“Easy, now, Joe, jest hang onto me,” said Hoss for what seemed like the fiftieth time since they’d left Joe’s room.

“I can do it myself!” snapped Joe. He tried to pull away, but Hoss was holding his waist with one massive hand and had draped Joe’s other arm across his broad shoulders.

“You ain’t goin’ down them stairs by yourself, so you might as well stop fightin’ me,” said Hoss.

Joe didn’t have to look up to know that his big brother’s patience was starting to wear thin. He didn’t even know why he was arguing. Hoss was right: there was no way that Joe could have managed the stairs by himself. That blasted splint ran all the way up his right leg, from his foot almost to the top of his thigh. Without Hoss to lean on, he’d never make it.

It wasn’t just stairs he couldn’t handle; he couldn’t even sit at the supper table properly. He’d only done it once before because it was such a feat to get him down the stairs. They had to sit him sideways and bring over another chair for him to prop his leg on, and he felt like an idiot. Plus, it hurt to move the leg, to set it down, or to do pretty much anything else or nothing at all.

Not that he’d ever have let on, of course. It had been almost six weeks since the accident, and he’d had enough broken bones in his life to know that his leg shouldn’t still be hurting like this. In his unguarded moments, stark fear would blow over him like a cold wind off the wintry lake. At night, when stabbing pain woke him out of a sound sleep, he’d throw back the covers as though he might be able to see in the darkness what wasn’t visible in the light. But day or night, he couldn’t tell. All he knew for sure was that something definitely wasn’t right. He knew he should say something, at least to the doctor, but the truth was that he was just plain scared.

Besides, if Pa or the doctor knew how much his leg still hurt, they’d never let him out of bed, and he’d go stir crazy. Bad enough he still couldn’t put any weight on the leg. Walking without putting weight on a straight leg was no easy feat; he’d hold the leg out in front, and the muscles would get tired and achy before he’d hopped more than a couple steps. But he didn’t have any choice. A few days earlier, when he’d tried to put his foot down and step on it, just a little bit, it was like a lightning bolt shot all the way up his leg. It literally took his breath away, and he fell over like somebody’d shoved him. He managed to land on the bed, but it took a good while before the searing pain let up enough that he could draw a normal breath again. Luckily, nobody was in the room. He could only imagine what Pa or his brothers would have said.

They were almost down to the landing. All Joe wanted was to stop and collect himself, but he wasn’t going to say so. Even with Hoss holding onto him, every step he hopped down was another jolt that he had to brace against. He concentrated on trying to control his breathing, and he hung onto the railing for dear life. Why did I ever start this? he thought. Mentally, he kicked himself for such a stupid idea, even though he’d never give his family the satisfaction of knowing that even he knew he should have just stayed in bed.

“Let’s just stop here for a minute,” said Hoss as they reached the landing.

Joe tried to shrug. “If you want to,” he said as indifferently as he could manage. He didn’t look up at Hoss as he tried to smooth out his breathing.

“What are you two up to?” came Adam’s voice. Joe’s head jerked up as his eldest brother came around the corner from the kitchen. “You need a hand?” he added.

“I’m fine,” said Joe, more curtly than he’d intended. Adam raised his eyebrows at Hoss, and Joe felt his temper flare. “Are we gonna stand here all day?” he demanded of Hoss.

“I’m ready whenever you are,” his big brother said genially.

“Then let’s go,” said Joe. He ignored Adam’s smirk–oh, our little brother is just so funny–and concentrated on maneuvering his way down the last few steps.

“Hey, Adam, you wanna grab Joe’s crutches?” asked Hoss. He and Joe worked their way over to the settee as Adam sprinted up the stairs, just the way Joe had only a couple months earlier. And likely never will again, his mind added before he could stop it.

Hoss deposited Joe on the settee as Adam returned with the crutches. “Thanks,” muttered Joe. Truth was, he was worn out. The last thing he wanted was to try walking with the crutches. He ignored the looks his brothers were shooting at each other as he lifted his leg onto the settee and lay back, tucking a pillow behind his head.

“You okay?” asked Hoss with just a tiny edge of concern in his voice.

Joe nodded. “I’m fine,” he said. He was lying through his teeth, but neither of his brothers said anything, so maybe they didn’t see it.

“I thought you wanted to go outside,” said Adam too casually.

“Maybe later,” said Joe. “Just leave the door open when you go out.” At least that way, he’d get a nice breeze, and he could pretend he was outside. This was the closest he’d come to being outside since the day they’d carried him in. . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

The May sun was so bright that Joe squinted even under the brim of his hat as they rode down to the corral. Hoss was going on about the new calves and the sorrel’s new foal and the barn cat’s recent litter and pretty much anything else on the ranch that had gotten born in the past couple months. Adam sometimes joked that Hoss should have been a midwife. Joe had never met anybody else who got so excited about little ones of any species. There was something funny and yet sweet about seeing that great big man handling those tiny babies so tenderly.

But on this day, Joe couldn’t have cared less about the kittens and calves and whatever, because he was about to take on a full-grown stallion that nobody had been able to ride. The chestnut beast was huge-well over seventeen hands-and everybody said he was pure meanness. Pa was ready to just call him a loss and turn him loose, but Joe had argued and begged and promised and pleaded, and finally Pa had said that he could take a shot at breaking him. “But you be careful, young man!” Pa added, shaking his finger. “A horse like that-he can hurt you bad.”

“He won’t hurt me,” Joe assured his father. “I’ve been talking to him for weeks. He knows me.” He glared at Adam, who was rolling his eyes. Adam didn’t put any stock in Joe’s approach to horse-breaking. To Adam, horse-breaking was about getting on the bronc and riding, period. To Joe, it was much more than that. In Joe’s mind, it wasn’t so much about breaking a horse as it was about reaching an understanding. He knew that horses could be stubborn critters, but he also knew that he was at least as stubborn as they were. So, before he ever got on a horse, he’d make a point of standing quietly near it, and maybe talking to it, at least a couple of times. In the case of the stallion, he’d been doing this almost daily for the past month. The horse still wouldn’t come within ten feet of him, but at least it didn’t run away any more, the way it did with any other human. Joe figured that was progress, but he didn’t want to wait too long before he tried to ride. It was a balancing trick, winning the horse’s trust while still letting him know who was boss.

The chestnut was already in the corral when they got there. Joe’s heart pounded with anticipation at the sight of the muscles glistening in the sun. The horse was clearly furious at being confined, and he was running and bucking so hard that nobody could get close to him.

“Joe, I don’t think you oughta try him today,” said Hoss, not taking his eyes from the beast. “He don’t look like he’s ready yet.”

“He’s fine,” said Joe, sliding out of his saddle. “He’s just got a temper, that’s all. He’ll calm down.” He approached the corral, nickering softly. Sure enough, as he reached the rail, the horse’s head swung around. “Hey, boy, it’s me,” said Joe, his voice smooth and easy as he climbed up on the rail. “We’re gonna have a ride today. You’ll see, it’ll be fun. Just you wait.” The horse glared at him. As Joe slid into the corral, the stallion began to run again. Joe remained against the rail, not moving, as the horse ran and bucked.

“You come on out of there,” said Hoss. “That horse ain’t ready to be ridden. You’re gonna break your neck if you try.”

“He’s fine,” Joe repeated. He nodded to two of the hands, and they approached with visible nervousness.

Somehow, they managed to get a saddle on the stallion. Joe could feel Hoss standing behind him, worrying a blue streak, but Hoss would always worry, and so Joe didn’t pay him any mind. Later, of course, he would want to kick himself for not listening to his big brother, even as Hoss was apologizing over and over for not bodily dragging him out of the corral. The truth was that Hoss wanted to see him ride the chestnut almost as much as Joe wanted to ride him. Joe on a bronc was a beautiful thing. Pa and Adam had had to go into town, or they’d have been here to see it, too.

In the split second before he dropped into the saddle, the thought flashed in Joe’s mind: this is a bad idea. But he dismissed it as silly nervousness, and he eased himself onto the back of the massive horse, almost trembling with excitement at the power beneath him. He nodded, and the hands turned the beast loose.

Afterward, he couldn’t have said just what happened. It seemed only a second later that he and the horse were both down. He heard himself screaming as if at a great distance. He tried to fight his way clear of the beast, but his right leg was pinned beneath the massive flank. Several days later, Hoss told him that it looked as if the horse was deliberately rolling on him, almost like it was trying to crush Joe’s leg. Joe heard voices shouting as he kicked frantically with his free leg, but the stallion continued to writhe as if determined to grind its rider’s trapped leg into the dust.

Then, there was a shot, and all the movement stopped. The dead weight was almost worse, pressing his broken leg into the ground packed hard by years of prancing hooves. His stomach churned, and he clawed at the dirt, trying to drag himself out from under the once-magnificent animal. Hoss knelt beside Joe and held his head, shielding his little brother’s face from splashing blood as the cowhands hacked the enormous carcass into pieces so that they could pull the dead horse off Joe’s leg.

Back at the house, Joe bit as hard as he could on a folded cloth, sweat and tears mingling on his face as Hoss tried to set the broken bones. The horse had been thorough, breaking Joe’s thigh bone in one place and his shin in at least two, with the gray-white bone poking through the skin just above his boot. His knee was so swollen that it was impossible to know what had happened to it. Hop Sing brought a bowl of warm water scented with soothing herbs, and he bathed Joe’s face as Hoss assembled materials for a makeshift splint to hold the leg in place until the doctor arrived. Then, Joe clutched the headboard as the big man and the little one tied the splint around his leg. By the time Pa and Adam raced into the house, followed by the doctor and the hand who had tracked them all down, Joe had succumbed to blessed unconsciousness.

For the first several days, there was laudanum, and for once, Joe was glad to have it. As much as he hated the woolly-headed feeling he got from the painkiller, it took the sharp edge off the pain in his leg, and he needed that. The only problem was that he couldn’t understand most of what Pa and the doctor were saying, and the words he did understand weren’t words he wanted to hear-words like “crushed” and “infection” and “never.” But as the days passed, his leg didn’t seem to be getting infected and the swelling in his knee started to go down, and so Joe forced himself to use less laudanum as he tried to convince himself and everyone else that his leg was healing. With his family relieved at his apparent progress, and the doctor starting to talk about when he might be able to go downstairs, Joe wasn’t about to let on how little had really changed since the chestnut stallion had crushed his leg.

* * * * * * * * * *

And now, he was finally downstairs, and part of him wished he wasn’t. No matter how much he tried to pretend, the settee wasn’t nearly as comfortable as his bed. Still, he was close to the open door, and that was worth something. He closed his eyes, allowing the hot early-summer breeze to drift over him.

He didn’t know how long he’d been asleep when he was startled into wakefulness by a most insistent yowl. He looked around. Nothing. He was just settling back into sleep when the yowl sounded again.

Seated beside the settee was a small gray cat. A kitten, really-three or four months old at the most. Probably one of the barn cat’s kittens, Joe reflected. A nondescript little thing, but there was something about it that made him smile. Its green eyes were fixed on him as if he had annoyed it by refusing to acknowledge its presence. When Joe looked down at it, the kitten yowled again-an impressive noise for a creature that small.

“What?” Joe demanded sleepily. He wasn’t usually one for talking to animals other than horses; that was more like Brother Hoss’s way. But this kitten seemed to be determined to engage him in conversation, and he was just drowsy enough to find that amusing.

The kitten yowled again, clearly exasperated by this dense human. This time, when Joe squinted at the kitten, he noticed the mouse, quite large and very dead, lying beside it. He couldn’t help chuckling; from nose to tail, the mouse was probably half the size of the kitten. “Good job,” he said. He reached down to pat the kitten, but the tiny creature climbed up his arm, settling itself onto his chest. “Somebody has to get rid of that mouse, you know,” Joe informed the kitten. In classic cat fashion, the kitten ignored the hint, curling itself into a fluffy gray ball and closing its big green eyes.

Joe stared for a minute at the interloper that had adopted him as a bed. Then, he closed his own eyes, drifting off to sleep.

When he woke again, both the kitten and the mouse were gone. It occurred to him that he’d probably dreamed the moment. Not that it mattered. The scent of Hop Sing’s roast pork and yeast rolls drifted out from the kitchen, reminding Joe that he was hungry. He pushed himself into a sitting position, teeth clenched against the pain as he moved his leg. He looked around for the crutches, but they were nowhere to be seen.

“Hey, Hop Sing!” he called. When there was no answer, he called again, “Hop Sing!”

“What you want?” demanded the little man as he scurried from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.

“You seen my crutches?”

“What Hop Sing do with crutches?” Shaking his head at the ludicrous question, the cook turned to go back to the kitchen.

“Wait a minute!” Joe struggled to twist around. “Help me find them. They’ve got to be around here someplace.” He looked around helplessly.

Hop Sing harrumphed. He knelt beside the settee and reached underneath, pulling the crutches out and shoving them at Joe. “Here crutches. No bother Hop Sing. Mistah Hoss very hungry, supper not ready, no time for foolishness.” He continued reciting his tale of woe as he returned to the kitchen.

“Thanks!” Joe called after him. He listened for a minute. No sign of anybody else. Carefully, he eased his splinted leg off the settee and positioned his crutches. There wasn’t much room between the settee and the table, but he maneuvered himself to a standing position. He looked around, but there was no one to share his moment of triumph.

Doesn’t matter, he told himself. Slowly, he worked his way out from between the settee and the table, concentrating fiercely to keep his leg from touching the ground.

“Hey, Little Brother!” Hoss laughed as the rest of the family burst through the door.

Startled, Joe turned too fast, and his precarious balance failed him. He tried to right himself with the crutches, but there wasn’t enough space, and he slammed his broken leg against the table as the world exploded into blinding white light.

