers slowly curled, forming a pair of rock hard fists, but he said nothing.

Satisfied that all was in order, for the moment at least, John returned his attention to Ben.   “Mister Cartwright, how many times did you and your daughter visit Miss Lindsay at the hospital?”

“Just the one time,” Ben replied.  “When we went back the next day, Mother Gibson told us that Cara and the sister caring for her had disappeared sometime during that night.”

“Thank you,” John murmured softly.  “Doctor Martin?”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“You were called out to the Ponderosa to examine the baby left at the Cartwrights’ kitchen door, is that correct?”

“It is.”

“What condition was the baby in when you examined him?”

“I had no scale on which to weigh him, but he felt good and solid when I took him into my arms,” Paul replied.  “I saw no signs of malnourishment, injury, illness, or frostbite.”   As he uttered this last, he turned and glared at Tobias.  “A miracle, considering his mother’s situation and physical condition.”

“. . . and just what the hell’s THAT supposed to mean?” Tobias demanded.

“It means exactly that,” Paul growled.

“Doctor Martin, how old would you say the babe was?” John asked, raising his voice slightly, with the intention of steering proceedings back on the right track and avoiding a bitter argument between the sawbones and Tobias.

“No more than a week old,” Paul said curtly.

John paused for a moment to glance down at his notes.  “You were also summoned to Saint Mary’s Hospital later on that day,” he quietly observed.

“Yes, I was.”

“Why?”

“I was told that two of Ben’s men found a young woman lying by the side of the road near death,” Paul answered.  “By the time I reached the girl, the nuns at the hospital had begun the task of warming her, and she was drifting in and out of consciousness.”

“The results of your examination, Doctor?”

“The girl showed signs of malnourishment and she had very recently given birth,” Paul replied.

“How recently?” John asked.

“At the time within five days to a week.”

“Anything else, Doctor Martin?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Paul replied.  “The girl was suffering from hypothermia, made worse, more than likely, by her eating snow in order to provide milk for her baby, and her feet were severely frost bitten.  I also found evidence she had been beaten, with a stick or a cane or over a long period of time.”

“How long a period?”

“Years!” Paul snapped.

“Doctor Martin, if you’re insinuating that I mistreated my daughter, so help me—”

“Mister Lindsay, if you were quicker to listen than you are to speak, you’d realize that Doctor Martin has NOT accused you of anything, either,” John angrily cut Tobias off.   “He’s merely reporting what he observed when he examined your daughter.”  The judge turned to Paul.  “Please continue, Doctor.”

“Her back was covered with a mix of old scars, wounds newly healed, red wheals, bruising, some of it fresh, some fading; and fresh wounds barely scabbed over,” Paul continued, his face darkening with anger.  “Worst of all was a burn on the back of her left leg that was gangrenous.”

John shuffled through his notes, until he found the desired page.   “I’ve noted here that you allege the burn on the back of Miss Lindsay’s leg was intentionally inflicted.  Is that correct?”

“It is, Your Honor.”

“What brought you to that conclusion?”

“The edge of the curving line defining the top of the burn was sharp and clear,” Paul replied.  “That tells me the burn was inflicted with a man-made object.”

“Would that be consistent with a stove cover?”

“Yes, it would!”  He, then, turned and glared at Tobias.  “That and the other signs of cruelty led Mother Gibson and me BOTH to conclude that Miss Lindsay was a runaway.”

“Doctor Martin is correct, Your Honor,” Mother Catherine confirmed in a quiet, yet very firm tone of voice.

Tobias shot right out of his chair, his face contorted with raw fury.  “. . . and what proof do you have of THAT slanderous allegation?” he demanded, his voice rising.

“My reports on my initial examination of your daughter at the hospital and on her post mortem contain more than enough proof,” Paul immediately responded.  “That poor girl was desperate and frightened.  Why else would she venture into the freezing cold, so near her time—”

“DOCTOR MARTIN . . . MISTER LINDSAY, ENOUGH!” John roared.  He quickly sifted through the stack of papers lying on the table before him and pulled out Cara Lindsay’s death certificate along with Paul Martin’s report on her post mortem examination.  “Doctor,” he queried, looking the sawbones straight in the eye, “you allege the infected burn on her leg caused Miss Lindsay’s death?”

“Yes!” Paul declared with an emphatic nod of his head.  “As I said in my post mortem, Miss McPherson’s actions didn‘t help matters any, but she did NOT cause the girl’s death.  If anyone was responsible for Miss Lindsay’s death it was the man who burned that girl’s leg.”

“YOU DAMNED LYING SON-OF-A-BITCH!” Tobias snarled.  “How DARE you accuse me of . . . of murdering my own daughter!”

“I haven’t accused YOU of anything, Mister Lindsay!” Paul angrily shot right back.   Not yet, anyway.  “I’ve only stated the facts.”

“So you said on numerous occasions six years ago, when you and Ben Cartwright tried to take my daughter AWAY from me,” Tobias vehemently argued.  “Well, let me remind you of something, Doctor.  You couldn’t prove me unfit years ago when my wife died, and you sure as hell won’t prove me unfit now!”

“Mister.  Lindsay.  Sit down and shut-up NOW!” John ordered through clenched teeth.

Tobias, his entire body trembling with rage, resumed his seat.

“Doctor Martin, a hypothetical question, if I may?” John queried.

“Yes, Your Honor?” Paul responded warily.

“Your post mortem examination states that Miss Lindsay’s leg was gangrenous,” John stated.  “Had Miss McPherson not removed her patient from the hospital, and you’d had opportunity to amputate the leg, would Miss Lindsay be alive now?”

Paul sighed.  “Difficult to say,” he replied.  “You’ll note in my report that I stated Miss Lindsay had what’s called gaseous gangrene.  Symptoms appear suddenly and it moves very quickly.”  He paused.  “To answer your question, yes . . . it’s possible Miss Lindsay WOULD be alive now, but it’s also quite possible that by the time Ben’s men found her and took her to the hospital, it was already too late to save her.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” John said.  He, then, turned his attention to the mother superior.  “Mother Gibson, you assisted Doctor Martin with his examination of Miss Lindsay when she was brought to the hospital by the two men from the Ponderosa.  Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“Can you corroborate the testimony Doctor Martin has just given?”

“I can,” Mother Catherine said firmly.

“You also assisted Doctor Martin when he was summoned to Mrs. McPherson’s home to tend to Miss Lindsay?”

“I did,” Mother Catherine replied.   “She was in a very bad way—”

“Mother Gibson, would you please explain what you mean when you say that Miss Lindsay was ‘in a very bad way’?” the judge asked.

“The poor child was running a very high temperature . . . so high, her hands and face felt hot to the touch,” Mother Catherine quietly explained.  “She was also suffering a lot of pain, given the intensity of her moaning and her restless tossing about on her bed.   Doctor Martin and I tried very hard to save her, but our efforts were in vain.”

“Mother Gibson, you knew!” Tobias said, his voice low and menacing, as realization began to dawn on him.  He blithely ignored the angry glare Judge Faraday leveled in his direction.  “You and the other sisters . . . you KNEW she was my daughter.”

“No, not at first,” Mother Catherine hedged.

“Mister Lindsay—”

“NO, Your Honor!  I will NOT sit down and be silent!” Tobias ardently declared.   “She . . . .” he rudely thrust an accusing finger at the Mother Superior, “it was her bounden duty to inform me that my daughter was in her hospital.  That’s the law!  But she said nothing about my daughter being in her damned hospital, and neither did Mister Cartwright.”

“Speaking for myself, Mister Lindsay, no!  I didn’t,” Mother Catherine returned, her ire beginning to rise once again, “and if I had it to do over?  I would do exactly the same thing.”

“You . . . you vicious, spiteful—”

“MISTER LINDSAY, YOU FORGET YOURSELF!” John yelled.

“Your Honor,” Mother Catherine turned, hoping she might appeal to the judge, “my first duty, and that of the other sisters as well, was to our patient.  Miss Lindsay adamantly refused to tell us her name because she was afraid her father might find her and her baby.   Her emotional well-being—”

“I’ve got a good mind to sue you AND your order for slander, as well as having the lot of you jailed for kidnapping and holding a girl not yet the age of majority—”

“MISTER LINDSAY, SIT DOWN!  NOW!” John roared.

“YOUR HONOR, THROUGHOUT THIS ENTIRE FARCE OF A CUSTODY HEARING, YOU’VE IGNORED ME, BELITTLED ME—”

“SHERIFF COFFEE, PLEASE REMOVE MISTER LINDSAY FROM MY CHAMBERS IMEDIATELY!”

“NO!” Tobias shouted.  His intense fury contorted his face into something ugly and frightening, barely recognizable as human.  “YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”

“I CAN ’N I WILL,” Roy Coffee responded as he quickly stepped over to Tobias’ side and slipped a pair of handcuff on his wrists.  “PERHAPS A FEW HOURS IN JAIL WILL COOL YA OFF!”

“On what charge?” Tobias demanded through clenched teeth.

“First things that come t’ mind are contempt ’n disturbin’ the peace,” Roy answered, “but gimme time.  I’ll like as not be able t’ come up with more.”

“This hearing is in recess until ten o’clock tomorrow morning,” John declared, angry and very, very weary.  He leaned forward, touching his elbows to the table before him, and gingerly began to massage this temples against what promised to be one mother of a headache to end all headaches, as the others began to silently file out of his chambers.

“Mister Cartwright?” Jack queried as he and the Cartwrights left the courthouse together.

“Yes, Jack?”

“I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said, “but, I . . . need to have a word with that lady . . . .”   He inclined his head toward Polly McPherson’s retreating back, as she made her way across the street.

“Is it about—” Joe quietly asked, remembering the conversation he and Jack had in the latter’s hotel room in Carson City.

“Yes,” Jack replied.  “She needs to be told about her daughter sooner, as opposed to later.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“Thank you, Joe, but I think it would be better if I spoke with her alone.”

“I understand,” Joe said.  “We’ll be at the C Street Café.  Just ask anyone here in town . . . they‘ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks, Joe.  I‘ll join you as soon as I can.”

After parting company with Jack Cranston, Ben and his two younger sons turned and started down the board walk toward the C Street Café, located down the block and around the corner for lunch.

“Benjamin!  Yoo-hoo, Benjamin!  Hold up a minute!”

Ben involuntarily cringed upon hearing the sound of THAT voice.  He swallowed and slowly, almost reluctantly lifted his head, and saw Clementine Hawkins[xvi] running up the board walk with a new purchase from the milliner’s shop clasped tight in her gloved hand.  “Good afternoon, Clementine,” he responded with an air of fatalistic resignation.

“I want to give you fair warning,” she said briskly.  “Be on your guard, watch your back, and be prepared to duck.”

“Mrs. Hawkins, what in the world are you talking about?” Joe queried with a bewildered frown.

“There’s a mob about town who’s out for your pa’s blood, Ducky,” Clementine replied darkly.  “Benjamin, you need to watch your step!”

“Now why in the world would folks be out for Pa’s blood?” Hoss demanded, equally as bewildered as his younger brother.

“Coo, ain’t you heard?”

“About what?” Ben asked.

“About you suin’ Mister Lindsay for custody o’ his grandson,” Clementine replied.   “Not that I blame you, mind.  I remember all too well how he mistreated that poor tyke o’ his after his wife died, may she rest in peace.”

Ben‘s jaw dropped, and for a moment all he could do was he stare at Clementine through eyes round with shock.  “You, uhhh, mind my asking how YOU happened to find out about all this?” he asked the instant he recovered his power of speech.  “I’m sure Judge Faraday said this hearing’s supposed to be private.”

“Private?!” Clementine mirthlessly chortled.  “Last couple o’ days, folks ain’t talked about anything else.”

“Pa?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Didn’t Mister Lindsay arrive a couple days ago?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions, Joe,” Ben warned, even as he filed the question his youngest son had just raised on a back burner within his mind.  “Clementine?”

“Yes, Benjamin?”

“Who told you about the custody hearing?”

“No one told me,” Clementine replied.  “I overheard Mrs. Jared, Miss Pettigrew, Mrs. Potter, and the Parsons sisters talking about it when I popped into the general store for some tea and a tin of peaches.”

“Thank you for the warning,” Ben quickly interjected, making a mental note to question Maxine Pettigrew when they reached the C Street Café.

“Oh coo, Benjamin, think nothing of it,” Clementine said dismissively, then smiled.   “After all, what are good friends for?”

“I think if ol’ Adam were here, he’d would be quoting from Shakespeare about something being rotten in Denmark,” Joe observed, as Clementine continued her way down the board walk.

“Ben!  Ben Cartwright, please . . . hold up.  I‘d like a word with you . . . .”

Mere seconds after parting company with Clementine Hawkins, Ben turned and found Janet Greeley and her husband, Enoch, standing at his elbow.  Enoch was the owner of the Vein-Glorious Mining Company, in which Ben had a vested interest.  “Of course, Janet,” Ben replied, as he politely reached up and touched the rim of his hat.

“Ben, how could you?” Janet angrily demanded.

“How c-could I . . . what?”

“Sue Mister Lindsay for the only family he has left in this world!” Janet blustered, her cheeks, neck and forehead flushed with anger and righteous indignation.  “Hasn’t that poor man suffered enough?”

While Ben tried to defend himself against Janet Greeley‘s verbal barrage, Hoss and Joe turned their attention to Enoch Greeley, who, judging by his flaming scarlet cheeks and the way he so pointedly turned his back on his wife, must have been utterly mortified by the way Janet so brazenly accosted their father.

“. . . uhh, Mister Greeley?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“Joe, Pa, ’n me thought this custody hearin’ was supposed t’ be kept private,” Hoss said.   “You have any idea as t’ how Mrs. Greeley found out about it?”

“I have no idea, but if I was to hazard a guess?  I’d say from Eloise Kirk or Clara Mudgely, more ‘n likely,” Enoch replied with the drawn out sigh of the long suffering.  “Though up until now, my wife’s always had more common sense than to believe the tall tales spun by those two walking newspapers.”

Upon hearing Enoch’s reply to Hoss’ inquiry, Janet whirled around glared venomously at her husband.  “For YOUR information, I did NOT hear this from either of those two blabbermouths,” she declared, shaking her finger in his face.  “I overheard Mrs. Adams . . . wife of the man who owns the bank where WE do business, I might add . . . discussing the matter with Mrs. Potter and Mrs. Blanchard.”

“. . . as if that pompous, arrogant woman’s any better!” Enoch groused.   “Ben, don’t get me wrong.  Mister Adams is a good man of business . . . very unassuming and down to earth, but that wife of his . . . .”  He shuddered.  “She’s the worst kind of snob and she’s always parroting Myra Danvers of all people, because she’s incapable of coming up with an original thought of her own.”

“That’s NOT true!” Janet argued.

“Come along, Janet!”  Enoch took firm hold of his wife’s forearm.  “I think we’ve wasted enough of Ben’s valuable time.”  He stepped off the board walk and started across the street, dragging along his wife, still sputtering angrily, right behind him.

“Hoo boy!” Joe muttered under his breath, as he watched the Greeleys crossing the street.   “I sure hope that’s not a taste of what’s in store for—”

“Ben . . . .”  It was John Devlin and his wife, Martha.

“John Devlin . . . I declare, it’s been a dog’s age since I last saw ya!”  Ben smiled and greeted John enthusiastically.  He held out his hand.  “How have you been?”

“Fine,” John said curtly.  He pointedly ignored Ben‘s outstretched hand.  “Martha and I are doing just fine.  Ben, I’m not one for beating around the bush so I’ll come straight to the point.  Martha and I heard that you’re fighting Tobias Lindsay for custody of his own grandson.”