When his vision cleared, he found that he was lying on the settee. Pa was hovering over him, his eyes anxious as he stroked Joe’s head. “Just breathe deep,” he was saying in that soothing voice. “Slow and deep, that’s it.” He looked up, toward the kitchen. “Hoss, would you hurry up with that ice?”

“I’m right here, Pa,” said Hoss. He returned with a chunk of ice wrapped in a towel, but when he held it lightly against Joe’s leg, Joe jerked away.

“Don’t,” he managed. His leg felt as if it were on fire. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually passed out from the pain or if he’d just been consumed by it for a few seconds. Either way, it wasn’t good.

Adam came into the room, balancing something hot between his hands. “Here’s the poultice,” he said. “Careful, it’s hot.”

“Poultice?” Joe peered up at his father. Hop Sing had had time to boil water and make a poultice? How long had he been–well, not paying attention?

“We’ll give it a couple of minutes to cool down, and then I want it on your leg,” said Pa. His mouth was set in a grim line, and Joe felt his stomach lurch. “First, let’s try that ice again.”

“I don’t want it,” said Joe stubbornly. The last thing he wanted was anything touching his leg. He winced as he tried to move away, but the back of the settee kept him from escaping. Hoss lowered the ice again, and he pushed his brother’s hand away. “Hoss, don’t,” he pleaded. “Don’t touch it.”

“All right, son,” said Pa quietly. “Are you ready to try the poultice instead?”

“I don’t want anything on my leg,” said Joe. “Just-please, don’t touch it.” He was trying to control his voice, but even he could hear the desperation.

Pa was silent for a long minute. Then, his hand stilled on Joe’s hair. “How long has it been like this?” he asked finally.

“All along,” Joe admitted. When his father said nothing, Joe offered, “I thought it was getting better.”

“But it’s not, is it,” said Pa, the question not even a question.

“I can manage with the crutches,” said Joe. “I just can’t put any weight on my leg.”

“Or touch it, apparently,” Adam added, and Joe glared at him.

“That’s enough, Adam,” said Pa. To Joe, he said, “You’re going back up to bed, young man, and you’re going to rest.”

“But-supper should be ready soon,” Joe protested. It wasn’t that he was hungry-in fact, he was a little queasy from the pain-but he wasn’t ready to be banished.

“You’ll have your supper in bed,” said Pa. “Hop Sing will fix a tray for you.”

“But I slept all afternoon!” Joe pulled himself up to a sitting position. “I’m fine, Pa, really-just as long as nothing touches my leg, I’m fine!”

“I’m sure you are,” said Pa. “But I want you in bed and resting. Tomorrow morning, Doc will come out and take a look at your leg.”

“I don’t need Doc,” snapped Joe.

“Joseph, your leg isn’t healing the way it should, and Doc needs to look at it,” said Pa firmly. “In the meantime, I want you to get some rest. Hoss, would you help your brother get upstairs?”

“I don’t want to go to bed!” Joe couldn’t help feeling like he was six years old again. Pa and his brothers must have heard the same thing, because suddenly, the somber expressions relaxed. Joe pressed his advantage. “Supper’s just about ready anyway-I can eat down here and then go up if I’m tired.” If, he thought, careful to maintain his hopeful expression. He had no intention of being tired. He hated being all by himself upstairs, with nobody to talk to and nothing to do. Even though the settee was narrower and harder than his bed, at least his family was here.

Pa was watching him, an unreadable expression in his dark brown eyes. Joe felt his stomach lurch again. I’m going to be fine, he wanted to say. Tell me I’m going to be fine.

He rested his hand on his father’s arm. “I’m okay, really,” he promised. When Pa said nothing, Joe put forth his final offer: “I’ll go upstairs after supper.”

Pa rested his hand on Joe’s brow. “You’re warm,” he said, frowning. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’m fine, Pa,” Joe insisted. “Really. It’s just my leg, that’s all.”

“Supper ready!” announced Hop Sing imperiously.

Pa looked for a minute as if he was still debating something. Then, he patted Joe’s arm. “All right,” he said at last. Behind him, Joe’s brothers exchanged a quick look that said as plainly as words that Pa had given in to the kid once again. Joe shot them both a quick glare. If they messed this up for him, he was going to have them stepping and fetching for the next week.

But even though Pa let him stay downstairs for supper, he was surprisingly firm about Joe heading up to bed right afterward. Joe ate as slowly as he could, but no sooner was the meal finished than Pa was handing Joe his crutches and shepherding him over to the stairs. Clearly recalling what a chore it had been to help Joe down the stairs, Hoss simply tossed Joe over his shoulder, anchoring his good leg with one hand, and carried him up the stairs as Joe bellowed his protests. A short time later, Joe was pulling his nightshirt over his head, grumbling as Pa set his crutches against the bureau, across the room.

“I mean it, son,” said Pa, his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “I’m sending for the doctor first thing in the morning. We need to find out what’s going on with this leg.” He patted Joe’s shoulder, adding, “And you need to get some sleep.” He fluffed Joe’s pillows. “Window open or closed?”

“Open,” said Joe. “But I’m not tired. I’m going to read for a while.”

Pa raised an eyebrow. He handed Joe the detective book that lay on the far edge of the bedside table, and he opened the window several inches. “You call me if that gets too cold,” he said. “Good night, son.”

“Night, Pa,” called Joe, resigned. He waited until the door closed before he threw down the book in disgust. Sure, pain could wear a man out, but he wasn’t a little kid, and he didn’t have to go to bed as soon as he finished his supper. He took up the book, opening it to the leather bookmark. At the rate he was reading these books, he could become a full-fledged detective. Might need to if you can’t ride any more, his mind taunted him. He clenched his teeth, prepared to read all night if that was what it took to get through the pain.

The next thing he knew, the room was dark save for the moonlight. His lamp had been blown out, his book had been replaced on the nightstand, and his leg throbbed with hot intensity. He clenched his teeth, prepared to wait out this latest wave. Easy, now, he told himself, just as Hoss would have. It’ll fade soon enough. Always does.

Slowly, he became aware of a soft, warm sound by his head. He turned, and in the moonlight, he saw the kitten, curled up on his pillow. “What the-what are you doing?” He scooped up the little cat. “Critters don’t belong on the bed,” he said. He leaned over the side and set it on the rug. “How did you even get in here?” he added as the kitten looked up at him. His door was closed. The only way into the room would have been the open window, but- “No, you couldn’t have.” He let his head drop back to the pillow.

A moment later, he felt tugging at the bedclothes. The kitten hauled itself up onto the bed and stood beside him, watching him. “I said ‘no’!” said Joe. He set the kitten back on the rug. “You’re not even supposed to be here at all. If Hop Sing knew you were here, he’d make you into soup!”

Unperturbed, the kitten began its climb back up onto the bed, its needle-like claws gripping the coverlet. Joe set it back on the rug, and again, it made the ascent. “I can keep this up as long as you can,” Joe informed the kitten.

The kitten’s second climb was amusing. The fourth was starting to feel like defiance. But by the seventh time, when the little creature was clearly tiring, Joe didn’t have the heart to put it back down. “All right,” he said. “You can stay. Just-stay over there,” he said, moving the kitten down by his foot. The kitten regarded him in the moonlight. Then, it walked up the length of him and settled itself on his pillow.

“Cut that out!” He put the kitten back at the foot of the bed, and the kitten calmly walked back up to the pillow. “Look, I said you could stay, and that’s all. You sleep where I tell you.” He set the kitten at the foot of the bed, and it sat there, watching him. As soon as he lay back, though, it sauntered up the bed to curl up next to his ear.

“Look, do you want to sleep on the floor?” Firmly, he placed the kitten at the foot of the bed, holding it beside his foot. He waited, but the kitten didn’t move. Satisfied, he let go and lay back, closing his eyes. He imagined that he could feel the big green eyes watching him from the foot of the bed. “And stay there,” he added.

A moment later, he felt the kitten settling itself on his pillow.

He was about to put the kitten back on the floor when he realized that his leg didn’t feel quite as awful. The little intruder had distracted him enough that he’d been able to ride out the wave of agony. Grudgingly, he turned to the kitten. “Fine,” he said. “Just make sure you’re gone by morning.”

The kitten ignored him.

* * * * * * * * * *

Joe hadn’t quite finished breakfast when Doc Martin came into the room, looking grim. “Hey, Doc,” Joe said with determined cheerfulness that nearly masked his exasperation: Pa must have had Hoss or Adam out before dawn to get the doctor here this early. He sipped his coffee, forcing down the nervousness that was suddenly making everything in his stomach churn like the lake in a storm.

“Good morning, Joe,” said the doctor. No smile. That wasn’t a good sign. Well, it wouldn’t take long before the doctor would spill whatever he’d been told, and Joe could explain why it wasn’t a problem-or at least, why it wasn’t his fault.

Pa stood at the foot of the bed, and Hoss and Adam hovered in the doorway. Joe took up the last piece of toast as if they had all come to join him for breakfast. “So, what do you want to know?” he asked. He meant to sound jovial, but instead, even he could hear that his words sounded like a challenge.

“First of all, how long has your leg been hurting?” The doctor set his bag on the foot of the bed as he spoke, just as though this were the most casual of questions.

“Ever since that fool horse rolled on it,” said Joe.

“That’s not what I mean,” said the doctor. He rolled up his sleeves and met Joe’s eyes. Without being asked, Adam stepped forward and removed Joe’s tray so that the doctor could move the bedclothes. “How long has it been hurting the way it does now?”

“Ever since that fool horse rolled on it,” said Joe, trying not to snap.

“So what you’re saying is that it’s never gotten much better?” The doctor was rummaging in his bag as if this were the most casual of conversations.

“I don’t need laudanum to get through the day any more,” Joe said. “My thigh doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did, if that’s what you’re asking,” he added, carefully omitting reference to his lower leg.

“What I’m asking is why this is the first we’re all hearing of how badly your leg hurts,” said Doc Martin. “You bumped it against a table and you basically lost consciousness for almost ten minutes.” Joe’s head snapped around, and his father nodded. Yes, Pa had told the doctor everything.

“I just don’t bump it, and that works out fine,” said Joe, now defensive.

“When was the last time someone looked at your leg?” the doctor asked as he began to unfasten the splint.

Joe shrugged. “I don’t remember,” he said. “A few weeks, maybe. Since the last time you wrapped it up and splinted it. It hasn’t been bleeding or anything, and you said not to mess with the splint,” he added as if he were the kind of patient who always did as he was told.

The doctor favored him with only the briefest of glances at that comment. He laid aside the pieces of the splint and began to unwrap the bandages covering Joe’s leg from thigh to foot. Joe wasn’t paying much attention until the doctor stopped and pulled the bedclothes back over the lower part of Joe’s leg.

“What’s going on?” As the youngest, Joe Cartwright had ample experience with knowing when somebody didn’t want him to see or hear or know about something.

The rest of the family was leaning forward. “Paul, what’s the matter?” asked Ben in that friend-to-friend voice that sometimes elicited more information.

The doctor met Ben’s eyes. Joe watched as his father’s face went pale. “What’s the matter?” echoed Joe. He started to move the bedclothes, but the doctor held them in place.

“Joe, I need for you to lie back and not watch what I’m doing,” said the doctor. His voice was unusually gentle, and a cold hand of fear clutched Joe’s heart.

“What’s wrong with my leg?” he asked, his voice shaking only slightly.

“Joe, you need to let me work,” said the doctor.

“What is wrong with my leg!” snapped Joe.

“Easy, son,” said Pa. He held Joe’s shoulders. “Just do as Doc says.”

“Pa, tell me what’s wrong with my leg,” implored Joe, eyes fixed on his father’s face.

“Doc’s got to figure that out,” said Pa, sitting on the bed beside Joe and gently pushing him back so that he was lying down. “And we’ve got to let him, and the best way to do that is to do as he says.” He leaned forward just enough to block Joe’s view. “You just take it easy, and we’ll let Doc do what he has to do in order to fix you up,” Pa continued in that warm, soothing voice that normally would have helped Joe to relax, but now was scaring the daylights out of him.

“I want to see my leg,” said Joe unsteadily. He tried to sit up, but Pa was holding him down.

“Not yet, son,” he said. “You just let Doc take care of you for now.” His eyes were concerned as he stroked Joe’s hair. Joe tried to force himself to relax, but he couldn’t think of any reason that they wouldn’t let him see his leg except that it was so bad that–

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment at the thought. Then, he made himself open his eyes, but he shut them again when Doc started poking around his leg. He bit down on his lower lip to brace himself against the pain, and Pa held onto his hands, allowing him to squeeze as hard as he needed to.

Finally, Doc said, “We need to talk.” He arranged the bedclothes over Joe’s leg and moved to the head of the bed so that he could address Joe and Ben. He slipped a thermometer into Joe’s mouth, and said, “Joe, your leg’s infected.”

“But–how?” Joe pulled the thermometer from his mouth. “It’s been weeks since I got hurt!”

“I know,” said the doctor, taking the thermometer. “You keep this under your tongue so I can see what kind of fever you’re running.”

“He was a little warm last night, but it wasn’t anything serious,” said Ben.

“That’s why I’m hoping the infection is fairly recent or just low-grade,” said the doctor. “On the other hand, given the way the leg looks, it could be much more serious.”

“How does it look?” asked Joe, holding the thermometer in place.

The doctor considered his answer for a moment. “It’s not what I’d like to see at this point,” he said.

“In other words, it’s bad,” said Joe.

“You need to stop talking and let that thermometer register,” said the doctor.

“Then tell me the truth,” said Joe.