“You and everybody else in town,” Ben stiffly observed.

“Then, it‘s true?”

“Suppose it is?” Ben hedged, wary, yet defiant.  He had no intention of adding to the scuttlebutt already going around town about this custody hearing by telling the Devlins he had withdrawn his petition for custody in favor of Abigail Jarvis.

“Well, I, for one, am very surprised,” Martha declared, “. . . and disappointed.  Now, mind . . . I don’t condone the way he treated his daughter right after Eleanora died, but that was five years ago now . . . almost six!  Ben, John and I had breakfast with him at the hotel the day after he arrived in town.  He’s a changed man . . . clean . . . sober . . . .”

“John and Martha, both of you have reason to be grateful to Mister Lindsay . . . good reason,” Ben said.  “He not only cleared Mitch of a murder charge wrongly brought against him, but he found out who the real perpetrator was.”

“. . . and risked his own life doing it,” John quickly added.  “Martha and I . . . and Mitch, too . . . we owe that man a debt of gratitude that can never be repaid.”

“I understand that,” Ben said, laboring to keep his tone of voice calm and even, “and I agree that he IS a changed man, but I’m not so sure he’s changed for the better, even though he is clean and sober.”

“Ben . . . dear God!” Martha cried out in despair.  “With Eleanora gone, and now his daughter, poor thing, well . . . surely you can see that man needs your compassion, not your scorn,” she implored.  “I know YOU’VE had more than your share of tragedy and grief throughout your life, but you’ve still got three fine sons . . . a lovely daughter . . . AND, by all accounts, a couple of wonderful grandchildren.  Mister Lindsay has no one now . . . no one in the world except that baby.  How can you in all good conscience—?!”

“Mrs. Devlin, perhaps you haven’t heard that Mister Lindsay’s daughter died from a burn to her leg that became badly infected and turned gangrenous,” Joe said, his anger rising.   “That burn was inflicted either by her own father or by the woman he hired to care for her.”

“Joseph!” Ben growled, his teeth clenched and jaw rigid.

“Pa, it seems everyone in town knows you’re challenging Tobias Lindsay’s fitness to be guardian for his grandson,” Joe hotly defended himself.   “I’m beginning to think it’s only fair they know WHY.”

“Joe, I know you believe your words are true,” John Devlin said.  “I can see that.   However, my wife and I . . . well, to be up front ‘n honest, we find it difficult to accept that the man who believed in Mitch, when he was accused of murdering Ralph Whittaker . . . despite the mountain of damning circumstantial evidence against him . . . who worked so diligently to prove our son innocent . . . would do such a dreadful thing to his own flesh and blood!”

Hoss, almost without thinking, interposed himself between John Devlin and his younger brother.  “Mister Devlin, the Tobias Lindsay who’s come t’ take custody o’ his daughter’s baby ain‘t the same man who saved Mitch from the hangman‘s noose,” he said in a very quiet, very somber tone of voice.  “I’M of the mind THAT man died same day ‘n time as his wife did almost six years ago.”

“Hoss, you’re a real fine judge of character,” John grudgingly admitted.  “So many times, folks, including me, thought you were plumb loco because you saw good in men, like that Jamie Wrenn[xvii] fella . . . and in the end, we found you were right all along.   But not this time!  I think this time, you’re dead WRONG!”  That said, he pushed past Hoss, and strode briskly down the board walk, with his wife following behind, nearly running to catch up.

“I think we need to get to the C Street Café immediately and talk to Maxine,” Ben said.   “I just hope to heaven we can get there without someone ELSE accosting us . . . .”

“. . . I overheard Clara Mudgely telling Amelia Jared and Audrey Schmidt about the custody hearing at the general store this morning,” Maxine ruefully confessed.  She stood at the head of a table set for four, clad in white blouse, dark blue skirt, and a large clean white apron.  “Ben, I’m so sorry I spoke out of turn . . . I had no idea it was a private matter.”

“No apology necessary, Maxine,” Ben said kindly, “you didn’t speak out of turn.  Mrs. Schmidt asked your opinion, and you gave it.”

“Well, I’ll not say anything more about it to anyone else,” Maxine earnestly promised, “. . . and for what it’s worth?  I believe you have good reason for challenging Tobias Lindsay’s fitness to be his grandson’s guardian.  I hope Judge Faraday sees that, too.”

“Thank you for your vote of confidence, Maxine,” Ben said.  “As for Judge Faraday, he’s going to take all the testimony into account and rule according to the law.  I just hope to high heaven we can make our case.”

Maxine nodded her head.  “Yes . . . above all else, Judge Faraday IS a fair man, who puts the law first,” she agreed.  “I hope you can make your case, too.”  She, then, reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a small pad of paper and a pencil.  “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

The Cartwright men placed their orders.  Maxine Pettigrew dutifully wrote them down, then hurried back to the kitchen.

“Looks like it all goes back to Clara Mudgely,” Joe sardonically observed.  “MY question is . . . how in the ever lovin’ world did SHE find out?”

“If she’s the one who spread the word about Pa suing for custody o’ the Li’l One, I’d say it’s a real good bet she got it straight from the horse’s mouth,” Hoss said grimly.

The three men fell silent upon seeing one of the younger waitresses approach their table with four mugs in one hand and a fresh pot of hot coffee in the other.  They waited while she had served them their coffee, then, after she left, they resumed their conversation.

“Hoss, how do you figure?” Joe demanded.

“About what?”

“Miss Mudgely getting her information about the custody hearing straight from the horse’s mouth?”

“Everyone knows Miss Mudgely spends many a fine afternoon sittin’ on that bench right by the International Hotel door, just watchin’ the world go by,” Hoss explained, “ ’n it just so happens Mister Lindsay’s stayin’ there.”  He paused.  “We all know Miss Mudgely ain’t one for keepin’ secrets.”

“Hoss . . . are you saying that Tobias told Miss Mudgely about that hearing?!” Ben asked.

“Yep,” Hoss said grimly, “ ‘n dollars t’ donuts says he was countin’ on Miss Mudgely t’ spread it all over town.”

“Y’ know . . . what Hoss just said makes a whole lotta sense,” Joe observed.  “The only thing I don’t quite understand is why Mister Lindsay would as good as tell the world his business like that.  I remember him as the kind of guy who kept a lot to himself, especially after his wife died.”

“Public opinion,” Ben muttered, his face darkening with anger.

“Public opinion?” Hoss echoed with a bewildered frown.

“Yes, public opinion,” Ben repeated.

“Why, Pa?” Joe asked.

“If Tobias has told Miss Mudgely about the custody hearing he’s either trying to pressure me into withdrawing my petition by turning half the people in this town against me,” Ben replied, “or he’s trying to bring public opinion to bear against Judge Faraday to pressure HIM into granting him custody of the Li’l One.”

A discreet cough from Maxine Pettigrew brought all conversation to a complete halt.   With the able assistance of the waitress, who had brought the coffee, she quickly served up lunch and refilled their coffee cups.  “Will there be anything else, Gentlemen?” she asked.

“Be sure t’ save us all a hunk o’ Miz Letty’s peach pie,” Hoss said, grinning from ear-to ear.

Maxine smiled back.  “There’s one in the oven now that ought to be ready right when you gentlemen finish up your lunch,” she said.

“Can’t wait!” Hoss quipped, rubbing his large hands together in gleeful anticipation.

“. . . uh, M-Mister Cartwright?”

Ben turned and found Molly O’Hanlan, one of his daughter’s closest friends standing next to the table, her strawberry blonde hair mussed, her jacket and the front of her skirt covered with mud.  “Molly?” he queried, surprised by her disheveled appearance.   “What in the world happened to YOU?”

“There was a fight in the schoolyard after Miss Johnson let us go outside for lunch,” Molly explained.  “Stacy . . . oh, Mister Cartwright, I . . . I’m afraid she took a horrible beating—” Her voice caught on that last word.

Ben threw down his napkin and shot right out of his chair.  “Where is she?” he demanded.

“Miss Johnson asked Susannah and Julio to take her to Doctor Martin’s office,” Molly replied.  “She sent me to find you.”

That meant Stacy was able to walk the short distance from the schoolhouse to Paul’s office.  A small mercy, but one for which he was grateful.

“You fellas g’won ‘n see to Stacy,” Hoss suggested.  “I’ll settle up with Miss Pettigrew ‘n wait here for Jack.”

“Alright, Hoss,” Ben said gratefully.  “Suppose you and Jack meet us at the doctor’s office.”

Upon reaching the home of Paul and Lily Martin, Ben and Joe were surprised to find the Martins’ housekeeper, Miss Graves out on the front porch waiting.

Hilda Mae Graves had worked for the good doctor and his wife since the birth of their eldest, a son named John Wilcox for his maternal grandfather, then recently deceased.   She was tall, standing a few inches shorter than Paul Martin; thin, with iron gray hair, worn neatly in a chignon at the nape of her neck; deep violet eyes that missed absolutely nothing, and an abundance of energy.

“Mister Cartwright, Stacy’s back in the doc’s office with him and the missus,” Hilda Mae said briskly, with no preamble.  “Doc said to send you folks on back.”

“Thank you, Miss Graves,” Ben said, touching the rim of his hat.

Ben charged into Paul Martin’s examination room in manner not unlike Jigger Thurmond’s bull[xviii] whenever the animal saw anything red, with Joe following close at his heels.

“Holy jumpin’ Hannah, Kiddo!” Joe exclaimed upon noting his sister’s swollen left eye, the dried trickle of blood that had flowed from her mouth down to her chin, and bloodied nose.  “What happened to YOU?”

“That stuck-up Millicent Adams happened,” Stacy growled.

“Please . . . hold still, Stacy,” Paul Martin admonished the girl for what had to be the hundredth time.  “Just a couple more stitches to go.”

“Sorry,” she murmured contritely.

Joe frowned.  “Millicent did all that?!” he queried, while taking in his sister’s injuries and disheveled appearance.

“She had help!” Stacy replied in a sullen, angry tone of voice.  “Fortunately, so did I or I’d be a lot worse off.”

“Finished!” Paul sighed, weary and relieved.

“Thank you, Paul,” Ben said gratefully.  “You mind if I have a private word with my daughter?”

“Help yourself, Ben,” Paul readily assented.  “If you need me for anything, I’ll be upstairs.”

Ben nodded his thanks, and waited until Paul had left the room.  “All right, Young Woman, what happened?” he asked, as he pulled up a chair beside the doctor’s examination table.

“Long story, Pa,” Stacy murmured, fighting back a sudden urge to vomit.

“Then I suggest you start at the beginning,” Ben said . . . .

After Miss Johnson had dismissed class for lunch and recess, Stacy started across the schoolyard to join her friends, Molly and Susannah, both seated on the stone bench placed under the venerable, old Douglas fir tree, growing next to the school‘s southern face.  She had scarcely gone a half dozen steps when a pair of hands smacked up hard against her back, eliciting a cry of astonishment, pain, and outrage.  She pitched forward, and landed on her hands and knees in the midst of an exuberant group of younger children, who were playing tag.  Stacy immediately scrambled to her feet, and turned to face down her attacker.

It was Millicent Adams.  She stood with her back stiffly erect, her gloved hands clenched into a pair of tight rock hard fists.  Her complexion, a few shades paler than was normal for her, and her blue eyes, round and staring, lent her face the uneasy appearance of a deadly rattlesnake, poised to attack.

“You stupid idiot!  What did you do THAT for?” Stacy demanded, her face darkening with anger.

“Because I FELT like it,” Millicent sneered..   

The haughty disdain Stacy heard in Millicent’s voice fueled her rising ire.  “You’re nothing but a . . . a . . . a useless, simpering, spoiled brat in need of a good tanning!” Stacy turned on her tormenter, sparing no energy whatsoever to hide her contempt for the girl.

“YOUR PA’S THE ONE WHO NEEDS A GOOD TANNING!” Millicent yelled back.   “WHO DOES HE THINK HE IS ANYWAY, TRYING TO TAKE AWAY THE ONLY FAMILY MISTER LINDSAY HAS LEFT IN THIS WORLD?  HASN‘T THAT POOR MAN SUFFERED ENOUGH!?”  

“NOT NEARLY ENOUGH!” Stacy yelled back.  “HE HATED CARA . . . HIS OWN DAUGHTER!  HE HATED HER SO MUCH, HE . . . HE AS GOOD AS MURDERED HER!  TOBIAS LINDSAY’S A MONSTER!”

“LIAR!  YOUR PA’S THE REAL MONSTER!”

 Stacy lashed out with a powerful right cross to Millicent’s left jaw.  The force of the blow sent Millicent reeling backwards, until the heel of her boot caught the hem of her long skirt.  Millicent fell into the dirty melting snow and mud, shrieking at the top of her lungs.

 “Take it back!” Stacy ordered, as she advanced on Millicent, still sitting where she had fallen.  “You take back what you said about my pa, or so help me—!”   A large, well-muscled hand clapped down hard on Stacy’s right shoulder, eliciting a cry of surprise.

 “I won’t have the likes o’ you stuck-up, high ‘n mighty Cartwrights beating up on MY girl!”  That deep voice belonged to Jubal Harkness.  He stood almost as tall as Hoss and was nearly as strong.  Millicent had been simpering and making cow eyes over him since last September.

“Turn me loose right now, you no-good, yellow bellied coward!” Stacy snarled, as she struggled in vain to free herself.

“Not ’til you tell Millicent you’re sorry!” Jubal ordered, his long fingers squeezing Stacy’s shoulder.

Stacy gritted her teeth and jabbed her left elbow into Jubal’s belly, just above his belt buckle with all her strength and might, bringing forth a near deafening bellow not unlike that of an angry, outraged mule.  Though he didn’t let go, his grip loosened just enough for her to pull free.  

As she turned to face Jubal, Stacy had a vague awareness of the younger children backing away, their game of tag completely forgotten.  A semi-circle, comprised of older children, mostly boys, aged between nine and eleven years of age, began to form between Stacy, Jubal, Millicent, and the steps leading up to the schoolhouse.  One small boy, his face white as a sheet, his eyes round with terror pushed his way past the gathering spectators, and tore up the steps screaming for their teacher, Miss Johnson.

“If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s an uppity woman!” Jubal said, his voice low and menacing.  “ ‘Bout time someone taught you some manners!” 

“Who?  YOU!?” Stacy sneered eying him with loathing and contempt.

 Jubal’s beefy right arm snapped out like a whip, his face contorted now with rage.   Acting purely on instinct and a large dose of adrenaline, Stacy stepped back out of reach.   Millicent, her eyes gleaming with an unholy light, lips curved upward in smug triumph, stepped in behind Stacy and pushed her toward Jubal.  Before Stacy could begin to realize what was happening, Jubal grabbed a fist full of jacket and hit Stacy square in the face with his balled fist. 

“YOU BIG BULLY!”

“YOU OUGHTTA BE PICKING ON SOMEONE YOUR OWN SIZE YOU NO-GOOD, COWARDLY GOBSHITE!”

Those were Stacy’s friends, Susannah and Molly respectively.  They began to pummel Jubal’s back and shoulders with their fists, all the while screaming the worst insults they knew in his ears.  Jubal tried desperately to escape the onslaught of pounding fists, kicking feet, and verbal abuse, but no matter which way he turned, escape was impossible.  The fingers still gripping Stacy’s jacket relaxed.    