The doctor gave him a measured look. “It’s not good,” he said finally. “But hopefully, we can stop it from getting worse.”

“What are you gonna do?” Hoss’ normally easygoing tone sounded almost like a challenge.

“We’ve got a couple of options,” said the doctor. “I’m hoping one of them will knock out the infection.”

“What if they don’t work?” asked Joe, taking the thermometer out of his mouth.

“I’m hoping they will,” said Doc in that firm voice that was supposed to end the conversation.

But Joe saw something in the doctor’s eyes that he’d never seen before, and a chill ran through him despite the heat of the summer morning. He raised his chin as he handed the doctor the thermometer. “There’s a chance these–options of yours–there’s a chance they’re not going to work, isn’t there?”

The doctor took the thermometer without comment. As the Cartwrights watched, he studied it briefly and then replaced it in his bag. “Obviously, I can’t promise anything, but I have every reason to believe that we can take care of this problem before it develops into–something else.”

“Something else,” repeated Adam from the doorway. “Are you talking about gangrene?” His tone sounded almost casual, but his eyes were fixed on the doctor.

Doc regarded Joe for a moment. Then, he looked from one Cartwright to the next. “Not yet, but it’s a risk if–well, if things don’t go as they should,” he admitted.

“What happens if gangrene develops?” Adam pressed.

“Adam, stop it,” said Ben, his hand on Joe’s arm.

“No, don’t stop it,” said Joe. “I want to know. I’ve heard of gangrene. What are you gonna do if I end up with gangrene in my leg?” He met the doctor’s eyes so squarely that none of them knew how close they were to witnessing the reappearance of his breakfast.

The doctor held his gaze for a long minute. Finally, he said, “I’d have to operate.”

“Operate how?” Joe’s voice was unsteady, and he drew a deep breath. “Are you–you’re not gonna cut my leg off.” It was a statement, not a question, but the doctor looked unconvinced.

“That’s the last possible option,” he said softly. “Let’s hope that one of the other choices works out.” In a louder voice, he said to Adam and Hoss, “I need for you to bring up a few things from the kitchen.”

“You’re not cutting my leg off!” Joe sat up, pulling up the bedclothes to cover both his legs. “Don’t even come back here if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Joseph!” Ben’s voice was sharp.

Joe took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Doc,” he managed. “But don’t you even think about cutting my leg off.”

“As I said, there are some other things we can try,” said the doctor, unflapped. He’d seen Cartwright tempers before. “Now, you’re going to need some painkiller, and I’m going to need a few things. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

Fire. His leg was on fire. Joe fought to open his eyes. He had to move his leg out of the fire.

Something soft bumped his right hand. He tried to see what it was, but he couldn’t make his eyes open. Clumsily, his fingers started to close on it, and it slid away. A moment later, it was back, nudging at his hand as if trying to get underneath. His hand fell off whatever it was, but the softness was persistent, trying again to position itself under his hand.

His eyelids parted, just a little, but everything was blurry. The room was quiet, the light dim as though the drapes were drawn against daylight. He couldn’t tell whether he was alone. All he knew was that his leg was hurting even more than it had the day the chestnut rolled on it, and now something kept trying to get underneath his hand.

He closed his eyes as he tried to breathe deeply. Where was everybody? His leg was burning up, and there was nobody to help. He bit his lip as his breathing grew rougher.

The softness moved lightly up his arm, settling itself on the pillow so that it was tucked between his neck and his shoulder. Something feather-light swished against his cheek. He reached up to find that it was a small tail.

Of course. That kitten was back. Even in the midst of all the hurting and fear, it was somehow comforting to hear the purring in his ear. He reached over and petted it, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the tears from leaking out, and slowly, the fire in his leg faded.

When he opened his eyes again, Pa was wiping his face with a damp cloth. “Welcome back,” Pa said softly. “How are you feeling, son?”

“Hurts,” Joe breathed.

“You need some more painkiller?” Pa held the cloth against Joe’s forehead.

Joe closed his eyes again, nodding. As Pa held the spoon to his lips, it occurred to him to wonder if the kitten was still around anywhere. He wanted to ask the question, but somehow, he couldn’t quite figure out how to make the words come out. “Cat,” he murmured.

“What was that?” Pa leaned closer, a comforting hand on Joe’s arm.

“Where.” It was getting harder to form words.

“Don’t you worry about anything, Joseph,” said Pa. “Just go back to sleep.”

But– “Where,” he tried again.

“I’m right here,” said Pa gently. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise. You just rest now.” He kept saying things like that, and the pain in Joe’s leg waned as he slid away into blackness.

* * * * * * * * * *

When the blackness lifted again, the room was dimly lit. He felt like someone had stuffed his head with socks. He turned his head slightly to see Hoss asleep in the bedside chair, his round cheek resting against his massive hand.

The house had that special middle-of-the-night kind of quiet. Deep night had always been Joe’s favorite time, ever since he was little. There was something about the darkness, when all the noise and distractions of the day had been silenced, that made talking-and listening-just come easier.

Joe could remember waking from bad dreams when he was a kid; he’d go padding down the hall, pillow under one arm, to his pa or one of his brothers, and they’d always let him climb in with them. Not once had they turned him away. If he wanted to talk about the dream, they’d let him, but if he just wanted to sleep next to somebody, that was all right, too. In the middle of the night, everything was closer, warmer, safer.

When he was older, some of the most important talks came at night. He remembered sitting on Adam’s bed as his older brother explained why girls acted the way they did, or at least he tried to. Nobody could really understand them, Adam said, but if a man paid close attention, he could usually figure out how to avoid getting into serious trouble. Joe listened intently, a far more serious student on this topic than he’d ever been in school, and he found that Adam’s advice worked about half the time-a pretty good average, he supposed.

Sometimes, when Joe and Hoss went camping, they would lie on their bedrolls under a clear, starry sky, and Hoss would tell him stories about his mother. Hoss was a plain-spoken sort by day, but at night, it sounded like poetry when he talked of how pretty she’d been, how her laugh had sounded like music and how the first time he’d seen her, when he was only five, she’d swept him up into a sweet-smelling hug that made him feel like the most special boy in the world.

And other times, when Joe was supposed to be long asleep, he’d make his way to Pa’s room, and if the lamp was still lit, he’d knock on the door and wait for Pa’s deep voice to invite him in. As the household slept around them, he perched on Pa’s bed and spilled out all his jumbled-up feelings and fears and hopes and plans until he could hardly keep his eyes open. He’d wake up in his own bed in the morning, but often, he didn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

As he lay in bed now, the images in his brain a groggy jumble, one lucid thought suddenly emerged: he should ask Hoss if they were going to cut his leg off. Hoss would undoubtedly say he didn’t know, but that wasn’t even the point. In the night, they could talk about it all–what it would be like if they had to do it, and when they’d know. How a man could get around and ride a horse and court a girl if he only had one leg. Whether it was Joe’s own stupid fault for getting on that horse in the first place. Whether there was anything they could have done that would have made a hill of beans’ worth of difference.

“Hoss?” he managed. He felt so weak, like somebody’d drained all the blood out of him. Damned laudanum. “Hoss?”

Hoss didn’t stir, but there was a squeak that sounded both far away and right nearby. Joe blinked hard, trying to focus. Another squeak, and the kitten emerged from underneath the covers.

“Hey, you,” said Joe. “How long have you been under there?” Even he could hear that his words were slurring, but it didn’t seem to make a difference to the kitten. Joe watched with a groggy smile as the little gray cat walked up beside his pillow, hopped onto the night table, and began to drink from the water glass.

“That’s my water,” Joe protested, but the kitten paid him no mind.

When it had drunk its fill, the kitten stepped lightly from the table to the arm of Hoss’s chair. Joe squinted to see better as the kitten considered its position. He patted the bed beside him, but the kitten didn’t appear to be impressed with the invitation. “Come on,” he said.

The kitten jumped to the floor, disappearing from Joe’s sight. Oddly disappointed, Joe closed his eyes.

Just as he was dozing off, he felt the light pressure of paws on his stomach. He opened his eyes to see the kitten standing on his chest, staring at him.

“Hey, there,” he said. He petted it, expecting it to purr, but the kitten just stood and watched him. Just like a girl, he thought. Just because something works once doesn’t mean it’ll work again.

The thought of girls brought him back to the reality of his leg. “How am I ever gonna court a girl if I only have one leg?” he murmured to the kitten. “What girl’s ever gonna want a one-legged man when there’s all these two-legged fellows around who can take her to dances and on walks? Can’t dance, that’s plain enough, and she ain’t gonna want to sit on the side all night with me. Can’t go for a walk if I have to use crutches-how’s she gonna hold onto my arm? An’ even if she was okay about all that, what about-well, you know-what’s she gonna think when she sees I only got part of a leg? I’d have to take off the wooden leg in front of her. Even if we just do it in the dark–she’s still gonna feel it. Plus, what if I can’t balance right? What if I’m on top, and I fall over on her?” His stomach turned over at the thought. Trembling, he whispered, “No girl’s ever gonna want me if they cut off my leg.”

The kitten still stood on his chest, watching. “Just go away,” he whispered. “Leave me alone.” The kitten didn’t move, and Joe pushed it off him. “Go on, get down,” he said. The kitten stood beside him, still watching. Frustrated, Joe tried to raise his voice, but it broke on the word. “Go,” he whispered.

The kitten stood still. Then, it climbed back on top of Joe’s chest. This time, it lay down, its eyes still fixed on Joe’s face.

“What do you want?” he whispered. “Why are you here?”

The kitten regarded him for a minute. Then, it rose and moved up to his shoulder. For the first time, it rubbed its whiskers against his cheek, and that was all it took. Joe clutched the small creature as sobs began to hitch in his chest. “I’m scared,” he whispered to the cat. “I’m so scared. They’re gonna cut off my leg, and everybody’s gonna say I should just be a man about it, but I’m so scared. . . .” The kitten nestled against his face, and the purring started up again as tears fell into the soft fur. In the deep silence of the night, his big brother slept on as Joe’s fears broke free, the only audience for his whispered confession the little creature that rubbed its whiskers against his wet cheek.

It seemed only a moment later when Joe opened his eyes. Dawn was just breaking, the softest light peeking in his window. The kitten was nowhere to be seen, and Hoss was snoring. The tray on his bedside table evidenced Hop Sing’s early rising. He could smell the coffee, and even though he didn’t think his stomach could handle it, he was grateful for the comfort of the rich, brown scent.

“Hey, Hoss,” he called, and this time, his brother woke.

“Mornin’, Little Brother,” said Hoss. He yawned, stretching and rolling his head around to get the kinks out of his neck. “Looks like ol’ Hop Sing’s been here already. You want to try some coffee?”

“Huh-uh,” said Joe. “Just some water. My stomach’s not good.”

Hoss peered at Joe, frowning. “You okay, boy?” he asked, resting one large hand on Joe’s brow.

Joe nodded. “I’m okay.” He wondered if Hoss could tell he’d been crying. In the light of day, he was embarrassed at the notion, and he turned his face away in the hope that his big brother wouldn’t know what a baby he’d been.

Hoss stroked his brother’s hair. “How’s your leg feelin’? You need some painkiller?”

“It’s not too bad,” said Joe. It was almost true: the leg had returned almost to the level of pain before whatever it was Doc had done to it.

After a minute, Hoss sat back and perused the tray. “Here you go,” he said. “Hop Sing made you some toast and a cup of tea. That should sit okay.”

Joe shook his head. “Just the water, Hoss. I really don’t want anything else.”

Hoss didn’t press. Instead, he took his brother’s hand. “You’re gonna be okay,” he said in that gentle voice he used with skittish horses and frightened boys. “You jest hang on. Doc’s got a whole bunch of stuff he ain’t tried yet, and somethin’s bound to work. Don’t you worry about a thing. You got more grit than any man I know, an’ you’re gonna get through this jest fine.” He rubbed Joe’s hand, and Joe felt the tears threatening. But it wasn’t nighttime anymore, and the things he might have said then were all bottled up now.

So, Joe closed his eyes until he was sure the tears would stay back. Then, he opened them again and made himself turn to face Hoss. “I’m tired. Just give me a drink, and then I’ll sleep for a while.”

“Sure, Little Brother.” Hoss slid his arm behind Joe’s shoulders to prop him up and handed him the water glass from the night table.

Joe squinted at the glass. There was something about it that Hoss would have laughed at. He thought as hard as he could, but he couldn’t remember. Way over on the far side of his memory, something was watching him, but he couldn’t see it through the fog.

Finally, he just drank. It didn’t matter. He’d remember later, and Hoss would laugh then.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Joseph.”

Pa’s voice, deep and warm, reached through his sleep. Joe struggled to open his eyes. Blasted painkiller. A man couldn’t hardly function when he was taking this stuff.

Pa’s work-roughened hand was gentle on his forehead. “How’re you feeling, boy?”

Joe tried to moisten his lips enough to talk. “Okay,” he murmured. He felt Pa lift his head, and the cool hardness of a glass pressed against his lower lip.

“You drink a little, okay?” Pa said, as if Joe had any kind of choice in the matter.

But the water was fresh and cold, and he almost shivered as it slid down his throat. It was the best feeling he’d known in days, and he reached out for more as Pa started to put the glass down. Holding the glass in both hands like a child, he drank greedily, not handing it back until it was empty.

“I guess you were thirsty after all,” said Pa. “You think you’re ready for some lunch?”

Joe shook his head. “Not hungry,” he said. Words were still hard to form, and even he could hear that he was slurring as if he were drunk.

“You need to eat something,” said Pa in that tone that would never take “no” for an answer. “You haven’t had anything since yesterday, and Hop Sing made you some soup-vegetable beef. He made it just for you.” He leaned over and added conspiratorially, “It doesn’t even have any onions in it.”