As she stumbled out of Jubal’s reach, Stacy glanced about for something . . . anything that she might grab to steady herself against her precarious balance brought on by an intense bout of dizziness.  The young spectators laughed and raucously cheered Molly and Susannah on as Jubal dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms about his head in a futile attempt to ward off the rain of rock hard fists, now pummeling his head and shoulders. 

“Oooohhhhh NO!” Millicent growled, upon seeing Stacy edge toward the schoolhouse steps.  “You’re not getting away THAT easily!”  She beat a straight path toward Stacy, running at top speed, decorum be damned.  Upon reaching Stacy, Millicent wrapped her arms around the girl’s slender waist, and brought both of them down.  The side of Stacy’s head struck the edge of the first riser of the schoolhouse steps. 

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THAT WILL BE QUITE ENOUGH!”  It was their teacher, Miss Esther Johnson.  She stood on the top landing glaring down at everyone, combatants and spectators alike, looking for all the world like a giant, angry Goddess, ready to exact some form of terrible vengeance. 

Aged in her mid-forties, Esther Johnson was a diminutive woman in stature, barely reaching five feet tall, with girth measurement to match.  She wore her light brown hair, slightly wavy, pulled away from her plump, round face, and styled in a very tight, very severe chignon.  Normally, her eyes were as Joe Cartwright’s . . . hazel, with the chameleon ability to change color according to her emotional state or whatever she might be wearing on a given day.  As she slowly, deliberately descended the steps to the school yard, those eyes appeared obsidian with cold anger. 

Every last student standing in the schoolyard had gone utterly silent. 

“STACY CARTWRIGHT STARTED IT!” Millicent yelled, shattering the uneasy stillness like a clap of thunder 

“SHE DID NOT, YOU LYING MAGGOT!” Molly yelled back, her face beet red from anger as well as exertion.  “YOU DID!” 

“You children will go inside, sit down, and remain quiet with your hands folded on top of your desks,” Esther sternly ordered.  “I’ll be with you directly.”  She, then, turned, and glared at Susannah, Molly, Jubal, Stacy, and Millicent in turn as the other students filed up the steps in an orderly, single file line behind her.  “The five of YOU will remain here with me.”  She waited until all of the other children had entered the schoolhouse. 

At that moment, Julio Fernandez entered the schoolyard, moving at a dead run, his schoolbooks clasped under his left arm.  He stopped dead upon seeing Stacy Cartwright seated on the bottom step, flanked by Miss Johnson on her left, Molly O’Hanlan on her right.  Jubal Harkness sat on the ground, with head in hands, elbows resting on his knees with Millicent Adams looking on anxiously.  Susannah O’Brien alternated between glaring at Millicent and Jubal one minute, and gazing anxiously over at Stacy the next.

“M-Miss Johnson, s-sorry I’m so late,” Julio stammered.  “Pa took sick last night, and—”       

“It’s quite all right, Julio, your brothers have already explained,” Esther said, in a tone of voice more kindly.  “Would you and Susannah please escort Stacy to Doctor Martin’s office?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Julio murmured. 

Susannah nodded. 

“Molly, you’d better let Mister Cartwright know what’s happened,” Esther said.  “I think you’ll find him at the courthouse . . . .”

“Sorry I let my temper get the best of me, Pa,” Stacy wearily apologized after she had told her father and brother everything that had happened.

“Sounds to ME like Millicent Adams started the whole thing, and Stacy had no choice but to defend herself,” Joe said firmly.  He looked over at Ben, as if daring him to challenge.

“I’m inclined to agree,” Ben said, making a mental list of things to do that so far included a chat with Miss Johnson, jailing Jubal Harkness for assault and battery, and having a chat with Millicent‘s parents.  First and foremost, however, he fully intended to confront Tobias Lindsay about the consequences of his campaign to sway public opinion in his favor.  “Stacy . . . .”

“Yes, Pa?”

“I want you to stay here with Mrs. Martin until I come for you,” he ordered.  “I have a few things to take care of, but that shouldn’t take any more than about an hour or two.”

“For once, you won’t get any argument from me,” Stacy agreed, wincing against the pain and tenderness of her swollen eye, now showing the first signs of the lurid bruising soon to manifest.

“Mister Cartwright, your accusations are . . . well, they’re ludicrous!” Tobias sputtered, with righteous indignation.  “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter’s misfortune, but I had absolutely NOTHING to do with it.”

“Not directly, no,” Ben had to agree, “but I hold you responsible nonetheless.”

The two men stood facing each other in the hotel, just outside the door to Tobias’ room.  Both stood, with postures rigidly erect, Ben with his arms folded across his chest, Tobias with hands firmly planted on his hips.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“If the shoe fits . . . .”

The angry scowl on Tobias’ face deepened.   “If you make any of those accusations public, Mister Cartwright, I’m going to haul your sorry ass into court and sue you for slander,” he threatened.

Ben’s longing to beat Tobias Lindsay within an inch of his miserable life surged within him with all the raw strength and power of a flash flood coursing through the dry arroyos in the desert.  It took every last ounce of his formidable strength of will to simply stand there and not allow those primal urges to overwhelm him.

“I have no intention of making my accusations public, Mister Lindsay.  Leastwise, not yet!” Ben responded, speaking in that low, deadly calm tone of voice that set those who knew him best to trembling in their boots.  “I have every intention of filing a complaint with Judge Faraday, however.”

“You can’t prove a damned thing!”

“I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you.  All I have to do is find Miss Mudgely.”

“You go to Judge Faraday accusing me of exerting undue influence on some gossipy old biddy, he’s going to laugh you right out of his chambers,” Tobias declared with a smug grin.  “Now stand aside.”

As Tobias reached for the doorknob, Ben’s arm snapped like a whip, and seized hold of the Carson City attorney’s forearm in an agonizing vice-like grip.

“Unhand me, you . . . you hooligan!” Tobias demanded, as he tried in vain to pry Ben’s fingers from around his arm.  “Unhand me at once!”

“Now you listen to me and you listen good,” Ben said, his voice low and menacing.  He pulled Tobias closer until their faces were barely three inches apart, noting with a perverse satisfaction that the younger man’s gaze immediately dropped.

“If any more harm comes to my family because of your attempt to pressure Judge Faraday into granting you custody of the baby left at my kitchen door,” he continued, “you’ll answer to me.  Do I make myself clear?”

“Are you threatening me, Mister Cartwright?”

“No, Mister Lindsay, I’m not threatening you,” Ben replied, as he shook Tobias’ arm from his grasp, grimacing as one might after touching something cold and slimy with his bare hands.  “I’m making you a promise.”  He, then, turned and started down the hall, without sparing Tobias so much as a backward glance.

“You’re not the only one who’s going to be filing a complaint with Judge Faraday,” Tobias called after Ben’s retreating back before slipping into his room and slamming the door shut.

Judge Faraday returned to the courthouse feeling on edge and out of sorts.  On his way home for the noon meal, he had been accosted by Della Mae Wyatt, her eldest daughter, and two other women, known to keep close company with Della Mae, though in that moment, their names had escaped him . . . .

“Yoo-hoo, Judge Faraday!”

John had cringed upon hearing Della Mae’s voice. 

“Judge Faraday . . . wait!” 

He reluctantly stopped in his tracks and waited.  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Wyatt,” he greeted her in a cool, yet polite tone.  “What can I do for you?” 

“Did you get our petition?” Della Mae’s daughter, Portia, angrily demanded, drawing a sharp, warning glare from her mother. 

Judge Faraday winced against the shrillness in the young woman’s voice.  “Yes, Ladies, Sheriff Coffee presented me with your petition this morning.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” Della Mae had demanded.

He was strongly tempted to tell them he had torn the thing into very small pieces and tossed it in his waste basket, but wisely refrained.  “Ladies, I strongly suggest that you and the others who signed that petition go about your OWN business.  This hearing doesn’t concern any of you in the least.  Now, if you’ll excuse me . . . .” 

As John turned to leave, one of the other women quickly circled around and blocked his path.  “You’re WRONG, Judge Faraday,” she said.  “An injustice is about to be committed—”

He frowned.  “Ma’am, if you don’t stand aside—”

“Judge Faraday, I wouldn’t dismiss this out of hand, if I were you,” Della Mae warned as she took up position alongside the friend who had initially blocked his honor’s path.   “My husband, as you know, is a very influential man here in Virginia City—” 

“Are you threatening me, Mrs. Wyatt?” 

“Just know there’s a lot of people in this town, people decent and law abiding, like my husband and myself, who won’t take kindly to Mister Cartwright taking away the only family a poor, bereft man has left in this world,” Della Mae said firmly.  She, then, turned to her companions and said, “Let’s go, Ladies.”

Upon arriving home, the judge found that he had little appetite for the meal that Mrs. O’Neill had prepared, much to that good lady’s consternation.  He had two cups of coffee, and half a bowl of soup, that last at Mrs. O’Neill’s insistence, before leaving again for the courthouse.  En route he was accosted again by Carrie Blanchard, a widow who made her living cleaning the homes of some of the more well to do in Virginia City, and her long suffering mother, who had been one of his late wife’s closet friends.

“Judge Faraday, did you get our—”

“Your petition?  Yes, Mrs. Blanchard, I did,” he rudely cut her off in a desperate bid not to prolong this encounter. 

“What do you intend to do about it?” she had demanded. 

Badly as he wanted to take her to task for involving herself in a matter that was plain and simply none of her business, the sight of her mother’s blood red cheeks, hunched shoulders, the way the older woman half turned away from her daughter, forestalled his doing so.

“I asked what you were going to do about it,” Carrie impatiently pressed when no reply was immediately forthcoming. 

“Nothing,” John snapped.  “Good day, Mrs. Blanchard.”  He paused, just long enough to politely nod and tip his hat to her mother, then continued on his way to the courthouse.

As the judge stepped into the small anteroom, adjacent to his chambers, his secretary immediately came to take his coat, hat, and scarf.

“. . . um, Judge Faraday?”

“Yes, Mister McFarlane?”

“I feel I should warn you . . . Mister Cartwright and Mister Lindsay are waiting inside.”

John closed his eyes for a moment, sighed, and shook his head.  “Any idea what they want?”

Elmer nodded.  “It seems they want to file a complaint against each other,” he replied.

“Any ideas as to why?”

“No, Sir.  They didn’t say.”

“Doesn’t matter . . . I have a sick feeling I just might have a real good idea as to why,” John angrily muttered under his breath.

“Judge Faraday,” Ben angrily pounced the instant his honor stepped into his chambers, “I want to swear out a complaint—”

“So do I!” Tobias declared, as he shot right out of the seat he had occupied that morning, raising his voice that he might be better heard over Ben.

John wearily raised both hands as if to ward off a rain of physical blows about to descend upon him.  “Mister Lindsay . . . sit down!  You, too, Ben,” he ordered.

Ben did as asked, seething.

“Ben, I think I’ve got a real good idea as to what YOU’RE about to say—”

“That man assaulted me!” Tobias cried, thrusting arm and pointing finger at Ben.  “I demand that he be jailed at once!”

“MISTER LINDSAY, SIT DOWN!” John roared.

“Your Honor, if you think for one minute I’m going to allow you to put me off—”

“I.  Said.  Sit.  Down.  NOW!”

Tobias dropped down into his chair, glaring at the judge, then over at Ben.

John closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then another.  Upon opening his eyes, he straightened his posture, while slowly, in silence counting to ten, and folded his arms across his chest.  “Mister Lindsay,” began, laboring to keep his voice calm and even, “I was accosted twice between my home and the courthouse.  Both times I was asked about a petition, which Sheriff Coffee gave me this morning, demanding that I grant you custody of the baby left at the Ponderosa.”  He paused.  “What do you know about that?”

“As I told Mister Cartwright just a short while ago, I know absolutely nothing,” Tobias said stiffly.

John thought he saw an ever so slight tug upward at the corner of Tobias’ mouth . . . there for an instant, then gone just as quickly.  He scowled.  “There’s also the matter of my housekeeper . . . who, so far as I’m aware, doesn’t even know you from Adam’s housecat . . . making an impassioned plea for me to grant you custody of that baby,” he continued, “the afternoon after you arrived in Virginia City.  What do you make of THAT, Mister Lindsay?”

“Coincidence, Your Honor, pure and simple.”

“Coincidence my ass!” Ben vehemently disagreed.

“Mister Cartwright how many times do I have to tell you that I had nothing to do with petitions, people accosting you on the street, or about your daughter getting beat up in the school yard?” Tobias argued. “Now unless you have proof—”

Ben turned to appeal to the judge.  “John, my sons and I hadn’t gone a dozen steps from the courthouse door when we were accosted first by Clementine Hawkins warning us to watch our backs, then by Janet Greely bawling me out for initiating this custody hearing, and last by John and Martha Devlin trying to put in a good word for Mister Lindsay.  That was annoying, but something I was willing to let go.”  He paused briefly.  “What I won’t stand for is my daughter suffering a beating in the schoolyard this afternoon from the Adams girl and that bullying thug, Jubal Harkness, over this custody hearing.”

“Ben, I’m sorry to hear about your daughter . . . truly,” John said, his tone softening a bit.   “I hope she’s going to be all right.”

“Doctor Martin assures me she will be,” Ben said stiffly.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” John replied.  “Gentlemen, I’m going to ask Sheriff Coffee to look into this.  And Mister Lindsay?”

“What?”

“If I find out these allegations are true, I‘m going to have you jailed.”

“On what charge?!”

“In addition to contempt and disturbing the peace, how about I add inciting to riot?” John immediately replied.

“Look!  I told you . . . BOTH of you . . . that I had absolutely nothing to do with petitions, the both of you being accosted on the street, or of Miss Cartwright suffering a beating in the schoolyard,” Tobias vehemently protested.  “I swear, on my honor.”

“Your ‘honor’ isn’t worth a plugged nickel,” Ben growled.

“T’ was the worst thing I’ve ever had to do, Hoss,” Jack said mournfully, as he absent mindedly scraped his slice of peach pie into a gooey mess on his plate.

He and Hoss were seated together in the C Street Café.  The hour was nearing two in the afternoon, and except for Hoss and Jack, the café was deserted.  After Hoss had paid the bill, and Jack had been served his meal, Maxine Pettigrew quietly withdrew to the kitchen, leaving the two gentlemen to converse privately.

“How did they take it?” Hoss warily ventured.

“By all appearances, Miss McPherson took the news very stoically,” Jack replied.  “No sadness, weeping, or any kind of hysterics.  She simply asked me if I knew how long she had same as you might ask someone about the weather.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me none, if she knew or maybe suspected she had the bad blood,” Hoss said somberly.  “That poor li’l gal was a nurse for quite a while.”

Jack nodded, then continued.  “MRS. McPherson, though . . . . Hoss, to say she took it very hard would be to understate the matter.”

Hoss placed a gentle, comforting hand upon the stricken man’s shoulder.  “Poor woman,” he said quietly, upon remembering again all that the proprietress of the Virginia City Social Club had told him, his father, and Doc Martin about her daughter.  “Ain’t no question she loved that li’l gal o’ hers.”

“Doctor Martin finally had to give her a sedative,” Jack said.  “She and her daughter were taken back to the convent.”

“Sheriff Coffee let Miss McPherson outta jail?”

“Call me a softie, Hoss, but she begged the sheriff to let her be with her mother, so I—”

“You paid her bail,” Hoss said with a knowing smile.  “I’d have done the same thing, like as not, had I been in your shoes.”  He fell silent for a moment, then asked, “You got any idea what’s gonna happen t’ the McPhersons?”

“I’m sure Mister Lindsay’s going to see that Margaret McPherson is charged with kidnapping his daughter,” Jack said with a touch of anger and bitterness, “but at least she won’t be facing a murder charge thanks to the doctor’s testimony.”  He sighed.  “Apart from that, I’m afraid your guess is as good as mine.”

That evening, Ben, his two younger sons, daughter, and Jack had dinner with the Martins.  Lily Martin and Hilda Mae’s slow cooked pot roast was so tender it melted in one’s mouth.  Roasted potatoes and carrots, green beans, hot biscuits just out of the oven, and pound cake with strawberry preserves completed the meal.  The doctor’s wife and their housekeeper had canned the beans and preserves toward the end of fall the previous year, just before the first snow fell upon Virginia City.

At Doctor Martin’s behest, Stacy’s meal was considerably lighter, consisting of beef broth, toast with strawberry preserves, and a cup of peppermint tea.

“Just a precaution,” Paul explained apologetically.  “Sometimes the dizziness that comes from a head injury can leave a body with an upset stomach.”

“ ‘S ok, Doctor Martin,” Stacy replied.  “I’m not very hungry anyway.”

“You can resume your normal diet tomorrow,” Paul promised.

“Well, Lily, you and Miss Graves have outdone yourselves,” Ben complimented the chefs, after finishing his second helping of pound cake and preserves.  “Wonderful dinner.”

“You bet!” Hoss heartily agreed.  “Don’t you dare tell Hop Sing, but your cookin’ is every bit as good as his.”

“What’s it worth to you, Big Brother?” Joe chortled, his emerald green eyes sparkling with pure mischief.

A feral smile spread across Hoss’ lips, as his blue eyes danced with his own impish delight.  “Li’l Brother, you’re askin’ the wrong question,” he quipped.

“Oh yeah?” Joe returned.  “Now what question should I be asking?”

“What’s it worth to ya t’ NOT tell Hop Sing?”

“Ok, what IS it worth to me not to tell Hop Sing?”

“Well, y’ get t’ keep that pretty smile o’ yours,” Hoss said in a tone of voice a mite too sugary sweet as he very pointedly flexed his fingers and thumbs on both hands.  His ‘threat’ drew forth a wry roll of the eyes from Ben, hearty laughter from Paul and Jack, and an amused grin from Stacy.

“Well, that’s quite a compliment, Hoss, thank you,” Lily said, as the laughter began to fade.  She daintily blotted her lips with her napkin, then rose.  “Why don’t you folks g’won and make yourselves comfortable in the parlor?  Miss Graves and I will bring you coffee after we’ve cleared the table.”

“Can I give you a hand with clearing the table, Lily?” Paul asked, as he and the others rose.

“Thank you, Paul, but Miss Graves and I can manage.”  She affectionately patted his cheek, then called for Hilda Mae.

“Pa?” Stacy ventured as Paul escorted the guests into the parlor.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“What are we going to do about Millicent Adams and Jubal Harkness?”

“What would YOU like to do about them?” Ben responded.

An amused half smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.  “How about I take Millicent one on one after I’m better, and we let Hoss have five minutes alone with Jubal?” Stacy quipped.

“Li’l Sister, the same thought just crossed my mind,” Hoss said with a chuckle.

“Too bad Pa’s taught the lot of us better than to go around picking fights,” Stacy said with a sigh so mournfully melodramatic, her brothers, their house guest, and the doctor laughed out loud.

“I certainly have,” Ben said with mock sternness, while trying very hard not to smile himself.

“To be honest,” Stacy said, when everyone sobered a moment later, “I haven’t even thought about what to do with Millicent and Jubal.  How about you?”

“I have every intention of speaking to Millicent’s parents and Mister Harkness about this, after the custody hearing’s over tomorrow afternoon,” Ben said firmly.  “I’m also thinking of having Jubal jailed assault and battery.  Perhaps a few days in the Virginia City Jail, keeping company with Roy Coffee, might teach him a few lessons about bullying and hitting girls.”

“Excuse me . . . uh, Mister Cartwright?”  It was Hilda Mae Graves, stepping from the top landing through the open door to the Martins’ parlor.

“Yes, Miss Graves?” Ben queried.

“The school teacher is here to see you,” Hilda Mae said as she wiped her hands against her apron.   “She’s waiting downstairs.  Shall I ask her to come up?”

Ben quickly reached over and gave Stacy’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze, then rose.   “Thank you, Miss Graves, but I think it would be best if I went downstairs and talked with her privately.  If everyone would excuse me?”

“Ben, feel free to use my office,” Paul said.  “That would be more comfortable than standing in the hall by the front door.”

Ben nodded his thanks, then went downstairs to see Stacy’s teacher.

Ben found the school teacher, Esther Johnson, standing next to the front door, with back straight, and a calm, but determined look in her eyes.  “Good evening, Miss Johnson.  Doctor Martin said we can speak in his office, if you’ll follow me?”

“Thank you,” Esther replied, falling in step behind him.

Upon reaching the doctor’s office, Ben took the chair at Paul’s desk, leaving Esther a choice between the settee and a sturdy, oversized chair.  Esther chose the latter, after divesting herself of coat, hat, and scarf.

“How’s Stacy doing?” Esther politely asked.

“She was pretty banged up, as you no doubt saw, but the doctor says she’s going to be fine,” Ben replied.

“I’m relieved to hear it,” Esther said.  She, then, came right to the purpose of her visit:  “I want to talk with you about the incident out in the schoolyard this afternoon.”

“Of course,” Ben replied.  He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.  “Stacy told me Millicent Adams started this whole fracas, and when she tried to defend herself, the Harkness boy grabbed hold of her and punched her square in the face with his fist,” he continued, clipping his words as his ire began to rise anew.

“That’s pretty much what Stacy’s friends, Susannah O’Brien and Molly O’Hanlan, told me,” Esther said, “and the other children who witnessed the whole thing, as well.”  She paused.  “They also said that Susannah and Molly beat up on Jubal to force him to let Stacy go.”

“Yes.  Stacy told me that, too.”

“Do you know what the fight was about, Mister Cartwright?” Esther asked.

“Stacy told me, it has to do with a custody hearing that began this morning,” Ben replied.

“Oh yes.  The custody hearing.”

“You know?” Ben queried, with sinking heart.

Esther nodded.  “Something about you suing for custody of a baby,” she said.  “That’s all I know.”

Ben told the school teacher about the baby his family referred to as Li’l One and about Tobias and Cara Lindsay, respectively the babe’s grandfather and mother, which included their past history.  “I blame Mister Lindsay most for what happened in the schoolyard earlier this afternoon,” he said with a touch of rancor.

“Oh?  Why is that?”

“To make a long story short, Miss Johnson, I believe that schoolyard brawl was consequence of Mister Lindsay’s barefaced attempt to sway Judge Faraday’s ruling by turning people in this town against me,” Ben explained.

“That would be quite an undertaking, Mister Cartwright, for one man to speak to everyone who lives in Virginia City,” Esther caustically observed.

“No, Ma’am, it would be all too easy,” Ben countered with a touch of asperity.  “One word to our esteemed church organist, and within an hour, maybe two, everyone would know what Mister Lindsay told Miss Mudgely, and believe the worst.”

“For a moment, I’d forgotten all about Miss Mudgely,” Esther said, not without sympathy.  “Taking HER into account, I’m sorry I doubted you, but I’m afraid that makes what I have to say next a trifle awkward.”

“How so?”

“I’m well aware that sometimes one must resort to physical violence in self-defense,” Esther explained, “but I try my best to teach and encourage the children to try other ways first”

“I agree, Miss Johnson.”

“I’m well aware Millicent Adams initiated the fracas, but am not entirely convinced that Stacy couldn’t have walked away,” the school teacher continued.  “Therefore, I’ve suspended everyone involved until I meet with their parents.  That includes Stacy, Molly, and Susannah along with Millicent and Jubal.”

“I understand,” Ben said quietly.

Esther rose.  Ben followed suit.  “I sent notes home with the others,” Esther continued, as she reached into her reticule and pulled out an envelope.  “Had Stacy not had to leave school to come here and see Doctor Martin, I would have sent this home with her.”

Ben took the proffered envelope.  “When would you like to meet with the parents?”

“Tomorrow’s Friday,” Esther said slowly.  “In that note . . . .” she pointed to the envelope, “I’ve asked the parents to meet with me Monday afternoon at four o’clock.  That way, the children can all be back in school by Tuesday.”

“I’ll be there, Miss Johnson.”

“Paul?” Ben ventured upon his return to the Martins’ parlor.  “Can I impose upon you and Lily to let Stacy spend the night here?”  His question drew a sharp glance and sharp intake of breath from his daughter.

“. . . uhh, Pa?  Doctor Martin?  Is there something you’re not telling me?” Stacy asked with an apprehensive frown.

“Not at all, Young Woman,” Ben hastened to assure.  “You might be a bit worse for wear for a few days, but the doctor says you’re going to be just fine.”

Stacy exhaled a very audible sigh of relief, eliciting a round of chuckles from everyone else present.

“To answer your question, Ben, of course Stacy can stay,” Lily Martin answered with a smile, “and you’re not imposing in the least.”

“Thank you, Lily,” Ben said gratefully.  “The rest of us will be checking into the International Hotel for the night,” he continued.  “Stacy?”

“Yes, Pa?”

“We’ll head for home tomorrow afternoon after that custody hearing’s over for the day,” Ben said.  “That is . . . .”  He turned and glanced over at Paul.

“Absolutely, Ben,” Paul said with a smile, “though I would suggest renting a buggy.  At this point, I can safely say Stacy doesn’t have a concussion, but I have a feeling she’s going to feeling a bit too stiff and sore to sit a horse all the way back to the Ponderosa.”

“You may be right, Doctor Martin,” Stacy said.  “May I be excused, Pa?  My head’s really starting to hurt, and I’m feeling a bit sleepy.”

“Yes, of course,” Ben readily assented.

Lily rose, and quickly took charge of the situation.  “Stacy, you come with me,” she said warmly.  “I’ll show you to our guest room, then I’ll ask Mrs. Graves to brew you a cup of willow bark tea.  That will help your headache, and keep your stomach settled, too.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin.”

Part Six

“DO WHAT’S RIGHT!  DO WHAT’S RIGHT!  DO WHAT’S RIGHT!”

Ben’s heart sank upon catching sight of the group, nearly half a hundred strong, mostly women, lined up in front of the courthouse.  Della Mae Wyatt, Audrey Schmitt, Janet Greeley, and Della Mae’s daughter, Portia, stood lined up together in front of the gathered assembly.  A dozen men, deputized earlier that morning by Roy Coffee, silently maintained order and made certain no laws were broken.

Ben closed his eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and mentally braced himself.  “Let’s go, Boys,” he said quietly, feeling grateful, all of a sudden, that he had elected not divulge the fact that he had withdrawn his petition for custody in favor of Abigail Jarvis.  It was clear that the poor woman wasn’t in the best of health, and he silently wondered whether she was up to facing the people lined up outside the courthouse, demanding that Judge Faraday grant custody of her infant grandson to Mister Lindsay.

The Cartwrights and Jack Cranston were greeted with a discordant chorus of boos, mixed with insults and a few epithets.

“YOU’RE A CRUEL MAN, BEN CARTWRIGHT!” Carrie Blanchard cried out, raising her voice so that she might be heard above the booing, and pointing an accusing finger right at Ben.

“YOU OUGHT TO BE ASHAMED!”  That was Clara Mudgely, standing at the very edge of the crowd, near the courthouse door, shaking her fist.

“DO WHAT’S RIGHT!” Della Mae took up the chant, clapping her hands in time with the spoken rhythm, as she walked back and forth in front of the crowd.

“DO WHAT’S RIGHT!  DO WHAT’S RIGHT!”  Little by little, the others fell in until everyone was again chanting in unison.

Upon entering the courthouse, Ben, his sons, and Jack exhaled a collective sigh of relief.

“Good morning, Mister Cartwright . . . Joe . . . Hoss . . . and you, too, Mister Cranston,” a stressed and harried Elmer McFarlane greeted them.  “I, uh . . . hope you weren’t unduly put-upon?”

“We’re fine, Elmer,” Hoss said quietly.  “How long have those ladies been out there anyhow?”

“Mrs. Wyatt and a few friends were there when I arrived at a few minutes past seven,” Elmer replied, as he led them to the judge’s chambers.  “The others have been arriving in drips and drabs all morning.”

“I’m . . . a little worried about Mrs. Jarvis,” Ben ventured.

“I understand, and Judge Faraday’s grateful you’ve kept the fact that she’s petitioning for her grandson to yourself, Mister Cartwright,” Elmer said.  “Sheriff Coffee and Deputy Foster managed to sneak her in through the back door.  She’s aware of the protests, of course, but we’ve tried to spare her as much of the details as we can.”

“Good,” Ben murmured softly . . . .

Judge Faraday called the hearing to order promptly at ten o’clock.  The orderliness by which the proceeding initially began seemed a stark, almost surreal contrast against the undercurrents of tension among the participants, and voices outside, occasionally raised enough to be heard in the judge’s chambers.

In addition to the Cartwright men and Jack Cranston, the others present were the judge and his secretary; Abigail Jarvis, in the company of Lucas Milburn; Mother Gibson, Polly McPherson, along with her daughter, the former Sister Anne, who sat primly beside her mother, Doctor Paul Martin, and Tobias Lindsay.

“Judge Faraday, is there any way we can clear away that rabble outside from around the courthouse?” Tobias petulantly queried.  “They’re making so much noise, I can barely hear myself think.”

“Why do you want to get rid of them, Mister Lindsay?” Joe sardonically returned, with upraised eyebrow, and a jaundiced glare directed at Tobias, seated directly across the table.   “They’re your supporters after all . . . .”

“Joseph!” Ben growled, sotto voce, as he directed a warning glare at his youngest son.

“Mister Lindsay, as far as I’m aware, those people outside are conducting themselves in an orderly manner and they’ve not broken any laws,” John said, his tone of voice ever so slightly condescending.  “You should know as well as I do that my hands are tied.”  He, then, cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m well aware that you want this hearing over and done as quickly as possible,” the judge continued, “and I sympathize.  At the same time, I want everyone to bear in mind that the decision I render will determine the life and future of an innocent babe.  I will not make that decision lightly, unadvisedly, or in a hurry; but only after long and careful deliberation.”  This last he said with a pointed glare at Tobias.   “Do I make myself clear?”

A soft murmuring of ascent moved quickly around the table in manner not unlike the dance of sunlight across the ripples of sea or lake.

Satisfied, the judge turned his attention to the mother superior.  “Mother Gibson, according to the depositions—”

“Just a moment, Your Honor,” Tobias interrupted, his voice cold as ice, “what is SHE doing here?”  He inclined his head toward Margaret McPherson.

“She asked to be with her mother, and I gave my permission,” Judge Faraday replied.  “They received some heartbreaking news yesterday, and—”

“I don’t give a damn what kind of news they received yesterday,” Tobias said with disdain.  “I want her removed.”

John frowned.  “I beg your pardon!”

“Your Honor, that girl murdered my daughter,” Tobias accused.  “Forcing me to sit here and look at her throughout this entire proceeding is nothing short of cruel and barbaric.”

“Miss McPherson did NOT murder your daughter,” Paul angrily shot right back.   “Your daughter died from a horrific burn that had gone gangrenous.  Whoever inflicted that burn—”

“Are you accusing me?” Tobias demanded as he very slowly rose from his chair, with fists tightly clenched, and chest heaving.

Paul Martin also rose, meeting Tobias’ intense angry glare without flinching.  “When you get right down to it, Mister Lindsay,” he returned, his voice filled with loathing and contempt, “by all accounts only two people could’ve inflicted that burn on her leg.”