A lopsided grin stretched across Joe’s face as he murmured, “Does Adam know?” Joe’s lifelong hatred of onions had always competed in Ponderosa menus with Adam’s love for them. Joe claimed that Adam would put onions in everything except flapjacks, and Adam declared that Joe just didn’t know what was good, but that they’d excuse him because little boys often didn’t. He’d been saying that all Joe’s life.

“He and Hoss are up at the timber camp,” said Pa. “And you, young man, are going to eat some lunch.”

“Pa, I’m really not hungry,” Joe protested. He knew that this argument didn’t have a snowball’s chance of succeeding, but it was true. The painkiller made his stomach pitch like a ship at stormy sea, and while it was pretty calm right now, he didn’t want to stir matters up.

“You need to get something in you,” said Pa as he helped Joe to sit up and arranged the pillows behind him. “You can’t have more painkiller on an empty stomach.” He set the tray on Joe’s lap as the comforting scent of beef and vegetables filled the room.

Slowly, Joe spooned up the soup. Even though his stomach wasn’t sure it approved, he sighed with pleasure at the first taste of the rich, savory broth. When he was little, he would poke through the soup to find his favorites, peas and corn. He would flick them at Hoss when Pa wasn’t looking, a splash of reddish-brown broth dotting the tablecloth as the tiny pellets flew. The carrots sometimes were a little mushy, but in the summer, when the string beans were fresh from the garden, Hop Sing would put them in at the end of cooking to keep them from getting drab and soggy. Chunks of potato dotted the soup, surrounded by shreds of beef. The tomatoes tended to get stringy if they weren’t cut up small enough, but Joe had learned the hard way not to complain. He’d done that precisely once, when he was about eight, and Hop Sing had responded by dumping a large spoonful of diced onions into his soup and making him finish the entire bowlful. The sharp taste of the raw onions had taken most of the afternoon to fade even though Joe had chewed on pine needles every chance he got, and for the rest of the day, whenever he burped, he could taste onion all over again. Nobody, but nobody, criticized Hop Sing’s cooking.

Pa sat by his bed, watching approvingly as Joe ate. When the dish was nearly empty, Joe set down his spoon. “I’m done,” he said, letting his head fall back.

“Isn’t that a tomato over there?” teased Pa.

“Don’t tell Hop Sing,” said Joe with a tired grin. He watched while Pa moved the tray over to the bureau. “Pa,” he said. Pa turned back, and Joe met his eyes. “Is Doc gonna cut off my leg?”

He’d half-hoped that the question would startle his father into blurting out the truth, but Ben Cartwright was made of sterner stuff. At once formidable and gentle, he settled himself into the bedside chair and leaned forward. “I hope not,” he said. “Doc is trying everything he can. He’s wired a doctor in San Francisco for advice. Believe me, son, it’s the last thing anybody wants to do.”

“But it might happen.” Joe was still watching his father as carefully as his laudanum hangover would allow.

“I hope not,” Pa said again. “But if it has to happen, I know that you’re man enough to be able to handle it.” He took his son’s hand. “I’m praying that it doesn’t come to that, and that something Doc does will take care of the infection.”

“But if it doesn’t. . . .” Joe didn’t know why he was pressing. He knew the answer. He didn’t know why it mattered to hear Pa say it.

“Let’s wait and see what Doc says before we worry about that,” said Pa. His rich brown eyes were focused on Joe’s face, and the love and comfort shone so clear that Joe had a sudden urge to fling himself into Pa’s arms, where nothing bad could ever happen. But before he could move, Pa said, “Why don’t you just lie back, and I’ll read to you for a little while?”

Joe swallowed hard. He felt as if he’d been shoved away. “Okay,” he said. He pretended not to notice Pa’s brow wrinkling the way it did when something didn’t make sense. He closed his eyes, and after a minute, he heard Pa moving across the room to fetch his book. As Pa’s deep baritone filled the room, Joe tried to focus on the story, but all he could hear was his father’s earlier statement: I know that you’re man enough to handle it.

He took a deep, silent breath. Maybe, if he hoped as hard as he could, Pa would never have to find out the truth.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next day, Hoss entered Joe’s room carrying a strange wooden contraption. Joe roused himself from his half-slumber to inquire, “What in tarnation is that?”

“It’s a frame,” said Adam, coming in behind Hoss. “It’s to put over your leg so that the covers don’t touch it. Doc doesn’t want anything putting any weight on your leg.”

“What?” Joe squinted. The frame looked like a half of a long, narrow box-almost like a skinny coffin. He pushed that thought away as he watched while his brothers drew back the bedclothes and set it over his leg, positioning it so that it hid the leg from thigh to toes. Then, Adam drew the bedclothes over the frame, and Joe stared at the bizarre shape it made. “You can’t even tell I got a leg under there,” he muttered without thinking. In the next instant, the thought slammed into him again that any day now, he could wake up and have only the frame, no leg.

“So, how come you’re bringing this in now, anyway?” he asked to change the subject. “My leg’s not so bad right now.” It was a lie, but he figured it was a necessary one if he wanted to keep having two legs.

“Doc’s here,” said Adam. “He’s downstairs talking to Pa. They’ll be coming up in a few minutes.”

“You mean, after he finishes telling Pa everything they don’t want me to hear,” snapped Joe. “If you all don’t stop treating me like a little kid-”

“You jest hang on there,” said Hoss. “Nobody’s treatin’ you like a little kid. It’s-well, it’s. . . .” He looked helplessly at Adam, who sat on the edge of the bed.

“It’s easier for Pa this way,” said Adam in his typical direct manner. “He’d rather hear what Doc has to say ahead of time, instead of while he’s sitting here next to you.”

Joe looked from Adam to Hoss. “Is it that bad?” he asked finally.

His brothers exchanged a look. “We’re not going to know anything for sure until Doc looks at your leg,” Adam said.

“Don’t lie to me!” The words were out before Joe knew they were coming.

“You watch your mouth,” Hoss warned him.

Joe glared at his big brother. “Look, if nobody can know anything until Doc looks at my leg, then what could he be telling Pa right now, when he hasn’t seen my leg since yesterday?”

“I don’t know,” said Adam, his calm voice a distinct contrast to his younger brother’s. “When they come up, Doc will examine your leg, and then we’ll all know everything. In the meantime, you can sit here and tell yourself that we’re lying, or you can trust us. It’s up to you.”

Joe looked from Adam to Hoss, and then at the blanketed frame. He wanted so much to believe them. He wanted to believe that one of these days, they’d take that frame away and there would be his leg, all of it, good as new. He wanted to believe that his future would include riding and bronc busting and dancing with pretty girls. He rested one hand on the frame, but as he touched the hardness of the wooden box, he knew just how a wooden leg would feel, and his stomach lurched so violently that he had to close his eyes and press his fist against his mouth.

“You okay?” asked Adam. Joe nodded without opening his eyes. He felt Adam’s hand on his arm. “Breathe deep, Little Brother,” Adam said. “Slow and deep. That’s it. Just hold on, you’re fine.”

After a minute, Joe felt the nudge of something hard against his fist. He opened his eyes to see Hoss offering him a glass of water. Wordlessly, he took it and sipped, trying to keep his breathing slow and even.

The door opened. “So, how’s my patient?” asked Doc as he came into the room.

“Fine,” said Joe. He tried not to glare at the doctor as he handed the glass back to Hoss. After all, it wasn’t Doc’s fault that his idiot patient didn’t know enough to stay off a dangerous horse. The doctor was just trying to do the best he could for somebody who was too dumb to be allowed to run around loose.

Joe sat still while the doctor turned back the bedclothes and moved the frame that Adam and Hoss had just placed. “Look away, please, Joe,” said Doc as he prepared to unwrap the bandages.

“It’s my leg,” said Joe stubbornly. “I’ll look at it if I want to.”

“Joseph,” warned Pa.

“It’s my leg,” Joe repeated, not caring if he sounded childish.

“Joseph, the doctor needs for you to look away,” said Pa in a tone that would brook no interference. He held Joe’s glare with one just as fierce until Joe dropped his eyes.

As Doc unwrapped the leg, Joe found himself biting his lip. He didn’t think that just moving it would hurt quite so much. No sooner had the thought crossed his mind, though, than a jolt of pain shot through the length of his leg like a lightning bolt, and he let out a yell and a few curse words.

“Joseph!” Pa barked.

“Sorry,” Joe muttered as he tried to catch his breath. “Just–warn me next time.”

“I’m sorry, Joe,” said the doctor in a tone that sounded less apologetic than worried. “I didn’t think it was going to be quite that tender. Hoss, hold onto Joe’s hands.” The big man took his brother’s hands, and Joe squeezed as hard as he could to keep from screaming as the doctor poked and prodded. Finally, the doctor said, “You can let go now.”

Hoss flexed his fingers as Joe released his grip. “Dadburnit, Little Brother, you’re a whole lot stronger than you look!”

“You all right, Joe?” asked the doctor. Joe nodded, not trusting his voice. “Adam, help me put the frame back,” said the doctor. When the frame was covering Joe’s leg, the doctor drew up the bedclothes and turned to Ben, nodding. Then, he faced Joe.

“It’s no better, is it?” Joe asked.

“No,” said the doctor. “The infection is getting worse. There’s fluid building up. I’m going to try to drain it out as best I can, and then we’re going to be keeping poultices on it to try to draw out the infection.”

But the doctor looked too grim for someone with a good plan, and Joe felt a chill run down his spine. “What if this doesn’t work?”

“Let’s cross that bridge later,” said the doctor.

“Let’s cross it now,” said Joe. “What if it doesn’t work? What other choices are there?”

“I’ve sent a wire to one of the leading doctors in San Francisco,” said Doc. “I haven’t yet heard back from him. Hopefully, he’ll have some suggestions.”

“What if you don’t hear back from him?” asked Joe.

“I’m sure I will,” said Doc. “It’s only been a few days.”

“A few days? How long does it take to answer a wire?” Joe didn’t mean to sound as if he was panicking, but even he could hear his voice getting higher. “What kind of a doctor is he, anyway?” When the doctor didn’t answer right away, Joe felt fear clutching his heart. “He’s a surgeon, isn’t he? You wired a surgeon to find the best way to cut off my leg, didn’t you? He cuts people up for a living, and this is who you’re asking for help!”

“Joe, calm down,” said Pa, moving to sit on the side of the bed.

“Pa, did you know this? Did you know who he’s asking for help?” His breathing was getting rougher and faster.

“Take it easy, Joe,” said Adam, sitting on the other side of the bed.

“‘Take it easy’? You take it easy, Adam. Nobody wants to cut off your leg, so you take it as easy as you want, but don’t you even think about trying to tell me to take it easy!” He shook Adam’s hand off his arm.

“Joseph,” said Pa, but it wasn’t a reprimand this time. The single word spoke of love and comfort, grief and sorrow and an assurance that somehow, things would work out. Pa rested his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “It’s all right, son,” he said quietly. “Everything’s all right. Just calm down now. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Joe stared incredulously. He opened his mouth, but no sound issued. How could his father sit here, with his two good legs that nobody wanted to cut off, and announce that everything would be fine? He was trembling now, as much with rage as with fear, but before he could explode, the doctor said, “I’d like speak to Joe alone.”

Moments later, the doctor closed the door on Ben Cartwright’s last backward glance and turned to his patient. “Joe, you need to listen to me,” he said. “I’ve had to cut off a fair number of arms and legs in my years as a doctor, but let me tell you something. If there’s any way that I can save my patient’s life and not to cut off the arm or leg, I’ll take that way. But if it’s what I have to do to keep my patient from dying, then yes, I’ll cut it off. But it is never, ever anything but a last resort when everything else has failed.”

He met Joe’s eyes squarely. “I’ve had this talk with a lot of men-and a few women, too,” he continued. “Every last one of them told me at some point that they’d rather die than lose the arm or leg. But I’ll tell you something, Joe Cartwright. When it was all over, they learned to live with how things were, and how they got along said a good bit about the kind of man or woman they were. Now, you’re just about the orneriest person I’ve ever known, and that’s saying a lot in these parts. And I know how much you don’t want that leg to come off, but I’ll tell you something you don’t seem to understand-I don’t want to cut it off. I brought you into this world with two legs, and I want to watch you walking around this town on two legs for years to come. And that’s why I’m doing everything I can to keep that leg attached to the rest of you.”

The doctor drew a deep breath and rested his hand on the frame. Almost reluctantly, he went on, “Now, your pa’s having a real hard time with all this. I know you are, too, but when I start working on your leg, you’re probably going to be asleep, because I’m going to give you a good dose of laudanum first, and I expect you’re going to be needing it pretty regular for the next few days until we see if this works. But your pa and your brothers-they’re the ones who are going to have to watch everything. They’re the ones who are going to be sitting by your bed, knowing how bad you’re hurting and praying that your fever doesn’t go higher and that the infection breaks, and there’s no painkiller for their kind of hurting.” He waited for his words to sink in before he added, “So you need to pull yourself together. You’re not the only one this is hard for.”

In other words, take it like a man, Joe thought, not breaking from the doctor’s gaze. That seemed to be all anybody had to say. Be brave, Joe, don’t worry, take it easy, don’t make this any harder on anybody else than it has to be, just be a man and it’ll all be fine. You’ve got grit. Don’t think about what your life will be like without your leg. Don’t let on that you’re scared. Just be a man about it.

He swallowed hard, and then swallowed again. “You’re not cutting my leg off unless I say so,” he said. A man had the right to set his own terms.