“YOU PETTY, VENDICTIVE QUACK!” Tobias shouted.   “YOU AND THE ESTEEMED MISTER CARTWRIGHT COULDN’T TAKE MY BELOVED DAUGHTER FROM ME AFTER MY WIFE DIED—”

“BELOVED DAUGHTER MY AUNT MATILDA!”  Paul yelled back, his face contorted with fury.   “IF YOU WEREN’T BEATING THAT POOR CHILD WITHIN AN INCH OF HER MISERABLE LIFE—,”

“THAT WILL BE ENOUGH!” Judge Faraday roared, his face beet red with anger.  He closed his eyes and counted to ten.  Slowly.  Very slowly.  Once, then twice.  “One more interruption, Mister Lindsay, I will ask Mister McFarlane to summon one of the deputies outside to come and escort you back to your hotel room.”

“ME?!” Tobias protested, enraged.  “WHAT ABOUT—”

“Mister Lindsay, I’ve had more than enough of your histrionics,” John said bluntly.   “From the very beginning, you’ve interrupted these proceedings, making threats and baseless accusations.  I will NOT stand for it any more.   Do I make myself clear?”

Tobias folded his arms tight across his heaving chest and glared at the judge.

“Do.  I.  Make.  Myself.  Clear.”

“As glass,” Tobias contemptuously spat right back.

Desperately hoping he had finally put an end to Mister Lindsay’s constant interruptions, the judge wearily returned his attention to the mother superior.  “Mother Gibson,” be began once again, “according to the depositions made by you and the sisters, who cared for Miss Lindsay, she was brought to the hospital by two of Ben Cartwright’s men.  Is that correct?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” she replied.

“You, Sister Anne . . . .” John paused for a moment to glance down at his notes “. . . and a Sister Wilhelmina . . . examined Miss Lindsay?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“What did you find?”

“The poor girl was near death from the cold,” Mother Gibson elaborated.  “The men who found her told us they had initially thought she WAS dead, until one of them noticed she was barely breathing.  She was suffering from varying degrees of frostbite, and across her back we found injuries from old scars to wounds recently scabbed over.  We also found an open wound on her leg, the result of a terrible burn.”

“What else did you find when you, Sister Anne, and Sister Wilhelmina examined Miss Lindsay?”

“We found that she had given birth, Your Honor, within a week’s time before Mister Cartwright’s men brought her to our hospital,” the mother superior replied.   “Doctor Martin confirmed this when he examined her.”

“Did you or the two sisters assisting you know Miss Lindsay was a runaway?” John asked.

“No, but we suspected as much,” Mother Catherine said bluntly.  “Sister Anne and I didn’t know for certain until we overheard Miss Lindsay tell the Cartwrights.”

“Anything else?”

“The burn on her leg.  Sister Anne, Sister Wilhelmina, and I determined it to have been inflicted upon her by another.”

“Mother Gibson, how could you possibly know that the burn on my daughter’s leg was purposely inflicted and not the result of an unfortunate accident?” Tobias demanded.

“I’d like to answer that question, if I may, Your Honor?” Mother Catherine requested.

“By all means,” John assented.

“The curving line at the top of the wound had a clean edge,” Mother Catherine said, directing a ferocious glare at Tobias.  “That clean edge means the object used was man made.  A wound resulting from ‘an unfortunate accident,’ to borrow Mister Lindsay’s words, would, more than likely, have left more of an uneven, jagged edge.”

“Did it occur to you that perhaps my daughter might have inflicted that burn on herself?”

“Not at all,” Mother Catherine immediately replied.   “Given the placement of the burn on the back of the girl’s leg, the man or woman who burned Miss Lindsay had to have been holding her face down, bent over a chair, I suspect.”

“I concur, Your Honor,” Paul said quietly, “and I said as much in both of my reports.”

John made note of that, and made a quick mental note to look for that when he again read over Doctor Martin’s reports on Miss Lindsay’s physical examination at the hospital and her post mortem a few days later.

“Thank you, Mother Gibson,” John said quietly.  “Mrs. McPherson?”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“I’ve been told that you just received some bad news,” John said gently, taking due note of her pale complexion, her red, swollen eyelids, and evidence of a toilette, hastily made, in her sparse application of cosmetics and long hair secured with a fancy gold barrette at the nape of her neck.  “I’m very sorry to hear it.”

“Thank you,” Polly murmured softly, her voice catching.

“If you wish, I can postpone hearing your testimony until—”

Polly resolutely shook her head.  “If it’s all the same to you, Your Honor, I’d just as soon have it over and done,” she said.

“Alright,” the judge acquiesced, “I’ll do my best not to upset you further.”  He glanced over his notes, then asked, “According to your deposition, Ma’am, Sister Anne and Paul Klein sought refuge with you when they took Miss Lindsay from the hospital.  Is that correct?”

“Yes, it is,” Polly replied.  She, then, haltingly gave account of the early morning hours when her daughter and nephew brought Cara Lindsay to her home.

“I knew Maggie and Paul both were courting some kind of trouble when they came to me that morning with Miss Lindsay, may God rest her soul,” Polly somberly concluded her testimony, “but I didn’t know the full extent of it until the sheriff, the Cartwrights, and Maggie’s mother superior turned up on my doorstep later on that morning.”

“. . . and if you had known?” John asked.

“I’d have taken ’em in just the same,” Polly responded with a touch of defiance.  “Your Honor, Maggie had nowhere else to go, and even though I’ve had no medical training, I could see Miss Lindsay was terribly sick, but, God help me, I had no idea that poor child was so close to death.”

“What happened next?”

“Mister Cartwright told his daughter to go ‘n fetch Doctor Martin, and to stay with the doctor‘s wife, until he came for her.”

“Mrs. McPherson . . . .”

“Yes, Your Honor?”

“By your own admission, you knew that Miss Lindsay was very ill,” John said.  “Why didn’t YOU send for the doctor when your daughter and Mister Klein showed up on your doorstep with Miss Lindsay?”

“Please, Your Honor,” Margaret McPherson begged.  “Don’t blame my mother.  I’ve served God as a nurse with the Little Sisters of Mercy and Compassion for three years.  I thought I could care for Cara . . . for Miss Lindsay—”

“. . . but surely . . . at some point you must have realized my daughter’s condition was far beyond your meager skill, Miss McPherson,” Tobias derisively interjected.   “Why didn’t you send for the doctor THEN?”

“Because I was afraid he’d send for YOU!” Margaret replied, her voice rising.  The intense glare she levelled at Tobias was filled with raw fury and hatred.  “Cara’s whole reason for leaving home as she did was because she was afraid you’d take her baby from her and sell him like . . . like a piece of meat to the highest bidder out in San Francisco.”

Tobias’s face turned deathly white for a moment, then to a sickly shade of purple.  “How . . . DARE . . . you—” he whispered, his entire body trembling with rage.

“Cara WANTED that baby,” Margaret pressed on with tears streaming down her face, “and she wanted to marry the baby’s father more than . . . more than j-just about anything in this world . . . s-same as . . . s-same as ME!”  After half choking out those last few words, Margaret buried her face in her hands and began to sob piteously.

“. . . um, Judge Faraday?” Abigail hesitantly ventured.  This was the first time she had spoken since the start of the custody hearing.

“Yes, Mrs. Jarvis?”

“What did that young lady mean when she said that Mister Lindsay sold her baby to the highest bidder in San Francisco . . . and that he wanted to do the same with . . . with Gabe’s son?” Abigail asked.  Her hands trembled, and her face had turned a deathly pale white.  She gazed over at Tobias through eyes round with shock and revulsion.

“Don’t look at me like that, you . . . you foul hypocrite!” Tobias growled, as he recoiled from the intensity of her gaze.  “Everyone has a price, Mrs. Jarvis, and when I met yours, you couldn’t sign on the dotted line fast enough!”

“But my son is dead,” Abigail protested, “and the babe Mister Cartwright found at his kitchen door is all I have left of him.”

“That’s YOUR hard luck, Mrs. Jarvis,” Tobias returned.  “You and I have a contract—”

“Do you have a copy of that contract, Mister Lindsay?”

“I certainly do, Your Honor,” Tobias responded, his eyes alight with a hope, suddenly rekindled, that the outcome of this hearing just might be in his favor after all.  He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, whipped out a single sheet of paper, legal sized, and neatly folded four times, and slapped it down on the table.

“Thank you, Mister Lindsay,” John said as picked up Tobias’ copy of the contract and placed it on top of the other reports and depositions in front of him.    “Now I have a few questions for you.”  He paused.  “In her deposition, Mrs. Vivian Crawleigh said that you inflicted the burn on your daughter’s leg.”

“That, Sir, is a monstrous lie!” Tobias angrily declared.

“Are you saying that Mrs. Crawleigh burned your daughter’s leg with the stove cover?” John pressed.  “Remember, Sir, you ARE under oath.”

“I, well, I can’t really say,” Tobias hedged.  “I didn’t actually see her do it.”

“What, exactly, did you KNOW about Mrs. Crawleigh when you hired her to care for your daughter?” John asked.

“She told me that she’d had training as a nurse and that she had a great deal of experience caring for young expectant mothers like my daughter,” Tobias replied.   “She worked in some charity hospital back east somewhere . . . Philadelphia maybe . . . perhaps New York or Baltimore . . . I can’t remember.”

“Were you aware that she also ran an orphanage and foundling home out in Ohio?” John asked.

“She mentioned something about caring for orphans and foundlings in some kind of home, but I can’t remember right off where it was,” Tobias replied, feeling very much on the defensive.   “Your Honor, why are you asking me all these questions about Mrs. Crawleigh?”

“About a year ago, maybe two, Mister Cranston was hired to investigate Mrs. Crawleigh and the home she ran out in Ohio,” John replied.   “He unearthed enough solid evidence to have that home shut down and for authorities to charge her with multiple accounts of cruelty.   She was arrested, tried, and sentenced to serve a lengthy prison term.   Until her arrest in Carson City, she was also a fugitive from justice.”   He paused.   “This is all a matter of public record, Mister Lindsay.   Were you aware of this?”

“All right!” Tobias growled.   “I didn’t check her references as thoroughly as I should have, but, at the time I desperate to hire someone to look after my daughter because I had to leave for San Francisco on very short notice.   Mrs. Crawleigh was the only one who answered the ad I placed in the newspapers in Carson City, the Territorial Enterprise here, and a couple of papers out in San Francisco.”

“I see,” John murmured softly.  “One more question, Mister Lindsay . . . if I may?”

“All right . . . .”

“Do you intend to raise your grandson?”

“Do I intend to . . . what?” Tobias stammered, taken aback by the judge’s question.

“Do you intend to raise your grandson.”

“Well, I . . . I . . . y-you see, Your Honor—”

“It’s a simple yes or no question, Sir.  Do you intend to raise your grandson?” John pressed.

“I . . . uhh, no,” Tobias reluctantly admitted, “but I’d arranged for his adoption into a fine home, with parents who can give him everything.”

“I see,” the judge said very quietly.

“Your Honor, the Cunninghams are very fine, upstanding citizens,” Tobias began.  “Why, they attend church every Sunday, they’re involved in any number of charitable endeavors—”

“Cunningham!” Margaret McPherson murmured softly.  “N-Not Percy . . . .”

“Maggie, don’t be silly!” Polly chided her daughter severely.   “San Francisco’s a big city. Surely there’s more than one family by the name of—”

Ignoring her mother, Margaret shot right out of her chair.  “Your Honor, please!” she begged.  “I must know Mister Cunningham’s name!”

Polly’s face turned white as a sheet.   “Maggie, please!” she hissed, as she reached up and took hold of her daughter’s forearm with the intention of pulling her back down into her chair.

Margaret wrenched her arm free of her mother’s grasp, eliciting a cry of astonishment.  “Your Honor, is Mister Cunningham’s full name Percy Shelley Cunningham?”

“Yes it is, what of it?” Tobias snarled back.

“Then Cara—Miss Lindsay’s child must NOT under any circumstances go to the Cunninghams,” Margaret adamantly declared.

“Why not?” the judge asked, casting a jaundiced glare at Tobias.

“I recently learned that I . . . that I have the bad blood,” Maggie said, her voice shaking, her eyes brimming with tears.  “He . . . Percy Cunningham is . . . h-he’s the only man I’ve . . . that I’ve ever loved.”   She collapsed into her chair, buried her face in her hands sobbing heart wrenchingly.

Tobias rose from his chair very slowly, his entire body trembling.  “Do you realize what you’re saying?” he demanded, his voice barely above the decibel of a stage whisper.

“Off hand, I’m of the mind that Miss McPherson just said that Mister Cunningham passed the bad blood to her and to their child,” Paul Martin scathingly observed as Mother Catherine immediately gathered the grief stricken former Sister Anne into her arms almost without thinking, “and my guess is that Mister Cunningham has also passed the disease on to his wife.”

“That’s a monstrous lie, Doctor!” Tobias sneered.  “Margaret McPherson is nothing but a . . . A CHEAP WHORE . . . same as her mother, for God’s sake!  Percy and Hyacinth Cunningham on the other hand—”

“Mister Lindsay, Percy Cunningham is hardly the paragon of virtue you obviously take him to be,” Jack said.  “Go into any number of bars and brothels in the Barbary Coast and—”

“How DARE you speak of your betters in that manner, Sir!”

“Mister Lindsay, money alone doesn’t make a man anyone’s better,” Ben said, angry, outraged, and feeling sick to his stomach.  “I know many men . . . ranchers, miners, prospectors, merchants . . . who are far better than most of the elite in San Francisco, including, it would seem, your Mister Cunningham.”

“Mister Cranston, I assume you have proof of your allegations against the Cunninghams?” Judge Faraday asked.

“Absolutely!” Jack snapped out the answer.

“Thank you.  I’ve heard enough.”

For Tobias, Judge Faraday’s words, softly spoken, carried all the finality of the very last nail pounded into a coffin just before it is taken to the cemetery for burial.  He collapsed into his chair with a dull thud.

John, meanwhile, turned his attention to the babe’s paternal grandmother.  “Mrs. Jarvis—”

“If you’re about to ask me if I intend to raise my grandchild, the answer is yes, Your Honor,” Abigail vehemently declared.  “He’s all I have left now of my only son.”

“Ma’am, I have no doubt in my mind whatsoever regarding your intention to raise your grandchild,” the judge said.

“Then what—?”

“I was about to ask if you are able.”

A puzzled frown deepened the lines already etched into the pale flesh covering her brow.  “Am I able?” she repeated.  “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Are you physically able?” John replied.  “I’m not a doctor, Mrs. Jarvis, but . . . if you’ll excuse my bluntness, you, um . . . .”

“I don’t look well,” Abigail voiced the words which John was unable, rendered so by decorum and good manners.  “That’s what you were trying to say, isn’t it.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“To tell the truth, I’ve NOT been well of late,” she reluctantly confessed in a small, quiet voice.   “But I . . . well, I have every reason to expect I’ll be feeling better very soon.”

“I see,” John replied.   “Mrs. Jarvis, I know you have three daughters, now grown with their own families.  If, at some point, you find yourself physically unable to care for your grandson, would any of them be willing to adopt him?”

Abigail closed her eyes and hung her head.  “I . . . it shames me to say this, Sir, but no.  I’m afraid they’re not,” she replied, her voice filled with bitterness.

“Thank you, Mrs. Jarvis,” John said.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, I believe I have all the information I need to study the matter and in good time render a decision.   This hearing is adjourned until further notice.”   He rose.   The others in the room, excluding Mrs. Jarvis, followed suit.