He watched the doctor assessing him. “I can’t promise anything,” Doc said finally. “If you’re too sick to say yes or no, your pa’s going to have to decide for you. But I’ll tell you this much. I’ll only take your leg off without your saying so if it’s what I have to do to save your life.” He turned to pick up his bag, the discussion clearly over, not seeming to notice that Joe was still staring at him.

“But. . . .” The word died on Joe’s lips, but the doctor was already opening the bedroom door. His family tumbled in as if they’d been caught listening at the door. All of them, even Hop Sing, crowded into the room, talking and setting up and doing whatever was necessary, and not a one of them even bothered tossing a word to Joe.

He looked over to the windowsill. He would have to remember to tell them to leave the window open. That was the only way he could figure that the kitten was getting into his room. And as his father held the spoonful of laudanum for him, all Joe wanted was that little gray cat.

His room might be full of family and friends, but he’d never felt so alone in his life.

* * * * * * * * * *

Joe struggled to open his eyes. He didn’t know how long it had been since whatever it was Doc had tried. He vaguely recalled darkness, then light, then darkness again. Low, rumbling voices had drifted at the very edges of his consciousness, but he had lacked the energy to try to make out the words. Every now and again, the sharp taste of laudanum would make him cringe, but he didn’t fight it any more. Even with the medicine, the stabbing pain in his leg took his breath away. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so cold, but he couldn’t form the words to ask them to take away the cool, wet cloths that seemed to press constantly against his face.

He blinked as hard as he could, but the world was still vague and blurry. He rubbed at his eyes, but this, too, was ineffectual.

The movement caught the attention of the dark figure beside the bed, though. “It’s good to see you awake, Little Brother,” said Adam. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” murmured Joe.

Adam’s hand rested on his forehead. “Your fever’s up,” he said. “Do you want another blanket?” At Joe’s nod, he left the room, returning with a quilt. He spread it carefully over Joe, tucking it in as he had when his youngest brother was a child. “How’s that? Better?” Joe nodded again, and Adam rested his hand against Joe’s cheek. “Let’s get you some water,” he said. A moment later, he was supporting Joe, holding a glass to his lips.

There was something comforting in Adam’s efficient, almost business-like manner. A man didn’t need to worry if Adam was tending to him. Whatever needed to be done, Adam would see to it calmly, without dithering or fretting. And so, even though Adam wasn’t much for the kind of comforting touches that Pa and Hoss tended toward, like stroking his hair or holding his hand, Joe found himself feeling just a little less scared.

Adam laid him back on the pillows. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “I’m going to go and put some broth on to heat.”

Joe squinted. “Hop Sing?” he managed.

“I imagine he’s asleep,” said Adam with a wry smile. “It’s almost three in the morning.”

“What?” Joe tried to look past Adam to the window. “I don’t need anything now,” he said, aware that his words were running together.

“You haven’t had anything to eat in nearly two days,” said Adam. “If you’re awake, you’re eating, and I don’t care what time it is.”

Joe managed a slight grin. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

“Don’t get fresh,” said Adam as he pulled the quilt up around Joe’s shoulders. “I’ll be right back.”

The next thing Joe knew, Adam was setting a cup on the bedside table. “That was fast,” he said.

Adam chuckled. “Not really,” he said. “But I expect you were asleep anyway. Now come on, you need to sit up a little.” He helped Joe to lean forward, rearranging the pillows behind him and settling him back. Carefully, he handed Joe the cup, his hands hovering until Joe nodded that he had it.

The broth tasted good, and Joe surprised himself by finishing it. “Thanks,” he said, handing the cup back, smiling to hide how exhausted he was simply from sitting up.

Adam set it on the table and helped Joe to lie back down. He readjusted the quilt and laid his hand on Joe’s forehead. “What are we going to do with you?” he said, shaking his head. Joe smiled slightly; he’d been hearing the same rhetorical question from Adam his entire life. There was something comforting about hearing the familiar words, delivered in that wry voice that only Adam could manage.

Adam wrung out the cloth that had been sitting in the bowl of water and replaced it on Joe’s brow. “Try and go back to sleep,” he urged. “I’ll be right here if you need anything.”

Adam settled himself in the chair and picked up his book. Joe closed his eyes, but a minute later, he opened them. “Adam?”

“What’s the matter?” Adam leaned forward, immediately alert.

“It didn’t work, did it?” It took such effort to make the words come out clearly. Joe felt almost as though he’d been drinking too much.

Adam looked perplexed. “What do you mean?”

“Whatever it was Doc was doing-it didn’t work. My leg still hurts so much, and you said I’m sicker now.”

Adam set the book on the night table. “It doesn’t look as if it did much,” he admitted.

That was one of the things Joe valued most about his eldest brother: he didn’t try to lie and put a good face on matters. If something was bad, it was bad. He might try to avoid talking about it if he thought it would be too hard for other people, but in the end, Adam faced things, and he respected folks who did the same.

“What’s left to do-besides cutting off my leg?”

Adam didn’t look even a little bit surprised at the question. He leaned closer, resting his hand on Joe’s arm. “I don’t know,” he said with characteristic honesty. “I’m not a doctor. I don’t know what other choices there might still be.”

Joe considered this. He thought of Pegleg Pete, the swamper at the Silver Dollar Saloon. Nobody knew how he’d lost his leg, it had happened so long ago. Joe couldn’t remember if there had ever been a time when Pegleg Pete had had two legs or if he’d come to town with just the one. Everybody just called him Pegleg Pete, and they pretty much ignored him while he cleaned out spittoons and mopped the floors around their feet as they drank and played poker.

Pegleg Joe, he thought. That could be me. He had a sudden vision of himself as an old man, out behind the saloon, pouring out the slop and tobacco that cowboys had spat.Oh, that’s just ol’ Pegleg Joe, they’d say. Lost his leg when he was a young feller. Don’t recollect how. Doesn’t matter anyway.

“Adam?” At his brother’s nod, he asked, “Do you-do you reckon a fellow could ride a horse with just one leg?”

Adam watched him carefully, and Joe half-held his breath. He didn’t want Adam to start in about how they didn’t know what was going to happen and he shouldn’t worry about that yet. That was what Pa would say, but Adam knew better.

“I think he might,” said Adam finally. “It would probably depend on a number of things, of course.”

“Like what?”

Adam looked like he would rather be anyplace else in the world at that moment, but he answered Joe straight, just the way he always did. “It would probably depend on how much of the leg was cut off, for a start. I’d imagine that, if the knee was still there, it would help a whole lot. Of course, the fellow would need a well-behaved mount-he couldn’t just go off on any wild horse he felt like riding, and he’d probably have to stay on the slower side and keep to short rides, but if the fellow had been a good rider before and had good balance, it seems to me that it could work,” he mused, just as if he didn’t know that people had commented for years on how Joe was such a natural on a horse and how he had such balance and grace in the saddle. With a grin, he added, “Plus, I suspect it would help if the fellow had a really smart brother who could figure out how to rig up a saddle so that it would suit a man who had only one leg.”

“Do you-do you think that brother might be smart enough to figure out a way that a one-legged man could bust broncs?” Joe ventured.

The grin vanished from Adam’s face. His eyes darkened with sadness. “I doubt it,” he said. “Busting broncs is pretty dangerous work. I don’t think there’s any way to make that into something that fellow could do.” He squeezed Joe’s arm, and Joe nodded.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered. “But what about roping? What if the fellow was just roping calves? Or maybe driving cattle, or things like that?”

Adam looked somber. “That’s an awful lot of ‘what ifs’ for this time of night, Little Brother,” he said at last, patting Joe’s arm. “Why don’t you try to get some sleep for a while?”

Joe stared at his eldest brother. Of all the things he’d never expected, Adam dodging a question was near the top of the list. Adam had always told him things straight, no matter what. If he wasn’t willing to tell Joe the truth, it had to be because the truth was every bit as bad as Joe thought-or maybe worse.

He managed a nod as he closed his eyes. The chair creaked as Adam settled back. Joe lay as still as he could, willing Adam not to notice that he was anything other than tired. He wished that he dared ask Adam to go and find the little gray cat. Right now, the thought of soft fur and rhythmic purring was the only thing that made any sense.

For a long time, the only sound was the whisper of pages turning. After what seemed like forever, he finally felt himself drifting off.

But as he tipped over the edge from wakefulness into sleep, the image that drifted unbidden into his mind made him jerk awake with a gasp.

“What’s the matter, Joe? You okay?” Adam was immediately alert.

Joe nodded as convincingly as he could.  He settled back and closed his eyes before Adam could ask anything else.  After a minute, he heard Adam sit back and turn another page.

And so he didn’t have to tell his brother how he’d seen himself, one-legged and tied to the saddle with rope, riding slowly into town on a dilapidated old nag.  Or how Pegleg Pete had stood out in front of the Silver Dollar, holding out a stained apron and a spittoon for Pegleg Joe so that he could get to work.

When Joe opened his eyes again, Pa was sitting beside him, wiping his face with a cool, wet cloth.  “Is he even strong enough for this?” Pa asked hoarsely.“Huh?”  The question didn’t make any sense.

“Well, look’s who’s awake,” said the doctor.  “How do you feel, Joe?”

“Cold,” he managed.  He blinked hard to try to clear the fog away.  He didn’t know how long he’d been sleeping, but he was as tired as he could ever remember being.

The doctor held his fingers against Joe’s cheek.  “His fever’s higher,” he said to Pa.  “Ben, I don’t think we have a choice any more.  If we wait much longer, he’s going to be too weak, and his body’s not going to be able to tolerate the shock.”

“Wait—what?”  If there was one thing worse than coming in on the middle of a conversation, it was doing so when sounds were blurry and sights were foggy and his mind was having a hard time staying alert enough to concentrate.

“Son, Doc thinks—it looks like he’s going to have to operate,” said Pa.  “Nothing he’s tried has helped.  Your leg is worse, and you’re getting sicker.  We can’t put this off any longer, Joseph.”

“No,” said Joe, but even he could hear how feeble his voice was.  He tried to focus on the doctor.  “You said—you said it was the last possible. . . .”  He couldn’t remember the word the doctor had used.  One of those fancy words Adam would know.

“It is,” said the doctor.  “I’m so sorry, Joe, but we’re there.  We’ve tried everything else.  I’m going to have to operate.”

“No,” Joe said again.  He could feel himself trembling, and he didn’t know if it was the cold or Doc’s words.  “No, I won’t let you.  You can’t cut off my leg.”

“Son, there’s no choice,” said Pa gently, stroking Joe’s hair. “Believe me, if there was any other way. . . .”Joe shut his eyes, turning away from his father, only to realize that he was facing toward the doctor. Bad enough it was all happening, but he couldn’t even have any privacy.

The doctor looked defeated.

Oh, God, please, no, he begged silently as acid rose in his throat. It was real. The time had come. He was going to go to sleep, and when he woke up, he would have only one leg. For the rest of his life, he’d never bust broncs or drive cattle or brand calves, or climb the ladder to the loft or run down the stairs to the breakfast table. . . .

“Pa,” he murmured, fighting back tears with every ounce of strength he had left.

“I know, son,” Pa said. “But you’re going to be all right, I promise you.”

“You jest take it easy, Little Brother,” said Hoss as he appeared behind Pa. “Ol’ Adam’s already got some ideas about how you can do all sorts of stuff. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I’m going to start working on that saddle first thing in the morning,” said Adam, sounding as wobbly as Joe had ever heard.

“There’ll be plenty of time to talk about that later,” said the doctor. “Ben, I want you and Adam out of the room. Hoss and Hop Sing are all the help I’ll need.”

“Pa.” Joe reached for Pa as the white-haired man stood, and Pa caught his hand.

“I’ll see you in a little while, son,” said Pa, his voice cracking.

“You behave yourself, Little Brother,” said Adam, patting his arm.

“Hop Sing, you’re going to handle the ether,” said the doctor. He uncorked a bottle, and the familiar sickly-sweet smell drifted through the room as Doc poured it on the cloth that Hop Sing held.

“Wait a minute,” said Joe. Pa and Adam stopped at the door. “Take the frame away,” he said.

“We’re going to move it in a minute,” said Doc.

“No,” said Joe. “Move it now. I want to see my leg.” The others exchanged somber looks, and Joe said, “It’s my leg, and I have a right to see it. Let me see it.”

“Joe, that’s not a good idea,” said Doc carefully. “It’s looking-well, it’s not looking good. Gangrene is pretty ugly.”

“I don’t care,” said Joe stubbornly. “I want to see it.”

“It doesn’t look the way it did the last time you saw it,” said the doctor, clearly trying to be delicate. “I really don’t think you should look at it.”

Joe searched the blurry faces. “Pa, please,” he implored. “Make him show me my leg.”

“Joe, it’s not a good idea now,” Pa said. “It looks pretty bad.”

“I don’t care,” Joe repeated. “Somebody please, just move that frame and let me see my leg.” He forced back the tears that were threatening as he tried to sit up.

And then, Adam stepped forward.

Many, many years later, when Joe Cartwright’s hair had long been white, his grandson would ask him to name the most important thing someone ever did for him. Even with a lifetime of moments behind him, Joe didn’t have to think. He rested his hand on his grandson’s shoulder and told him about way back when he was eighteen years old, and how his big brother, Adam, insisted that the doctor allow him to see his leg. “‘It’s his leg, and it’s the last time he’ll ever see it,’ Adam told my doctor,” Joe said, his voice thin with age. “The doctor looked as shocked as if Adam had punched him, but even he knew Adam was right. It was my leg, and I had a right to see it before they cut it off.”

Slowly, the doctor turned back the bedclothes. Without a word, Hoss removed the frame, and for the first time in more than two months, Joe saw his leg.

If he’d had anything in his stomach, it would have come up at that moment. As it was, he doubled over, his arm braced against his midsection. Pa hurried to his side, and the doctor said, “That’s enough.”

But Joe held up his hand. “No,” he managed. With Pa rubbing his shoulder, Joe forced himself to look again. He couldn’t make himself look at the lower leg, with its nightmare of violent color and crusty oozing puffiness, and so he focused on his foot, which was red and swollen. His toes were so puffy that they looked almost round. He tried to move them, and when they bent slightly, the tears began to slide down his cheek as he realized that never again would he wiggle his toes. He bent over his leg, his hands on his thigh. His fingers brushed his swollen knee, but he couldn’t ask the question. He forced himself look again at the ugly part of his leg, and at his ankle and his foot and his toes, memorizing them.

Finally he looked up at the doctor. He didn’t dare look at Pa or his brothers or Hop Sing. He took a deep breath.

“I’m ready.”

* * * * * * * * * *

The morning dawned clear and bright. The rest of the family was gathered around the table, chatting about the day’s work, as Joe hopped across the living room.

“Good morning, Joseph,” said Pa pleasantly. “It’s too bad you didn’t get down here earlier. There’s no time for you to have breakfast now. We really need to get going.”

“I’m sorry, Pa,” said Joe. “I kept falling down when I tried to get dressed.”

Adam shook his head. “It’s a shame, isn’t it? The kid can’t even dress himself any more.”

“Don’t you worry, Shortshanks,” said Hoss. “Oops–I guess it’s jest Shortshank now, ain’t it? Anyway, don’t worry–I’ll help you get dressed tomorrow. Ain’t right to expect you to get dressed all by yourself like a regular feller.”

“Well, let’s get going,” said Pa, rising. “Come on, Joe. Time to get going.”

“Do I have time for a cup of coffee?” asked Joe.

“I’m sorry, son,” said Pa. “I guess you’ll just have to figure out how to get ready faster.” He strolled over to the credenza where he and Joe’s brothers buckled on their gunbelts and picked up their hats. “Let’s go, Joseph,” Pa added with a touch of impatience.

“I’m coming,” Joe said, heaving himself to his foot and hopping after them. He reached the credenza just as the other three headed outside.

“I’ll get your horse, Little Brother,” Hoss called back to him.

“Thanks!” Joe said.

Buckling his gunbelt seemed to be much more complicated that it used to be. He leaned against the credenza as he tied the holster to his leg, grateful for being left-handed. Then, he put on his hat and hopped out the door.

Pa’s buckskin gelding stood by the rail, its golden coat gleaming. Adam’s chestnut stood next to it, glints of red shining as Adam adjusted the cinch. Hoss’ black stood tall and powerful beside the others.

“Where’s my horse?” asked Joe.

“I got it right here,” said Hoss. He came out of the barn, pulling a wooden hobby horse by a string.

“But-that’s not my horse!” Joe protested.

“Of course, it is,” said Pa. “It’s the only kind of horse a man with one leg can handle.”

“But Adam said-he said I’d be able to ride!” Joe turned to Adam, beseeching him to speak up.

“Well, Joe, I know I said that, but I guess I was wrong,” Adam said matter-of-factly, as if he routinely admitted such a thing. “It looks like this little fellow is all the horse you’re going to be able to handle from now on, but don’t worry. We’ll tie you on good and tight so that you don’t fall off.”

“I’m not going to fall off!” snapped Joe. “That’s not a real horse! It’s a toy!”

“Don’t be silly, Little Brother,” said Hoss heartily. “This here’s just as much a real horse as any of the others, so you jest mount right up.” He positioned the toy next to Joe and said, “Hop on!”

“That’s not funny!” Joe tried to shove Hoss, but his big brother simply stood in place, laughing as Joe fell down on the ground.

“There, there, Little Joe,” said Hoss. “Don’t you fret. Pa an’ Adam an’ me’s gonna go off and do men’s work, and you jest stay here in the yard with your little pony here.”

“It’s not my horse!” Joe insisted. “And I’m not a little kid!” he added as tears began to run down his face.

“Sure, you’re not,” said Adam. “We understand, Joe.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped Joe’s eyes. “Blow,” he said as he held the handkerchief over Joe’s nose.

“Stop that!” Joe slapped Adam’s hand away.

“Joseph!” said Pa sternly. “Your brothers are just trying to help. It’s not like you’re a man who can do anything for himself any more. Now, you get on your little horse and be a good boy for Hop Sing, and we’ll be back tonight.” Before Joe could protest, Pa and Adam and Hoss had swung into their saddles and were riding away as Joe stood in the yard next to the toy horse, tears streaming down his face.

“Wait for me!” he called. “I’m coming! Don’t leave me! Wait for me. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

“We’re right here, son,” Pa said softly. Joe felt the cool, wet cloth on his brow as Pa’s voice, low and easy, murmured reassurance.

“But-that wasn’t my horse!” Joe tried to move away from the wet cloth, but it was following him.

“Ssssh, you’re all right,” said Pa. “Just rest now. You’re going to be fine, you’ll see.” Joe reached out, and Pa caught his hand, holding it against his sun-roughened cheek. “Hold on, boy,” he said. “You’re going to be all right, I promise.”

Joe wanted to ask how Pa knew this, but he couldn’t seem to form the words. He opened his mouth, but no sound issued. “Pa,” he whispered, the word more breath than voice.

“I’m here, son,” said Pa. “You just take it easy. You’re going to be all better before you know it.”

Joe clutched Pa’s hand almost as hard as he clung to that promise. Pa wouldn’t lie. If Pa said he was going to be all better, than he would be. He’d be as good as new, riding and roping and dancing with pretty girls. . . .

* * * * * * * * * *

He could hear music and laughter floating up the stairs. The bright strains of a Virginia reel made him want to get up and dance. The next thing he knew, he was out of bed and dressed, his empty pantleg pinned up, and he hopped determinedly down the hall.

At the top of the stairs, he paused. Beautiful girls in colorful gowns swirled gracefully around the dance floor like so many butterflies. Pa and Adam and Hoss were dancing and laughing, changing smoothly from one partner to the next.

“Evening, everybody!” Joe called from the top of the staircase, but nobody seemed to hear him. He waved, but nobody looked his way. “Hey, ladies! I’m here!” But their sparkling eyes and their lovely smiles were reserved for the men they danced with, and they paid no attention to Joe.

Frustrated, he began to hop down the stairs. At the bottom, he stood at the edge of the dancing crowd, looking for someone to dance with. Finally, he saw Morvath Terry, the southern belle he had once hoped to marry. She looked as elegant and beautiful as ever, and she smiled when she saw him.

“Morvath, come and dance with me!” he called, but she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, Joe, but I need a real man,” she said as she waltzed past with her partner, a man with two legs.

Connie McKee sat across the room, surrounded by handsome young men. “Connie!” Joe called. “Let’s dance!”

But Connie just laughed. “Oh, Joe, really,” she said. “If I wanted to dance, I’d choose someone who could actually dance, and not just hop around the room like a deranged bunny rabbit!”

“Amy!” he called. Amy Bishop, who had been dead, was dancing with Hoss. She waved and shook her head, smiling, and Hoss just shrugged.

“What can I say, Little Brother?” he asked. “The gal wants a feller who can dance with her.”

“I can dance!” Joe declared hotly. He grabbed Carrie McClain and hopped onto the dance floor. Frantically, he tried to keep up, hopping as fast as he could, but Carrie kept dancing faster and faster, until he was out of breath.

“There, you see? You can’t dance, Joe. Just give up!” said Adam.

“I can so dance!” The guests gathered in a circle as Joe danced on his one leg.

“Joseph, you’re making a fool of yourself,” said Pa. “Now stop this nonsense. You’re not a man any more, and you need to admit that.”

“I won’t! I’m still a man!” But tears were pouring down his cheeks as he danced, and the guests were laughing, and their laughter grew louder and louder, until the force of it knocked him to the floor and he struggled to get up. “Somebody help me!” he tried to call out, but he could barely hear his own voice over the roar of the laughter. “Somebody, please help me. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Easy, Joe, we’ll help you.” It sounded like Hoss, but Hoss was dancing with Amy Bishop. Joe felt hands on his arm, and he tried to push them away.

“His fever’s higher.” Adam’s voice sounded grim. “I don’t think there’s a choice. You didn’t take enough the first time.”

“I can’t go back in now,” said Doc. “He’s too weak. His body couldn’t stand the shock if I tried to take any more of the leg.”

“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Pa sounded frantic.

“Mistah Cahtlight?” Hop Sing’s voice was unusually soft, almost timid. Fragments filtered through the pain: “. . . eat something . . . Hop Sing stay . . . need rest . . . no good like this. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

The rest of the family was gathered around the table. Joe lay on the floor, on the rug by the front door. He was struggling, but he couldn’t get up on his one leg.

“Joseph, supper is getting cold,” said Pa, clearly irritated. “Would you kindly get yourself over here so that we can eat?”

“I can’t get up,” Joe said. He used his hands to push up until he was kneeling, but he kept losing his balance and falling over. “I can’t get up!”

“Well, Little Brother, if you don’t get yourself up, I’m just gonna eat your dinner as well as mine!” announced Hoss.

Joe held out his hand. “I can’t do it by myself,” he said. “It’s too much. It’s too hard.”

“Don’t be a baby,” said Adam dismissively. “You’re the one who told Doc to go ahead with the operation. Now, be a man and deal with the consequences.”

“I didn’t have a choice!” Joe protested. “Doc said I’d die if I didn’t have the operation. He said it would be harder on everybody if I died.”

“How hard do you think it’s gonna be for us to fetch and carry for you for the rest of your life?” asked Hoss through a mouthful of potatoes. “You ever think about that? You ain’t the only one this affected. Adam ‘n me are gonna have to do all the ridin’ and ropin’ and bronc bustin’ around here now. You ain’t even gonna be able to sit a horse, let alone break one.”

“If you hadn’t gotten on that chestnut in the first place, none of this would have happened,” Adam added. “So, this is all your fault.”

“You should have listened to Hoss,” said Doc Martin, who was suddenly at the table. “He tried to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen.”

“They’re right,” said Ben. “This whole thing is all your fault. Anybody want some string beans?”

“I do,” said Joe faintly, but nobody was paying attention. He used his hands and leg to drag himself across the floor and pull himself up onto his chair. When he looked at the table, he felt his stomach lurch.

“Would you like some meat, Joseph?” asked Pa. He held Hop Sing’s cleaver over the platter and smiled.

There, on Mama’s good platter, the one with the roses, lay the little gray cat, splayed out like a rug. It looked up at him with those inscrutable green-gold eyes. Its tail swished. Its mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Would you like a leg, Joe?” asked Pa as he prepared to slice the cat.

“‘NOOOOO!!!! NOOOOO!!!!”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Ssssh, it’s all right, son.” Something cool and wet touched his face, but he writhed to get away. “Easy, boy, just take it easy. You’re all right, Joseph. Pa’s right here.”

“No,” Joe murmured, trying to push away the hand that would carve up the cat. “Cat. No. Don’t.”

“What did he say, Pa?” Hoss sounded worried.

“I couldn’t make it out,” said Pa. “It sounded like he said something about a cat.”

“Ben, he’s delirious,” said Doc. “You can’t expect him to be making sense.”

“You think we should get the ice?” Adam sounded grim. “We can pack it around him in the bed.”

“I’m not at all sure that he could handle that at this point,” said Doc.

“We have to do something!” Pa snapped. “How can this be happening? You said you’d take everything you had to!”

“It was a risk, Ben–you knew that when we made the decision.” The doctor’s voice sounded almost resigned.

“I don’t care about what we decided–you have to save my boy!” Pa’s voice sounded so angry, and it was scaring Joe even more. He tried to reach out, to tell them to stop fighting.

Suddenly, Pa’s voice was right by Joe’s ear, quiet and urgent. “You’ve got to keep fighting, Joe,” he said. “You’re going to be all right, but you have to keep fighting, just as hard as you can. You can do this, son, I know you can. Don’t give up. Don’t you give up. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

The darkness gave way to daylight. All around him, the Ponderosa sparkled as if somebody had come through and cleaned everything up. The meadows were lush and green without a hint of dust or cattle dung. Songbirds perched in the trees, their melodies light on the breeze. The river burbled and splashed over glistening gray-green rocks as it made its way to the majestic lake below. There were no fences that needed mending, no streams that needed unblocking, no roads that needed repair. Every flower bloomed, every leaf glowed green in the sunlight. Cattle lumbered and grazed, rabbits and squirrels scampered, and horses ran, long and lean and strong. Summer’s dust had been washed away, and every inch of the Ponderosa was as perfect as they could ever have imagined.

Joe stood in the middle of the meadow on his one leg. He felt like he was waiting, but he didn’t know for what. Then, he heard the voice behind him.

“There you are, mon petit,” she said.

“Mama!” He tried to turn, but her gentle hand on his arm kept him in place. “What are you doing here?”

“The question, cheri, is what you are doing here,” his mother said gently. “You’re early. You’re not due here for many years yet.”

“I don’t know what happened,” he said. “One minute, I was trying to break a bronc, and the next thing I knew, they were cutting off my leg.”

His mother sighed. “Ah, mon petit, I know all that,” she said. “So sad. You should have listened to Hoss. He told you not to ride.”

“I know,” Joe whispered, ashamed. “But I wanted to ride.”

His mother smiled. “Like mother, like son,” she said. “He was a beautiful horse. I can understand why you wanted to ride him.”

“You saw him?”