“Deputy Foster, if I might trouble you to return the McPhersons and myself to the convent?” Mother Catherine asked, with one arm still firmly around Margaret’s shoulders, though the younger woman’s heart wrenching grief had finally begun to subside.

“No trouble at all, Ma’am,” Clem replied, then looked over toward Abigail.   “Mrs. Jarvis, I can see you back to the hotel, too, if you wish.   It’s on the way to the convent.”

“Thank you, Deputy,” Abigail wearily accepted.   “I would appreciate that very much.”

Ben gallantly held Abigail’s chair as she rose, leaning heavily on the table before her for support.  She felt horribly lightheaded as she stepped away from the table.   She closed her eyes, took a deep, ragged breath, then, with a soft moan, collapsed like a marionette, whose strings had just been cut.

Ben caught Abigail as she started to fall.  “Elmer, see if you can catch Doctor Martin,” he ordered, as he scooped up the unconscious woman in his arms.

The Martins’ home was a long, narrow townhouse, with two stories, a cellar, and an attic.  The doctor’s practice, which included his private office, examination room, and the small parlor that served as a waiting room, occupied the first floor, and their living quarters the second.  The attic was divided into two rooms.  The larger room served as their housekeeper’s quarters, and the other as a storage room.

Judge Faraday had gone straight to Paul Martin’s office the minute he had received word that Mrs. Jarvis had taken ill.  Hilda Mae politely greeted him at the door, and, after hanging his coat, hat, and scarf, on the brass coat tree to the left of the front door, showed him to the waiting room.  The judge found Ben seated in one of the arm chairs, posture slouched, with arms folded across his chest, and head bowed.

“Ben?” John ventured.  “Any word yet?”

Ben glanced up and shook his head.  “No,” he said quietly.

“How is your daughter faring?” John asked, as he took a seat in the middle of the Queen Anne settee facing the small, white painted brick fireplace.

“She’s stiff and sore, with a shiner the color of an eggplant, but, thank the Lord, she’s going to be fine,” Ben replied.

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“Thank you.”

A strained silence fell between the two men, once close friends.  Though judge and rancher maintained a mutual respect for one another, their friendship had cooled in the ensuing years since the former’s unsuccessful bid for the governor’s chair.  Ben’s refusal to endorse John’s candidacy was, in large part, due to the man running his campaign and backing him financially:  Samuel Endicott, a wealthy businessman and politician, as corrupt as they come.

John had withdrawn from the campaign upon realizing that everything Ben had said about Sam Endicott was true.  Truth be known, he was very grateful he had learned about his campaign manager and benefactor before the man had even the slightest opportunity to use him to fatten his largesse, financially and in terms of political power, at the State of Nevada’s expense.[xix]

But the whole affair rankled.

Even to this day.

At that moment, Paul Martin stepped into the waiting room, looking grim.  “Judge Faraday!” he exclaimed, mildly surprised, as Ben and John rose to their feet.  “I’m glad you’re here.  It’ll save me from having to send for you.”

“Oh?” John queried, with eyebrow slightly upraised.

“Mrs. Jarvis is a very sick woman, I’m afraid,” Paul said quietly, as he crossed the room from the open door.  “She’s severely anemic, and, from what she’s told me, I suspect she has been so for quite a while.”

“Are you saying that Mrs. Jarvis is too ill to care for her grandson?” John asked, as he and Ben resumed their seats.

“I’ve asked our housekeeper, Miss Graves, to send a wire to the doctor in Carson City,” Paul explained.  “I’ll know more when I hear back from him, but as things stand now, it’s a very real possibility that in the very near future, Mrs. Jarvis is going to have a difficult time looking after herself, let alone a baby.”

“Thank you for your candor, Doctor,” the judge said, rising.  “I’d appreciate it if you’d see that I get the information from the Carson City doctor as well.”

“I’ll have it to you as soon as I can,” Paul promised.

“Thank you,” John said quietly.  “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I need to return to the court house.”

“Paul,” Ben ventured, “have you sent word to Mrs. Jarvis’ family about her taking ill?”

“Not yet,” Paul replied.  “She begged me not to send for them.  I’m going to honor her wishes, for the time being at least.”

“Is she ready to go back to the hotel?”

“I’d like to keep her overnight for observation.”

“She’s agreed to this?”

Paul nodded.

“I have a few errands to run, but I should be finished within an hour or so,” Ben said.  “I’ll be back to collect Stacy then.”

“All right, Ben.  See you later.”

Ben’s first order of business was to pay Jubal Harkness’ father, Ezra, a visit.  Ezra’s wife, the former Sarah Mae Smith, had died almost a year ago of malignant tumors in her bowels.  On the one hand, Ben couldn’t help but admire the passionate, single minded devotion by which Ezra had gently cared for his wife throughout the course of her long illness; but on the other hand . . . .

“. . . Ezra was so devoted to Sarah, he neglected his son,” Ben silently mused.  Worse, after his wife died, Ezra had taken to drink to ease his grief, leaving Jubal alone to grieve and come to terms with his own loss.

For a moment Ben felt an upwelling of pity for the boy, immediately followed by a pang of guilt upon remembering that Jubal was responsible for the bruising on his daughter’s face and her eye being nearly swollen shut this morning.

Upon reaching the Harkness homestead, Ben tethered Buck to the hitching post out front, then started toward the front door of the small, yet sturdy farmhouse.

“Ben?”

He stopped upon hearing his name.  Turning, he saw Ezra coming around the eastern corner of the house.

“I thought I heard someone ride up.”

Ezra Harkness was of stocky build, standing roughly the same height as Ben’s youngest son and tipping the scale at nearly two hundred pounds.  Most of that mass was pure, iron hard muscle, honed from the years he had spent making his living by swinging a hammer for the railroad and, later, an ax felling trees for timber.  He had a full head of sandy brown hair, disheveled and half falling in his face, thick eyebrows, which sheltered a pair of startling bright blue eyes, and a ragged three days’ growth of facial hair.

“Good afternoon, Ezra,” Ben greeted him coldly.  “Where’s Jubal?

“He’d better damned sight be in school,” Ezra replied, angry, yet very much on the defensive.

“No, he’s NOT in school.”

“He playing hooky?”

Ben curtly shook his head.  “He’s been suspended along with my daughter and three others,” he replied.

“Suspended?” Ezra echoed.   His eyebrows came together, forming a near single, ragged line.  “What the hell do you mean he’s been suspended?” he demanded, his voice rising.

“Jubal was suspended for fighting in the schoolyard during lunch recess,” Ben said curtly, “along with my daughter, two of her friends, and Millicent Adams.”  He related to Ezra everything that Stacy had told him the day before.  “The teacher sent a note home with everyone.  Surely you saw it?”

“No, I didn’t see any blamed note!” Ezra vigorously denied it.

Ben reached into the left hand pocket of his jacket and pulled out the note Miss Johnson had delivered the evening before, and wordlessly handed it to Ezra.

“Damn!  I knew that gal was gonna be trouble!” Ezra muttered, after he had read over the note twice.  He refolded it, then handed it back to Ben.  “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a mixture of anger and guilt.  “You, um . . . gonna have him jailed?”

“I’ve thought about it,” Ben admitted.

Ezra sighed.  “Maybe I’M the one you ought to have jailed,” he said contritely.  “Jubal’s been running wild since his ma took sick, and I did nothing to stop him.  It shames me to admit this, Ben, but I . . . I couldn’t look after Sarah ‘n ride herd on Jubal, too.”

“I understand, Ezra . . . only too well,” Ben said, wincing against a pang of guilt as he remembered again that very dark time in his own life, and his sons’ lives, too, after Marie was so suddenly taken from them.  “What do you want me to do about Jubal?”

“Maybe I’ve got no right to ask this, but I want you to leave Jubal to me,” Ezra said very quietly, with determination.  “I’ve not been much of a father for the last three years, and I’m thinking it’s about time I changed that.”

“All right, Ezra,” Ben agreed.  “I’ll leave him in your hands.”

After leaving the Harkness farm, Ben returned to Virginia City and headed straight to the First Mercantile Bank of Virginia City, of which Seth Adams, Millicent’s father, was president.

“PA!  HEY, PA!”

Ben glanced up sharply and spotted his youngest son running down the board walk, pausing here and there to dodge passers-by heading in the opposite direction.  He quickly tethered Buck to the hitching post outside the bank, stepped up onto the board walk, and moved to meet Joe half way.

“What is it, Joe?” Ben asked, when they met.

“Doc Martin just got an answer to that wire he sent to the doc in Carson City,” Joe replied.  “Long story short . . . .”

“. . . it’s my considered opinion that Mrs. Jarvis is dying,” Paul Martin somberly told the assembly gathered in his office, which included the Cartwright men, Jack Cranston, and Judge Faraday.  “In his reply to my wire, Neil . . . Doctor Grossmann . . . told me that he has been treating her for severe anemia off and on for the better part of the last couple of years or so.  She stabilized about seven months ago, then, all of a sudden, took a sharp turn for the worse.”

“Dear God,” Ben murmured softly.  “Does she know?”

Paul shook his head.  “Not that I’m aware,” he replied.  “I’m holding off until I receive her medical records, which Doctor Grossmann’s sending by messenger.  I want to compare the results of the blood count I took a short while ago to previous counts to make certain.”

“How is she doing now, Doc?” Hoss asked.

“Right now, she’s resting comfortably upstairs in our guest room.”  Paul half smiled.  “Miss Graves, Lily, and Stacy are, at this moment, trying to ply her with some chicken soup.”

“I hope Stacy’s not making a nuisance of herself,” Ben remarked with a frown.

“No need to worry on that score, Ben,” Paul immediately reassured with a broad grin.  “Mrs. Jarvis seems to be enjoying the attention.”

“Doctor Martin, if it turns out that Mrs. Jarvis is, indeed, dying . . . how much time does she have?” Judge Faraday asked.

“It’s hard to say, Your Honor,” Paul replied.  “If what I suspect is true . . . then at best, she might have six months to a year.  At worst . . . three, maybe four months.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the judge said very quietly.  “I’m going to review all of the testimony, of course, but barring any more new revelation, I’ll give my decision Monday morning.”

Ben decided to hold off speaking to Seth Adams until after that meeting with the school teacher and the other parents.  He rented a horse and buggy from Tony Grainger’s livery stable, and, while he settled up with the proprietor, Stacy hitched their horses, Buck and Blaze Face, to the back of the conveyance.

“Pa?” Stacy ventured, as they set off down the road toward home.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Did you decide what we’re going to do about Jubal Harkness and Millicent Adams?”

Ben quietly shared Jubal’s circumstances during the years his mother was ill, and the year following Mrs. Harkness’ death with his daughter.  “Now mind, Young Woman, none of that excuses Jubal’s actions or his father’s neglect,” he continued, “but after talking with Mister Harkness earlier this morning, I’m of the mind they deserve another chance.”

Stacy recalled the circumstances surrounding her mother’s death, and the dark days following, during which Pa had emotionally withdrawn from her and her brothers.  She couldn’t recall a time, before or since, when she had felt so dreadfully empty inside or so utterly alone.  That time, mercifully, was very short.  “Pa?” she ventured.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I think maybe Jubal and his father deserve a second chance, too,” she said, then changed the subject.  “What about Mrs. Jarvis?” she asked.  “Is she going to be able to take care of our Li’l One?”

Ben took due note of the anxious frown on her face.  “Why do you ask?” he responded.

“She’s not well, Pa,” Stacy said bluntly.  “Her face is so pale . . . not like Mrs. Wilkens, who’s mostly inside, but pale like someone who’s been sick.  She also gets very tired whenever she does the least little thing.”

“You’re very perceptive, Young Woman.  Mrs. Jarvis has been ill for quite a while,” Ben replied.  “Doctor Martin said he has an idea as to what might be ailing Mrs. Jarvis, but won’t know for certain until he gets more information from her doctor in Carson City.”

“If it turns out that Mrs. Jarvis isn’t able to take care of Li’l One . . . does that mean Judge Faraday will have to give custody to Cara’s father?” Stacy asked, horrified by the very thought.

“I have a feeling we don’t have to worry about that,” Ben said.  As he shared with his daughter everything that had come out during the course of the hearing the day before, his first inclination was to withhold the part about the couple Tobias had arranged to adopt his grandson having bad blood, and that the husband had passed the disease on to Margaret McPherson.  Instead, he took a deep breath, and shared that with her as well.

Stacy silently reflected upon everything her father had just told her.  “I hope you don’t think me horrible for saying this, Pa,” she quietly ventured, at length.  “I’m sorry the couple Mister Lindsay arranged to adopt Li’l One have the bad blood, but, at the same time, I can’t help but feel relieved because it means Judge Faraday probably won’t let him have custody.”

“No, Stacy, I don’t think you’re horrible,” Ben gently reassured her.  “I feel the same way, too.”

“What’s going to happen to Li’l One if it turns out that Mrs. Jarvis can’t take care of him?”

“I think there might be a good chance Judge Faraday will let us have custody,” Ben replied.  “After all, his mother entrusted him to us when she left him at our kitchen door.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll formally petition for custody.”

A half-smile tweaked at the corner of her mouth.  “You know, it might be kinda nice to have a baby around the house.”

Ben smiled.  “It might at that,” he agreed.

“What about Sister Anne . . . I mean Miss McPherson?” Stacy asked, her smile fading.  “What’s going to happen to her?”

“At this point, I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ben replied.

Surrendering to what he knew to be the inevitable, Tobias Lindsay withdrew his petition for custody of the baby his daughter had left at the Cartwrights’ kitchen door.  Jack Cranston agreed to provide him proof that the Cunninghams were, in fact, infected with the bad blood in exchange for his dropping all charges against Paul Klein and Margaret McPherson for removing Cara from the hospital.  Having that evidence in hand, Tobias figured he stood an excellent chance of making a deal with the Cunninghams, should they decide to sue him for failing to deliver his daughter’s baby.  Their peers would cut them dead socially if the nature of the disease both of them carried became public knowledge.  The money they had already paid him for delivery of his daughter’s baby would be a very small price to pay for his silence.

The following morning, Tobias Lindsay, shook the proverbial dust of Virginia City from his boots, and caught the first stage bound for Carson City, and left without looking back.  Upon his return home, he planned to sell all of his assets and move on.

Where?

He had no idea.

Just somewhere . . . ANY where . . . in which no one had ever heard of Virginia City, the Cartwrights, or of a young lawyer, who, in a very real way, had died in the same street accident that claimed his wife all those years ago.

Later that morning, as Tobias Lindsay waited to board the stage for his return trip to Carson City, a passenger disembarked, carrying an overnight brown leather valise.  He walked over to the ticket counter, then, after asking one Hiram Peabody directions, set out for Doctor Martin’s home.

“Yes? May I help you?” Hilda Mae Graves responded to the man standing on the Martins’ front stoop.

“Cletus Taft, Ma’am,” he replied, touching the rim of his bowler.  “I have information from Doctor Grossman concerning one of his patients for Doctor Martin?”

“We’ve been expecting you.  Please, come in.”  Hilda Mae stepped aside, allowing Cletus to enter.  After showing him to the waiting room, she went upstairs to fetch the doctor.

As he read over the information sent by Abigail Jarvis’ physician, Paul Martin found, much to his sorrow, that his suspicions were confirmed.  Mrs. Jarvis’ white blood cell count, taken the day before, was significantly higher than the last count taken by Doctor Grossman a month ago.    She had leucocythemia, also known as white blood,[xx] a disease for which there was no cure.