“He’s over there,” she said, gesturing. Joe turned, and he saw the chestnut stallion, in all its magnificence, galloping across the pastures as if it would never stop. The sunlight glistened on the red-gold muscles. The mane and tail streamed behind the steed. They watched silently until the horse faded from view.

“Am I dead?” Joe asked finally. “Is this heaven?”

His mother laid a gentle hand on his cheek. “Yes, mon cheri, this is heaven.”

Joe smiled. “Pa always said heaven was going to have to go quite a ways to beat the Ponderosa.”

His mother laughed. “That he did,” she said. “Who knew that he right!”

“But. . . .” Joe was almost afraid to ask.

“But what?” She sounded curiously indifferent.

“My leg,” said Joe. “I thought everything in heaven was supposed to be perfect. Where’s my leg?”

“Oh, you’re not going to get it back,” said his mother.

“But-why not?” Joe looked around again. Everything else was perfect, right down to the way the grass remained untrampled even after the cattle had planted their hooves on it.

“Because you said they could take it off,” she said. “You gave up. If you had fought, you could have gotten it back.”

“But-I didn’t have a choice! Doc said-he said if I didn’t let him cut it off, I’d die and that would be too hard on Pa and Adam and Hoss. I didn’t want him to cut off my leg. I did it so I wouldn’t die. I didn’t want him to cut it off! I was trying to be strong for them-I was trying to be a man, like everybody said!”

“Well, that did not work out, did it, cheri?” shrugged his mother.

“You have to help me,” he begged. “You have to help me get my leg back.”

“I’m sorry, mon petit,” she said. “If only you’d fought for it. . . .”

“But I did fight! I did, Mama! I fought so hard-I was so scared, and I felt like I was all alone, but I still fought. . . .” Hot tears ran down his cheeks. “Mama, don’t . . . don’t let them do this. I want my leg back. Mama . . . Where’s Pa? He’ll get it back for me. Pa. . . .”

* * * * * * * * * *

“Hush, Joe,” came Pa’s voice, rumbling so deep that Joe felt it almost more than he heard it. “Pa’s here. Everything’s all right.”

“I did fight,” he murmured, tears coursing down his cheeks. “I fought hard. I was so scared, but I tried my best. . . .” His voice broke as his body shook with the sobs he’d held back for so long.

“I know, son,” Pa whispered. Joe felt Pa’s lips, cool against his hot brow. “You’ve been fighting real hard,” Pa whispered. “It’s just a little more, Joe. We’re right here with you. Just a little more. You’re almost there.” Pa’s hand stroked Joe’s hair, and Joe felt something fall on his cheek, like a raindrop.

“You hang on, Shortshanks,” said Hoss. A massive hand caressed his shoulder. “You ain’t alone, boy. We’re all here, fightin’ with you.”

“You can do it, Joe,” came Adam’s voice. His brother’s strong hand took his, squeezing gently. “You’re the stubbornest person I’ve ever known, and you can do this. I know you can, and we’re going to stay right here with you.”

“Li’l Joe be just fine,” said Hop Sing. His hand rested lightly on Joe’s left foot. The little man added something in Chinese. Joe struggled to hear it all, but he was so tired and cold, and he hurt so much, that it was hard to understand. It sounded almost like Hop Sing was saying something about a cat, but that couldn’t be right. And yet, at that moment, all Joe could think was how much he wanted that little creature who had been his comforter, and he closed his eyes as tears welled up again.

“Cold,” he murmured. Everyone shifted, releasing their touch, and someone pulled the bedclothes up over his shoulders.

“How’s that, son? Is that better?” asked Pa.

Joe nodded slightly. He clutched the covers on his chest as if the little cat was curled up there, warm and soft, purring its comfort. “Pa,” he murmured. Hold me, he thought, but he couldn’t get the words out. It wasn’t a manly thing to want, but in that moment, Joe didn’t care anymore. He’d tried for so long to be strong and brave, he’d tried to fight, and he was worn out. They were all fighting for him now, but maybe it was just too late. Hold me, Pa, he begged silently.

As if he’d heard the unspoken words, Pa sat on the side of the bed. He wrapped his arms around Joe, lifting his son so that the boy was half-lying in his lap. His calloused hand cradled Joe’s head as he murmured quiet words that Joe’s ears couldn’t quite hear, but his heart could.

Joe rested his cheek against Pa’s broad chest. He felt like just maybe he’d reached the end after all. He’d struggled so hard, along such a lonely road with only a barn cat beside him, and he hurt so badly, worse than he’d ever hurt in his life. Tears slid down his face, dampening Pa’s shirtfront. Maybe it was time. In Pa’s arms, somehow the thought of dying wasn’t quite as scary. Maybe heaven would be better, even if he didn’t get his leg back. He wanted to fight for Pa’s sake, and Adam’s and Hoss’s, but he didn’t know if he could. . . .

“Don’t let go, boy,” Pa whispered. “Don’t you leave us. Hold on, Joe. Keep fighting.”

I tried my best, Pa, Joe thought. I really did try.

And darkness overtook him once again.

* * * * * * * * * *

At first, there was a haze, like one of those thick fogs in San Francisco. Joe squinted, but the haze didn’t lift. He blinked hard, and it lightened just a bit. He still couldn’t see much until a dark shape appeared.

“Well, look who’s awake,” said Adam. “Welcome back, Little Brother.” His voice, usually so firm and decisive, was almost trembling. His hand brushed Joe’s cheek. “That was some wild ride, wasn’t it?”

Joe tried to lick his lips, but even that simple task was beyond him. He felt Adam lifting his head and holding a glass of water to his lips. “Drink up, Joe,” he said. “You were burning up there for a while. You need to get some water in you.” Obediently, Joe drank, and the cool liquid felt unbelievably good in his dry, sticky mouth. “Okay, that’s enough for now,” said Adam, laying him back down.

Joe blinked again. Clumsily, he reached out, and Adam sat down on the side of the bed. “You’re going to be okay,” he said. “I’ll go get Pa in a minute. He’s getting some sleep. He hasn’t had much rest the last few days. Doc made him go and lie down.” He smoothed Joe’s hair back from his forehead. “He was pretty scared. We all were. But you’re going to be fine.”

Joe swallowed hard. He tried to form a word, but his mouth was still too dry. He reached toward the glass, and Adam let him drink some more.

“Let me go and get Pa now,” said Adam. He started to rise, but Joe gripped his arm. “What is it, Joe? You need some painkiller?”

Joe shook his head. He had to ask. Adam would tell him the truth. He forced the words out: “How much?”

“How much?” Adam repeated, puzzled. Then, he understood, and he sat back down. “He took a good bit, Joe, but it’s not as bad we thought it would be. Doc will tell you all about it when he comes back this afternoon.”

He kept talking, but Joe turned his head away, eyes closed tightly. He already knew what he needed to know.

Phantom pain. That was what Doc had said it was called. That feeling that the leg was still there after it had been cut off. Some folks had it for years. They’d get the leg cut off at the thigh and complain that the foot hurt. Nobody knew why it happened.

Joe fought to keep control. When he woke, he was sure he felt his leg hurting like blazes, and he’d thought, just maybe. . . . But Adam wouldn’t have lied to him. It wasn’t there. Phantom pain.

“You okay, buddy?” Adam’s hand was gentle on his shoulder. When Joe made no response, Adam said quietly, “I understand.” He sat by Joe, saying nothing, just stroking Joe’s hair and waiting. Finally, his hand stilled. “You want some painkiller?” he offered again.

Joe shook his head. What was done, was done. He’d take his pain straight, like a man.

“All right,” said Adam. “I’m going to go and get Pa. I’ll be right back.”

“No,” Joe whispered, his face still turned away.

“No?” Adam sounded perplexed.

“Sleepy,” Joe managed. “Later.”

A long pause. “If that’s what you want,” said Adam dubiously.

Joe nodded. That’s what I want, he thought. Time to pull himself together before he had to face everybody. He felt like one of those hot-air balloons with all the air let out of it, and he knew that if he heard Pa’s voice now, he wouldn’t be able to be brave. Be a man, he told himself. A worn-out, hurting, terrified, one-legged man, his mind added.

And he turned his face farther away from Adam’s side of the bed, just in case.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Doc, something’s just not right,” said Pa. “He should be better by now.”

Joe couldn’t understand why they didn’t take their conversations downstairs, instead of standing right outside his door to fret and argue. All he could figure was that, while he was sick, they’d gotten so used to the notion that he couldn’t hear them that they’d forgotten he was better now. They’d stand right out there in the hall, or even sometimes at the foot of the bed, and talk about him like he wasn’t even there.

Not that Joe meant to listen. The truth was that he didn’t care what they said. There was nothing anybody could say that was going to make a difference now, and it took more energy to pay attention than he had left. And so, he pretended to be sleeping when people came into the room, or he asked for more laudanum so that he could sleep for real. Anything to escape.

Because that damned phantom pain never went away, not for one minute. The constant mockery of pain from a leg that wasn’t there made him want to punch something, anything. He’d tried one night to move the frame to see for himself what wasn’t there, but he’d bumped what was left and howled before he caught himself. The next thing he knew, the frame was back in place and Pa was talking to him in that soothing, comforting voice that used to make everything all right.

The only thing that helped, even a little bit, was the cat. One night, after he’d sent his supper away untouched, he’d awakened to see the little gray cat standing next to him, moonlight on the tips of its ears. He reached out, and at the softness of the fur under his fingers, he felt something crumble inside him, just a little bit. “Come here,” he whispered. The cat stood still, its eyes glinting. He reached under its belly to pull it closer, but the cat gracefully lifted itself away. “Please,” he whispered. “Please.” He held out his hand, and the cat bent its nose to his fingers, barely touching. It lifted its head, and Joe could feel it watching him. “Fine,” he whispered, dropping his hand to the bed. “Don’t bother.” It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

The little cat stood still. Joe closed his eyes. Just as he was dozing off, he felt the lightest thump on his arm. He opened his eyes to see that the cat had curled itself up next to him on the bed, pressing ever so slightly against his arm. He almost moved his arm so that his hand could rest on the cat’s back, but he was suddenly afraid it would leave if he did. So, he closed his eyes, allowing his mind to drift through a maze of moonlight, pain and the feather-light softness of cat fur on his arm.

And now, in the light of day, his family and the doctor stood outside his door, talking about him. He didn’t want to listen, but he found himself picking up the words almost in spite of himself.

“Ben, I told you this was going to take a while,” said the doctor. “Joe’s been through quite a siege. His body needs time to heal itself.”

“It’s more than that,” said Pa. “It’s as if he’s not interested in anything. He doesn’t eat enough to keep a bird alive. We try to talk to him, to read to him, anything–all he wants is more of that painkiller so that he can go back to sleep.”

“It was major surgery,” the doctor pointed out. “It’s not surprising he’d still be hurting pretty badly.”

“But, Doc–he jest–he ain’t himself,” said Hoss. “He was hurtin’ right after the accident, too, but he warn’t nothin’ like this.”

“But at that point, it was all new,” said the doctor. “He’s been fighting this battle for well over two months now, and he very nearly died in the bargain. The boy is tired, and he needs to rest.”

“This doesn’t look like rest,” commented Adam. “It looks like giving up.”

“You know your brother better than that,” chided the doctor. “That young man is as feisty as anybody I’ve ever known, but even he can’t be expected to fight all the time. You all need to let him rest a while longer. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Pa’s voice sounded heavy with sadness.

“Have a little faith, Ben,” said the doctor.

Footsteps moved away from Joe’s door as he stared at the place where they’d been. He almost wished they were still there so that he could throw something at them. How dare they, any of them. Pa and Hoss, complaining because he wasn’t all perky and talkative. The doctor, so smug, saying that all Joe needed was rest. And Adam, accusing him of giving up.

Let me cut your leg off, let’s see how you feel, Older Brother, he wanted to yell after them. They didn’t understand, any of them. He’d fought and he’d failed, and now he had to live with his failure while they all walked away on two legs apiece. He wished that he wanted to come back, to be the scrappy little brother who always made it through, but he just couldn’t make himself care anymore. It was just too much work.

All the colors were dull now. The heat of summer, which used to mean long days on horseback, working up a sweat and then diving into the cool, refreshing lake, just meant an oppressive heaviness when he tried to take a deep breath. Through the open window, he could hear voices shouting and laughing, horses whinnying, buggies and wagons coming and going. He could smell the dust and manure that had once been part of his life. Sometimes, if the wind was just right, he could hear the whooping of cowboys at the corral, and he knew that somebody had just ridden a bronc to a standstill.

He closed his eyes. Maybe Doc was right. Maybe he was just tired. Reflexively, he reached for the little gray cat, but it was daytime. The cat never appeared until night. He would have to wait.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Hey, Joe!” Hoss bounded into the room like a child on Christmas morning. “You want to play checkers?”

Joe shook his head. “No, thanks,” he muttered. It had been a long day, and he was tired. Doc was cutting back on his laudanum, and the pain hadn’t let up for an instant, so even when he dozed off, it didn’t last long.

Hoss dropped down in the bedside chair as if he had no idea of his brother’s sour mood. “How about I read to you for a while?” he suggested. “Which one of these ain’t you read?”

“I don’t know,” said Joe, not looking at the books his brother held up. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t feel like reading.”

“Y’know, your supper’s gonna be ready soon,” Hoss pressed on. “Doc said you can have whatever you want to eat!”

“I’m not hungry,” said Joe.

Hoss pulled the chair closer to the bed. “Hey, Little Brother,” he said. When Joe’s eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, Hoss poked his shoulder. “You look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” Deliberately, Joe turned away. Hoss shook his shoulder. “I said, you look at me,” he said, his voice belying a trace of anger. “Joseph!”