Abigail fell silent for what seemed to Paul Martin a horrible eternity after he had given her the grim prognosis.

“Doctor Martin?” she finally ventured.

“Yes, Mrs. Jarvis?”

“How long do I have?”

“It’s difficult to say for certain,” Paul hedged.

“Then given me a rough estimate,” Abigail pressed.  “Please.”

Paul closed his eyes and took a deep breath.  “Given the information sent to me by Doctor Grossman and the blood sample I saw under the microscope yesterday . . . I would estimate between six to nine months,” he said quietly.   “But I remind you that’s a very rough guess.”

“Thank you, Doctor.  I appreciate your candor,” Abigail responded with all sincerity, then sighed.  “I guess this means Judge Faraday won’t grant me custody of Gabe’s son.”

Paul reluctantly shook his head.   “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Jarvis.”

Abigail sighed.  “I suppose I can take a measure of comfort in knowing that I’ll likely be seeing my son again before the year is out,” she wryly observed.  “Does this mean that the judge will grant custody to Mister Lindsay?”

“I can’t say for certain, Mrs. Jarvis, but I have a feeling that the answer to your question might be no.”

Abigail leaned back into the mound of pillows behind her head, and closed her eyes.  Thinking that she had fallen asleep, Paul quietly rose from the chair beside her bed, intending to leave the room.

“Doctor Martin?” she murmured softly.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Can I trouble you to send a wire to my daughter, Annabelle Carter, in Carson City?” Abigail asked.  “Please tell her that I’ve taken ill.  We can tell her the rest when she comes.”

“No trouble at all.”

Paul went straight to the telegraph office after his conversation with Abigail concerning her physical state.  He sent a wire informing Mrs. Jarvis’ daughter that her mother had suddenly taken ill, and wired her the money needed to purchase a round trip ticket to Virginia City.

After due consideration, Judge Faraday decided to publically announce his decision.  He felt he owed that to Ben Cartwright.  Abigail Jarvis, may God bless her, was too frail to shoulder the additional stress brought to bear by Della Mae Wyatt and others, as they acted upon their belief that Tobias Lindsay would have been terribly wronged if custody of his grandson was denied him.  Ben knew that and chose not to let it be generally known that he had actually withdrawn his petition for custody in favor of Mrs. Jarvis, despite the harassment, he and his family had endured from people, some of whom the Cartwrights had considered to be good friends, least wise up until now.

John asked Elmer McFarlane to issue summons for the Devlins, Seth Adams, his wife, and daughter, Della Mae Wyatt, the Greeleys, Miss Mudgely, and his housekeeper, among others, to appear in court.  When asked to enforce those summons, Sheriff Coffee smiled and said, with perverse relish, that it would be his pleasure to ensure compliance.

Court convened the following Monday morning, promptly at ten o’clock.  The room was packed.  Those unable to find a seat or a place to stand milled around outside.  Judge Faraday’s “invited guests” filled the first few rows to the left of the entrance into the court room.  The Cartwright family, Ben, his sons, and daughter, sat in the first row on the right side of the room, with Jack Cranston, Elmer McFarlane, and Paul Martin.  The McPhersons, Mother Catherine Gibson, Father Brendan Rutherford, and Paul Klein sat in the row behind.  The remaining seats and the standing room in the back were taken up by friends and supporters of those involved, along with the morbidly curious.  Tobias Lindsay had left town day before yesterday, much to Judge Faraday’s relief, and Abigail Jarvis was resting comfortably in the Martins’ guest room, with her daughter, Annabelle, at her side.

“All rise,” Sheriff Coffee bellowed at two minutes past the hour.  “This hearing to determine custody o’ the baby left at the Cartwrights’ kitchen door is now in session with Judge John Faraday presiding.”

Those gathered in the courtroom, who’d had the good fortune to find seats, rose to their feet.

John entered the room, clad in the black robe of his office, and took his place behind the judge’s bench.  “You may be seated,” he said in a somber tone.  He waited until everyone had resumed their respective seats, then turned his attention to the people present at his behest.  “During the course of this custody hearing, a lot of rumors and gossip have been circulating around town besmirching the integrity and character of some of the principals involved in this case.  I intend to use this opportunity to set matters straight.”

Judge Faraday’s words set off a flurry of loud chattering among those seated in the first rows on the left side of the room.

John tapped his gavel three times, then called for order.  “By this time, every last one of you is well aware that a month ago now, Mister Lindsay’s daughter, Cara, left her baby at the Cartwrights’ kitchen door,” he began, once everyone in the room had quieted, and returned their attention to him.  “Miss Lindsay died not long after of exposure to the elements and a grievous wound to her leg that had become gangrenous.  The father of her child, Mister Gabriel Jarvis, died sometime last fall in a street accident back east.  The babe’s next of kin, Mister Lindsay, his maternal grandfather, and Mrs. Jarvis, his paternal grandmother, sued for custody.”

Della Mae immediately leapt to her feet.  “WHAT?!” she shrieked.  With eyes fixed on the judge’s face, she half turned and thrust her arm and accusing finger at Ben.  “I thought Mister Cartwright—”

“I DID sue for custody initially, Mrs. Wyatt,” Ben said, “but I withdrew my petition when I found out that Mrs. Jarvis intended to sue for custody.”

“Ben, for heaven’s sake, why didn’t you say so?” Janet Greely angrily demanded, as she turned and glared at Ben square in the face, without flinching, her cheeks flushed scarlet.

“What if we HAD said so, Mrs. Greeley?” Joe returned, as he rose to his feet.  “Would you, Mrs. Wyatt, and everyone else have hounded her the way you hounded my father?”  He, then turned and glared murderously at Millicent Adams, seated primly between her parents on the other side of the room.  “And YOU, Miss Adams . . . would you have asked Jubal Harkness to pin HER arms so you could beat her within an inch of her life the way you did my sister?”

Millicent arrogantly tossed her head, then pointedly turned away.  Janet Greeley resumed her seat, and fixed her gaze upon her gloved hands resting in her lap.

“Mister Cartwright, I remember the Jarvis family very well,” Della Mae said, “and I’m sorry . . . truly, I am, about the passing of her son, but as tragic as his death may be, the fact remains she has three grown daughters, and many grandchildren.  Am I right?”

“Yes,” Ben replied.

“Well, poor Mister Lindsay has no one.”

“. . . and poor Mister Lindsay has no one but himself to blame for that,” Paul Martin said curtly.

Della Mae gasped.

“How DARE you, Doctor Martin!” Audrey Schmidt severely admonished the sawbones.

“I’m sure you remember the day Mrs. Lindsay was killed out there in the street?” Paul queried, pointing toward the windows lining the left side of the courtroom.

“Of course I do,” Audrey answered brusquely.  “I was in town that day and saw it happen.  What of it?”

“Then you surely must remember what happened after,” the doctor pressed, addressing her as he might an obstinate four year old, with whom any kind of reasoning was impossible.

Audrey scowled, but held her tongue.

“Tobias . . . Mister Lindsay blamed his daughter for his wife’s death,” Paul angrily continued.  “When he wasn’t neglecting that poor child, he was beating her within an inch of her life for things she didn’t even do.”

“I know all that,” Audrey sneered.  “Mister Lindsay also took heavily to the drink.  I know that, too.  ALL of us . . . . ” she spread her arms, taking in everyone gathered in the courtroom “. . . knew it.  But why dredge all that up now, Doctor?  That was what?  Five years ago?  Six?  Plenty of time for a man to mend his ways, don’t you think?”

“Mister Lindsay stopped drinking,” Paul admitted, his complexion ruddier than was his norm.  “I give him that, but I have my doubts as to whether he stopped blaming his daughter for what happened.”

Stacy rose, and politely raised her hand, same as she would had she been in class with Miss Johnson presiding from the front of the room.  “Your Honor, may I say something?”

“Yes, of course, Miss Cartwright,” John immediately gave his permission.

“When Pa and I went to the hospital to see Cara?” she began.  “We talked about how her mother died, and Pa told her that none of it was her fault.  It was a tragic accident.  She told Pa and me that no one else had ever told her that before.  That makes ME think Pa’s right.  Mister Lindsay never stopped blaming Cara for her mother’s death.”

“That’s not what he told Mrs. Adams and me,” Clara Mudgely insisted, as she turned in her seat and glared over at Stacy.  “Has it not occurred to you, Young Lady, that maybe his daughter was lying?”

“No, Ma’am,” Stacy replied through clenched teeth.  Angered by Miss Mudgely’s form of address, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to count to ten.  She barely made it to five.  “Has it not occurred to YOU, Miss Mudgely, that maybe Mister Lindsay was lying to get custody of Cara’s baby so he could take him out to San Francisco and sell him?”

“Hey, Kid, I think you’d better sit down now,” Joe said just loud enough to be heard over the din of angry voices that his sister’s words provoked.  Truth be known, he was proud of her for speaking her mind, not caring whether or not his pride was appropriate.

Stacy sat down, still seething.

John banged his gavel down hard against the bench three times in rapid succession.  “ORDER!” he yelled to make himself heard above the rising buzz of angry voices.  “I WILL HAVE ORDER!”  He banged his gavel again.  “ORDER!” he shouted.

The people began to quiet themselves, and one by one resumed their seats.

“Anymore outbursts like that, and I’ll ask Sheriff Coffee to clear the courtroom of everyone but those directly involved in this case,” John said sternly.  “Do I make myself clear?”

People nodded their heads and murmured ascent to the judge’s ultimatum.

“Your Honor?” John Devlin ventured.

“Yes, Mister Devlin?”

“The thought . . . I mean the very idea of a man like Mister Lindsay peddling his grandson’s flesh,” John stammered.  “It can’t possibly be true . . . can it?”

“According to depositions from Miss McPherson, Mother Gibson, Mister Cartwright and his daughter, Cara Lindsay did accuse her father of that,” John replied.

“The ravings of a spiteful young girl!” Della Mae declared with an emphatic nod of her head.

“Perhaps,” the judge allowed.  “However, Mister Lindsay himself admitted that he had not the means to properly raise his grandson, and that he had arranged with a couple in San Francisco, who are wealthy but childless, to adopt the babe.”

Audible gasps of shock were heard from the people Judge Faraday had summoned to this hearing.

“That’s not what he told US,” Clara Mudgely insisted sotto voce.  Della Mae and Audrey pointedly ignored her.

John held up his hand, calling again for silence.  “It’s a common practice for adoptive parents to engage a lawyer to handle the arrangements and pay him a fee for his services,” he continued, after everyone had quieted.  “It’s all perfectly legal and above board.”

“He LIED to us,” Clara murmured, horrified, her face beet red with shame.  “Mister Lindsay lied to us.”

“If he led you and Mrs. Adams to believe that he intended to raise his grandson, then yes.  He lied,” John replied.  “It may also interest you to know, Miss Mudgely, that the couple Mister Lindsay arranged to adopt his grandson have been found to be unfit.”

Clara very quickly shifted from deep shame to intense interest upon hearing the judge’s pronouncement, a fact not lost on the judge or anyone else acquainted with the church organist.

“In any case, Mister Lindsay withdrew his petition for custody, and left early this morning for Carson City,” John Faraday replied.

“What about Mrs. Jarvis, Your Honor?” Jack Cranston asked.

“Mrs. Jarvis is not a well woman, I’m afraid,” John said with sadness.  “She collapsed at the end of our last session, and for now is with one of her daughters at the Martins’ home.  Though she had every intention of raising the child, she is unable to do so physically; nor does the rest of her family have sufficient means to adopt and raise the babe.  She, too, has withdrawn her petition for custody.”  He paused briefly, then turned to Ben.  “Mister Cartwright, do you wish to renew YOUR petition for custody?”

“Yes,” Ben immediately replied.

“Then custody is immediately granted to Mister Benjamin Cartwright,” John stated, weary and heartily grateful this custody case was finally settled.

Audrey Schmidt slunk out of the courtroom, with shoulders hunched, head bowed, vowing over and over that she would never, ever, not until certain nether regions known for very warm temperatures were hit by a deep freeze, give credence to anything that issued forth from Clara Mudgely’s mouth.  Della Mae shot right out of her chair and began to rudely push her way past people now milling in the aisle, talking among themselves, with her daughter, Portia following meekly in her wake.

“Ben?”

The elder Cartwright turned and found Enoch Greeley standing at his elbow, looking grim.  His hand was clasped firmly around his wife’s wrist.

“My wife has something to say to you and your family,” Enoch said.  He turned and glared over at his wife, standing beside him with head bowed, and eyes fixed to the floor.  “Janet!” he prompted when she didn’t immediately speak.

Janet swallowed nervously, then slowly, reluctantly raised her head.  “I’m sorry,” she meekly apologized.  “I honestly thought Mister Lindsay was about to suffer a terrible injustice, but I was wrong.”

Ben turned to his two younger sons and his daughter.  “Apology accepted?” he asked.

“Apology accepted, Pa,” Joe said.

“Me, too,” Stacy replied.

Hoss nodded his head.

“Then I’ll make it unanimous,” Ben said quietly.  He, then, held out his hand.

With a tremulous smile, Janet shook Ben’s hand, then followed suit with Joe, Hoss, and Stacy.

“Thank you, Ben,” Enoch said with a smile.  “Janet,” he continued, turning to his wife, “let’s go home.”

She nodded, uncharacteristically subdued for the moment.  There was no doubt in Ben’s mind that she would revert to her pragmatic, outspoken nature before long.

“I dunno know ‘bout you Li’l Sister ‘n Baby Brother, but I’m ready to head for home,” Hoss declared with a tired smile.

“Me, too,” Stacy heartily agreed.

“Me three!” Joe quipped, then turned to his father.  “How about you, Pa?”

“I need to speak to Mister Milburn about drawing up the papers that will make Judge Faraday’s decision to grant me custody of the Li’l One legal and binding,” Ben replied.  “Tell you what . . . suppose you three . . . and you, too, Jack,” head on over to the C Street Café,” Ben suggested.  “I’ll be along directly.  We can have a nice lunch, then head for home.  How’s that sound?”

“Sounds great, Pa,” Joe replied.

“Mister Cartwright, may I have a private word before you see Mister Milburn?” Jack asked.

“Of course, Jack,” Ben agreed.  “What’s on your mind?”

“If I’m out of line, please say so,” Jack said, “but suppose I told you that I know of a wonderful young couple, not wealthy, but well to do, who aren’t able to have children and would dearly love to adopt your Li’l One?”

Ben mulled over Jack’s question for a moment.  He certainly had the means to provide for the Li’l One entrusted to him by his desperate mother, but thinking in practical terms . . . .

“Caring for and raising a child is a full time job in and of itself,” Ben silently remembered, wondering, for a moment how he had managed to raise three healthy, rambunctious boys alone, without benefit of a mother, while working hard to build the Ponderosa into what it was today.

Truth was, neither he nor Hop Sing were getting any younger.  Though legally, Stacy was still considered a minor, in a couple of years, she, too, would reach the age of majority.  Was he really up to raising another child at this point in his life?

“Who do you have in mind, Jack?” Ben finally asked.

“Adam’s brother-in-law and his wife,” Jack replied.

“Miguel and Elena?”

“Yes.”  Jack shared with Ben everything that Adam had told him about the baby Elena had recently brought into the world only to watch him die a few moments later, and of her wish to adopt.

“Our Li’l One would be best off with a loving father and mother,” Ben mused aloud, “and I’ve met Miguel and Elena a few times when I stopped to visit Adam and Teresa.  They’re wonderful people, and they’re very good with Benjy and Dio.  Jack?”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“You g’won to the C Street Café.  I’ll be along just as soon as I get a wire off to Adam.”

Epilogue

The baptism of the infant, affectionately known to the Cartwrights as Li’l One, took place in the privacy of the small chapel in the elder di Cordovas’ home.  The mid-morning sun shone through the many pieces of brightly colored stained glass in the rose window above the altar, scattering a wide array of colored light across the altar, to the floor, and to the baptismal font placed in the very center of the small room.  Thirty people were in attendance.

The simply designed altar, and font as well, were remarkably beautiful with their clean, austere lines.  Both were hewn from the plain wood of a red oak tree, and covered with a fixed oil varnish that enhanced the natural color of the wood.  A white Irish linen runner covered the altar.  Placed in the center was an unadorned triptych, depicting Christ as the good shepherd on the center panel, and on the right and left panels the saints, whose names Eduardo and Dolores had taken when they were confirmed into the Roman Catholic Church many years ago.  Two burning candles flanked the triptych.

Father Domenic Alverez stood before the font facing the half circle of family and close friends with the babe cradled in the crook of his left arm.  The parents, Miguel and Elena de Cordova, stood to Father Alverez’s right, their faces shining with joy and happiness.  To the priest’s left stood the godparents, Mateo Navarro, Elena’s brother, and his wife, Lucinda.  Their children, Rosalia, Sophia, and Emmanuel, aged respectively ten, seven, and thirteen years old stood, solemnly with their parents.

“Name this child,” Father Domenic said softly, as he turned expectantly toward the baby’s godparents.

“We give this child the name his parents have chosen for him,” Mateo said.   “Nicolas Alejandro, for our father . . . Elena’s and mine.”

“Nicolas Alejandro de Cordova, ego te baptize in nomine Patris . . . .”

The baby, who, up until that very moment had lain peacefully cradled in the priest’s arm, gasped as the cool water, thus far administered in the name of God the Father, slid down the back of his head; then let out a lusty wail.

Elena, driven by maternal instinct, stepped toward the priest and her new son.

“It’s alright, Elena,” Miguel whispered softly, as he placed a gentle, yet firm restraining hand on her shoulder.  “Our son will be quite the orator when he grows up.”  This last he added with a proud smile.

“Not in the middle of the Mass, he won’t,” Elena tartly responded.  “I will see to that.”

Smiling, Father Domenic, meanwhile, gently quieted the baby.  “. . . et Filii,” he resumed, “et Spiritus Sancti.”  This time, he dipped a white handkerchief into the water and touched it to the infant’s head, as he named the Son and the Holy Spirit, the last two members of the Triune God, in whom he, and most of those gathered, believed.

The priest turned and approached the altar, with the babe, Nicolas, still cradled in the crook of his arm.

Father Domenic picked up the white candle lying before the triptych, and raised it to the flame of the candle to his right.  After lighting the candle, he returned to his place before the baptismal font.  There, the priest handed the candle to Miguel.

“Nicholas Alejandro,” Father Domenic said, turning his attention to the baby, “accipe lampadem ardentem, et irreprehensibilis custodi Baptismum tuum: serva Dei mandata ut cum Dominus venerit ad nuptias, possis occurrere ei una cum omnibus Sanctis in aula caelesti, habeasque vitam aeternam, et vivas in saecula saeculorum.

“Receive this burning candle as a reminder to keep your baptismal innocence.  Obey God’s commandments, so that when our Lord comes for the joyous wedding feast you may go forth to meet Him with all the saints in the halls of heaven, and be happy with Him forevermore.”

“Amen,” those assembled responded in unison.

Father Domenic returned the baby to the arms of his mother, then turned to address those gathered.  “Vade in pace et Dominus sit tecum,” he said, bringing the rite to its conclusion.  “Go in peace and the Lord be with you.”

After the final amen, everyone congregated around the new parents to admire the baby and offer their best wishes.

“Senõr Cartwright, Elena and I want to thank you and Adam’s friend, Senõr Cranston, for thinking of us,” Miguel said with heartfelt gratitude as he shook Ben’s hand.  He cast a sidelong glance over toward his wife, standing a few feet away, in animated conversation with their goddaughter, Gabriella, and her mother, who had grown up with Elena and, over the years, had remained close friends.  “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her so radiantly happy.”

“. . . and I’m grateful you and your wife agreed to adopt him,” Ben replied.  “I know that you’ll both be wonderful parents to him.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Miguel responded, proud and very pleased that a man such as Adam’s father held so much confidence in him and his wife.

Hoss, meanwhile, wandered over to Elena and the baby, now standing with her mother-in-law, Dolores, and her own mother, Luca Navarro.  After offering heartfelt congratulations on becoming a mother and for the baby’s baptism, he gazed affectionately down at the little one who had been left at the Cartwright’s back door as winter had begun her changeover to spring.  “Now you be good for your ma ‘n pa, Li’l One, ‘n mind what they say,” he murmured softly.  “ ‘Cause if ya don’t, well, you’re gonna hafta answer t’ Uncle Hoss.”

“Miguel and I expect you to stop in to check up on him now and again,” Elena said.  “That goes for the rest of your family, too.”

“You bet we will,” Hoss solemnly promised.  “Y’ know?  I’m gonna miss that li’l one somethin’ fierce.

“Hoss?”

“Yes ‘m?”

“The quilt that your father sent with our baby . . . it’s so lovely,” Elena said, “and I can see that a lot of love went into its making.  Any idea as to where it came from and who might’ve made it?”

“Li’l One . . . Li’l Nicholas, that is, was wrapped up in that quilt when Pa found him lyin’ in a basket by our kitchen door,” Hoss replied.  “I’m pretty sure Mrs. Lindsay made it.  She was real good with needle ‘n thread.”

“Yes, she was,” Elena agreed.  “It’s a small quilt, just the right size for a child.  I wonder if Mrs. Lindsay made it for her own child.”

“Could very well be.”

“Oh, that poor child,” Elena murmured softly.  “I can’t begin to imagine how she must’ve felt . . . so desperate . . . so frightened . . . and so horribly alone.”

“She’s not anymore,” Hoss said with quiet conviction.  “Cara’s in heaven now with her own ma ‘n Gabe.”

“The young man who fathered this child?”

Hoss nodded.

“I’ll say a prayer and light a candle for all three of them when we go to Mass on Sunday,” Elena promised.  “I’m very sorry that Cara and Gabe are no longer with us, but at the same time, I’m grateful for this gift with which they . . . and your father as well . . . have blessed Miguel and me.”  She smiled down at the babe lying in her arms, who had just fallen asleep.

“Y’ know?  I like t’ think that maybe Cara, ‘n Gabe are grateful, too, from their place in heaven, ‘cause the babe they’ve given life to, is in very good hands.”

“. . . and maybe my father looks down on his namesake from heaven, too,” Elena said quietly.

“Wouldn’t surprise me none if he was,” Hoss agreed.

At Dolores’ urgent prompting, Eduardo cleared his throat.  “Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began, raising his voice so to be heard over the many conversations going on at the same time, “my wife and I have had a repast prepared for everyone . . . .”

The de Cordovas’ great room was bedecked with white flowered garlands interlaced with blue silk ribbons.  A sign, neatly lettered in cursive by Adam’s son, Benjy Cartwright, read, “Welcome Home, Nicholas.”  It had been set in the place of honor in the middle of the fireplace mantle, flanked on either side by two matching ceramic vases filled with white, blue, and yellow flowers.  The letters were a bright royal blue, surrounded by a frame of white and yellow flowers, drawn by Elena, and meticulously painted by Miguel and Dio.

The living room furniture, divan, settee, three easy chairs, coffee table, and three end tables were arranged in a rough semi-circle in the center of the room.  Miguel, Elena, and Nicholas, were escorted to the settee, which had been designated place of honor by a chain made of blue paper, to which was attached cutouts of babies, rattles, lettered blocks, horses, and toy soldiers.  Elena carefully placed her sleeping child in a cradle, designed by Adam and crafted by Hoss.  It was made of ponderosa pine, stained cherry, and covered by a protective coat of clear varnish.

The long table had been taken from the de Cordovas’ formal dining room, and placed against the wall perpendicular to the same into which the fireplace, had been set.  It was covered with a white Irish linen table cloth.  Serving plates from Dolores’ good china cabinet were stacked at one end of the table, along with napkins, and sterling silver cutlery.  A marble half-sheet cake occupied the center of the table, and had been placed on a slightly raised stand for everyone to admire.  It was covered with white icing, and tiny roses of blue and yellow on a bed of green leaves ringed the edge of the cake.  In the center, the inscription, written in blue icing, read:  Nicholas Anthony de Cordova Baptized, with the date given.  There also were several large cut glass platters heaped generously with small, fancy tea sandwiches of cucumber, chicken, ham, roast beef, and egg salad; three smaller serving plates with apple and orange slices, sugar cookies, and Pettit fours.  A large bowl of punch, Dolores’ special recipe known only to herself, had been placed at the other end of the table, with thirty matching punch cups neatly arranged.

After Father Domenic gave thanks for the repast, Adam’s wife, Teresa, and Lucinda Navarro, the baby’s godmother served Miguel and Elena from the enormous banquet table.  The others very quickly formed a line, children first, then the adults, and began to serve themselves.  The Cartwrights, Adam, Teresa, their son, Benjy, Ben, and Hoss found a corner together, after helping themselves from the buffet.  Dio had run off to join some of her cousins.

“Pa, I can’t believe you left Joe and Stacy to hold down the fort,” Adam teased, as they began to eat.  “I’m sure you remember what happened the first time you left Joe in charge.”[xxi]

“I try not to,” Ben dryly retorted.

“Is that the time he and Hoss over here robbed a bank?” Teresa asked with a saucy grin.

“Uncle Hoss!” Benjy exclaimed, his dark brown eyes round with astonishment.  “Did you and Uncle Joe really rob a bank?”

“Yep,” Hoss replied with a smile, “but it was for a good cause.”  He flinched away from Ben’s withering glare, much to Adam’s amusement, then added, “I’ll tell you ‘n your sister all about it tonight after supper.”

“At any rate,” Ben said, “we had to leave Stacy home because at this point, she can’t afford to miss any more school.”

“Yes, I remember you telling me terribly ill she was,” Adam responded, sobering.

“. . . and Hoss had the good luck of drawing the short straw,” Ben continued, “though I could’ve sworn JOE had drawn the short straw.”

“He did, Pa,” Hoss confessed with a chuckle.

Ben frowned.  “Then how—?!”

“I ended up with the short straw after I chewed off about an inch or so,” Hoss confessed, not the least bit remorseful.

Adam laughed out loud.

“Hey!  Mister Hoss!”

Hoss turned, and found Juan Mendez standing at his elbow.  His sons, Ramon and Joachim and Adam’s daughter, Dio, clustered around him looking on expectantly.

“I believe you owe me a rematch, Amigo.”

“Papa anticipated this,” Teresa said with a broad grin as she rose to her feet.  “Everything’s all set up in the horseshoe pit out back.”

“Ten dollars on Mister Mendez’s nose,” Eduardo declared as he approached his Cartwright in-laws.  “Adam, will you keep track?”

“Of course.  I’ve come prepared,” Adam replied as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, and withdrew a small pad of paper and a sharpened pencil.

“Ten dollars on Hoss!” Ben said.  He looked over at Juan and grinned.  “I hope you don’t take this personally, Mister Mendez, but, as they say blood is thicker than water.”

“No offense taken, Senõr,” Juan retorted good naturedly, his eyes sparkling with mischief, “just YOU remember that a fool and his money are oft times soon parted.”

“We’ll see,” Ben returned.

“Senõr Cartwright?”

“Yes, Ramon?” Adam responded.

“My brother and me—”

“My brother and I,” Juan automatically corrected his eldest.

“My brother and I want to put two bits on our father,” Ramon said proudly.

“No, you’re not,” Juan said gently.  “I appreciate the vote of confidence, Boys, but you’re too young to be gambling.”

“Am I too young?” Benjy asked, gazing hopefully up into his father’s face.

“Yes, you are,” Adam immediately replied.

One by one, people drifted over and placed their bets, including Father Alverez, who, after much deliberation, had decided to put his money on Juan Mendez’ nose.  “Sorry, My Son,” the priest apologized to Hoss, “but Senõr Mendez is a member of my parish after all.”

“Elena and Nick are staying inside with the other ladies,” Miguel said, loping alongside Adam, as the men, boys, a few of female persuasion, Dio and Teresa among them, made their way outside to the horseshoe pit.  “My wife asked me to place ten dollars on your brother’s nose.”

“Noted,” Adam replied.

“. . . and you can put me down for ten dollars on Mister Juan,” Miguel continued.

“Got it,” Adam said.  “The books are now closed.”

The End

End Notes

[i]  Ross Marquett appears in Bonanza episode #56, written by Ward Hawkins.

[ii]  According to The Code of Canon Law (CIC 867 §2), “an infant in danger of death is to be baptized without delay.”  https://www.catholic.com/qa/baptism-in-an-emergency

Michelle Arnold further states “In life-and-death situations in which a priest or deacon is not available, anyone—including Catholics, non-Catholics, non-Christians, and non-theists—may baptize so long as they do so in the correct manner and with the correct intention (to baptize). See Catholic Answers at  https://www.catholic.com/qa/baptism-in-an-emergency

[iii] Joe’s friend, Mitch Devlin appeared in Bonanza episode #177, Between Heaven and Earth, written by Ed Adamson.

[iv] Rick and Jeff Bonner appear in Bonanza episode #166, The Pressure Game, written by Don Tait.

[v] Joe falls in love with AMY Bishop in Bonanza episode #11, The Truckee Strip,: written by Herman Groves.

[vi] Bad Blood was another name for syphilis during Bonanza’s time period.

[vii] Princeton University was chartered in 1746, and known as the College of New Jersey until 1896, when the college achieved University status and was officially renamed Princeton University.

[viii] Ben’s old friend, Ruth Manning, is editor of Gunlock’s newspaper, The Clarion, to which he subscribes.  See Bonanza Episode #323, The Clarion, written by John Hawkins and Frank Chase.

[ix] The Widow McClure appears in Bonanza Episode # 67, The Smiler, written by Lewis Reed.

[x] The Durfee brothers appear in Bonanza Episode #179, A Man to Admire, written by Mort R. Lewis.

[xi] Hiram Peabody appears in Bonanza Episode #337, A Lawman’s Lot Is Not a Happy One, written by Robert Vincent Wright.

[xii] Culley Mako appears in Bonanza Episode #284, The Trackers, written by Louis Bercovitch and Fredric Louis Fox.

[xiii] Trace Cordell appeared in Bonanza Episode #199, The Return, written by Ken Pettus and Frank Chase.

[xiv] Softening of the brain is an old time reference to the softening that happens in an area of the brain following a stroke or hemorrhage.   Apoplexy refers to the paralysis resulting from a stroke.   Reference:  http://www.disease.pricklytree.co.uk/

[xv] See Bonanza Episode #82, The Tall Stranger, written by Ward Hawkins.

[xvi] Clementine Hawkins appears in Bonanza Episode #71, The Burma Rarity, written by M. B. Stone, Jr.

[xvii] Jamie Wrenn appears in Bonanza Episode #114, The Jury, written by Robert Vincent Wright.

[xviii] Jigger Thurmond’s bull runs amok in Bonanza episode #185, Woman of Fire, written by Suzanne Clauser.

[xix] This happened in Bonanza Episode #291, The Late Ben Cartwright, written by Walter Black.

[xx] Early names for leukemia

[xxi] See Bonanza Episode #51, Bank Run, written by N. B. Stone, Jr. for the full story.