Almost against his will, Joe turned to face his brother. “Well?” he demanded after a minute. “What’s so all-fired important that I have to look at you?”

Hoss shook his head. “I dunno,” he said. His blue eyes were ineffably sad. “I wish there was somethin’ I could do to help,” he said softly.

The statement caught Joe by surprise. “So do I,” he admitted.

“You feel like talkin’ about it?” offered Hoss.

Joe shook his head. “It’s not gonna change anything.”

“Maybe not,” Hoss agreed. “But maybe it’ll help if’n you say whatever it is out loud.”

Joe considered this. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I’m just-tired.”

“You want to take a rest? We can talk later.” Hoss patted his arm as if he were a wild horse that needed to be reassured.

Joe shrugged. “I’ve been resting forever, and it ain’t helping.” The brothers remained together quietly, Hoss patting Joe’s arm. After a few minutes, Joe said, “It’s not the kind of tired where you sleep and you feel better. It’s more like–it’s more like when you’ve been driving cattle and the weather’s been lousy and the cattle have been dumb, and by the time you get where you were going, you aren’t even sure why you’re there except that it’s where you had to come to get rid of your load–and then, even after you get rid of them, it’s like you’re still dragging them along with you.”

Hoss considered this. After a while, he said, “I think mebbe I understand what you’re talkin’ about. When Margie Owens told me she was gonna marry that other feller–at first, it was like she’d reached right in and ripped my heart out, but later-I just got tired. I kept riding, and I didn’t know where I was goin’, and I didn’t care. I remember it was spring, but everything looked kinda gray.”

Joe nodded. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That’s what it feels like.”

“I thought mebbe it was,” said Hoss. “An’ the last thing you want is everybody tellin’ you that you gotta be strong and just move on.” Joe nodded again, intent now on his big brother’s face. “I’ll tell you a secret, Little Brother. Those nights out on the trail, before Margie’s wedding-I probably cried more then than I ever did in my life, ‘cept when Mama died.”

Joe nodded again, remembering. He’d only been five years old, but he could still recall how eleven-year-old Hoss had held him so tightly as the two boys mourned the loss of the only mother either had ever known. On the first two nights after her death, Little Joe had wakened the household with his nightmares about her death. But the third night, Hoss had slipped into Joe’s room after they were supposed to be in bed, and he said, “You come with me.” He’d taken his little brother by the hand and led him back to his own room. They climbed into Hoss’s bed together, and Joe had found solace in the warmth of his brother’s sturdy presence. They’d whispered under the covers about Mama, and they’d wept together about how much they missed her. Joe hadn’t had another nightmare as long as he slept next to Hoss.

But Hoss had mourned the loss of Margie alone. Joe reached for his hand. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” said Hoss. “Nobody did.”

“But you came back for her wedding.”

Hoss nodded, his gaze far away. “I know,” he said. “To this day, I ain’t quite sure why. Mebbe just because I had to see that it was real so’s I could try to put it behind me and figure out how to live without her. But it took a real long time, even after that, before the colors came back.” His voice trailed off.

“What made them come back?” whispered Joe. He was almost afraid to hear the answer, but at the same time, he felt a stirring, as if something inside him needed to know.

Hoss brought himself back to the conversation. He squeezed his little brother’s hand. “Time,” he said. “That, an’ knowing there were folks who cared about me. I remember one night that winter, when I was out in the barn, cleanin’ stalls or something. Not that I needed to then-it could’ve waited ’til morning-but I just felt like it. Adam came in, an’ he looked at me, an’ he picked up a pitchfork and started cleaning, too. We did that whole barn and never said a word. When we were done, he just put his hand on my shoulder, and we went back in the house.”

The brothers sat quietly. The late afternoon light was softer now. Down in the yard, cowhands were calling to each other. Hoof beats echoed as riders returned from a long day on the range. Pa’s deep voice cut through the maze of sound as he demanded reports of the day’s work. All around them, life went on.

Joe’s eyelids were starting to droop. Hoss patted his arm and stood up. “You get some sleep, Little Brother,” he said. “Your supper’ll be up in a little while.” As he reached the doorway, Joe’s voice stopped him.

“Hoss?” The big man turned back. “Maybe-maybe after supper-maybe we could play checkers?”

Hoss winked. “You betcha.”

Joe closed his eyes. Somehow, he felt less alone. As he felt himself drifting off, he heard Hoss’s boots on the wooden floor and the creak of the chair as his big brother returned to sit beside Joe’s bed. Hoss’s enormous hand rested gently on Joe’s, and for the first time in far too many days, Joe smiled.

* * * * * * * * *

“Hey, Joe–your move.”

Joe forced his attention back to the checkerboard. As he’d picked at his supper, he kept thinking about what Hoss had said about going to Margie’s wedding. I had to see that it was real so’s I could try to put it behind me and figure out how to live without her.

He tried to imagine seeing what was real, under that frame. For an instant, he was terrified. Then, he shoved aside the fear with all the scorn he could muster. What kind of a man is scared of seeing his own leg? One who’s only got half a leg, or maybe less, his mind taunted him.

“Hoss, listen,” he said, not even aware he was interrupting. “I need to ask you a favor.”

Hoss’s brow furrowed. “Sure,” he said. “What do you need?”

Joe took a deep breath and forced the words out. “Move that frame off my leg.”

“What’s the matter? Is it hurtin’?”

Joe shook his head. “I gotta see it, Hoss,” he said. “I gotta see what Doc did.”

It was Hoss’s turn to take a deep breath. “You can’t really see anything, Joe,” he said. “It’s all wrapped up.”

“I know,” said Joe. “That’s-that’s not what I need to see.”

“Then what?”

“I’ve got to see what’s gone.” He lifted his chin defiantly, as if he weren’t scared half to death.

“But you ain’t gonna be able to see what Doc took,” said Hoss, perplexed. “It’s all bandages.”

“Then I need you to take the bandages off,” Joe said. He didn’t know where he was getting this kind of nerve, but he knew it wasn’t going to last long. “Please, Hoss. It’s like you said about Margie-I need to see it’s real.”

For a moment, Hoss looked as if he were going to refuse. Then, he set the checkerboard aside and helped Joe to sit up. Slowly, he drew back the bedclothes, almost as though he were giving his brother time to change his mind.

“Hurry up,” Joe whispered.

Hoss reached for the frame and stopped. “You sure you want to see it now?” At Joe’s nod, he said, “It ain’t pretty, Joe. I’ve seen it. It’s mighty rough-looking right now, and you’re gonna have a pretty ugly scar, but it ain’t near as bad as it could’ve been.”

“Just do it,” Joe said. But as Hoss started to move the frame, he said, “Stop.” He summoned all his courage and asked the question. “How high up did Doc cut it off?”

“What?” Hoss straightened, startled.

“Did he–did he leave my knee?” Hoss stared as if Joe wasn’t speaking English. “If he left my knee, Adam said–he said that’s enough that I can ride again,” Joe explained, the last part coming out in a rush.

“Joe, what are you talkin’ about?” Hoss moved closer to Joe.

Joe clenched his fists to try to keep his voice from shaking. “I just need to know before I see it. Did he cut my leg off below my knee, or above it?”

“Joe.” The word echoed with grief and sorrow. “Sweet Lord, boy, didn’t nobody tell you?”

“Tell me what?” Joe’s breathing grew rougher. Oh, God, no. It was worse than he’d thought.

Hoss laid his hand on Joe’s shoulder as if to hold him steady. “Doc didn’t cut your leg off,” he said. “He cut out a big chunk, but the leg’s still there.” Joe went pale, his mouth open but no words issuing. “Easy, Little Brother,” said Hoss. He rubbed Joe’s shoulder, and for a few minutes, the only sound was Joe trying to catch his breath.

“You’re not jokin’ me,” said Joe finally.

“I ain’t jokin’ you,” Hoss assured him. “Now, you just breathe slow and deep, that’s it.”

Joe’s voice was trembling. “I swear, if you’re joking with me about this, I’ll kill you.”

“I ain’t jokin’ you,” said Hoss gently. “I wouldn’t do that, you know I wouldn’t.” He waited until Joe looked up at him. “I’m so sorry, Little Brother. We all thought you knew. We figured you could feel it.”

Joe shook his head. “I felt–something–but I thought it was that phantom pain Doc talked about.” He rested his hand on the frame. “You’re serious about this? It’s really there?”

Hoss nodded. “I’m as serious as I can be, Joe. Your leg’s really there.”

Joe stared at the frame like he’d never seen it before. He swallowed hard. “Let me see it,” he whispered at last. He watched, jaw clenched and nostrils flaring, as Hoss stood and removed the frame that had covered his leg.

His nightshirt was hitched up to his thigh. Almost in wonder, he braced his trembling hand on his leg, right at the hem. Weeks and weeks without use had left the once-muscular thigh scrawny and wasted, the muscles soft under his hand. He pressed slightly at the place where the horse had broken it. A twinge, nothing more. Like pressing on a bruise.

The bandages started just above his knee. Slowly, his fingertips explored the thick cotton strips. He tried to slide his fingers underneath, but the bandages were knotted firmly in place. He felt the round hardness of his kneecap, and he reached around to the underside and lifted, ever so slightly. It hurt, but it bent just the way it used to, once upon a time.

He reached farther down his leg. Even with the bandages, he could see that there was a big part missing. The lower leg was much skinnier than it used to be. Cautiously, he moved his fingers along the shin bone, and it was there, hard and straight, like a young tree. He could feel a bump in the bone, and another one farther down, but it was all of a piece.

He took a deep breath and moved his hand to the calf. With the bandages and the padding, it was hard to tell for sure what was missing. It hurt like the devil even to touch it lightly. But he explored the whole lower leg, front and back, noting dried bloodstains on the bandages and the places where his leg felt different from how it used to.

Finally, he bent forward and moved his hands to his ankle. The curves of the ankle bone were hard under the bandage. He reached down and gripped his heel as it poked out from the bandages. It used to be calloused hard, but now, it just felt dry. His fingers moved slowly up his foot, along the arch and instep where the bandages wrapped around and over the ball, until they reached the toes peeking out from the top of the bandages. They were still puffy, though not as much as before the operation, and there they were, all five of them. Slowly, like a child playing “This Little Piggy,” he touched each toe in turn, his hand lingering as if making sure.

It was here, all of it. His toes, his foot, his ankle. His shin. His calf, or at least enough of it. His knee. His thigh. Every last part was there. Maybe not the way it once was, but it was enough. He gripped his toes, bowing his head.

“It’s here,” he whispered in awe. “It’s here.” He felt Hoss’s hand on his back, and he looked up to see his big, strong brother with tears running down his round cheeks. “It’s here,” Joe said again. He reached up, and Hoss sat on the bed, holding him as tightly as he’d ever been held.

* * * * * * * * * *

Adam slapped his hat on his leg as he came in. “Snow’s starting,” he announced.

Joe looked up from his book. “Already?”

Adam hung up his hat and coat. “A little earlier than we figured, but not too much,” he said. “We got most of the herd moved. I left Hoss and a few of the men to finish up. Where’s Pa?”

“In the kitchen,” said Joe. “Said he needed to talk to Hop Sing, but I think he wanted to try to steal a little bit of that roast beef.”

“Can’t blame him,” said Adam. “It smells mighty good.” He settled himself on the table next to the settee. “How’s the leg?”

Joe rolled his eyes. “It’s fine,” he said with exaggerated patience.

“It’s getting a little slick out there,” said Adam. “We’re going to have to do your exercises in the house tonight.” Adam and Hoss had set up a corner of the barn for Joe’s exercises as soon as the doctor had said it was all right for Joe to be outside. Every night after supper, the Cartwright brothers worked Joe’s leg until sweat poured down his face and his muscles trembled with the effort. Joe refused to settle for less.

“Pa and I already did them,” said Joe. “We figured you and Hoss might get held up.”

Adam shrugged. “That was probably smart.”

Joe winked. “Guess you’re gonna have to wait ’til tomorrow for your turn to torture me.” He waited until Adam smiled before he added, “Can you get the quilt tucked in around my feet?” He watched as his brother adjusted the quilt, grinning as Adam patted his right foot.

It had taken Adam a long time to forgive himself, even though everybody, including Joe, had tried to reassure him that it was just honest confusion. Adam, who had always prided himself on his mastery of words, struggled mightily with the notion that his lack of clarity had led his brother to believe his leg had been amputated. Joe insisted that it was his own fault–dull-headed from fever and pain and laudanum, he hadn’t listened beyond Adam’s first few words–but Adam was reluctant to share the blame. Even now, Joe was certain that Adam had suffered along with him in these months of recovery, although he knew his oldest brother would never admit it.

Joe’s recovery was taking its time, but it was progressing. The excruciating pain gradually faded to bearable. The colors had been slow to return, but as Hoss had promised, return they did. With the worst behind him, Joe considered admitting to Pa how frightened he had been, but the memory of Doc’s words–“Your pa’s having a real hard time with all this”–gave him pause. It was the only point of importance that he’d ever kept from Pa, but as he lay in bed and pondered the question, he felt certain that he should remain still. The Good Book said that there was a time to speak and a time to keep silence. Nothing good could come of telling Pa, who normally seemed to pick up on every thought or feeling Joe had, that he had missed something so significant. And so, Joe kept his counsel without considering whether, just maybe, Pa might be doing the same.

By the time the air had turned autumn-crisp and clear, Joe had improved so much that he was permitted to sit up in a chair by the window for as long as an hour, provided his leg rested on a pillow on an ottoman and he was properly bundled up. When he began to chafe at Doc’s restrictions, even he couldn’t miss the smiles on the faces of Pa and his brothers. And the day he was caught hopping across the room, and Pa’s “JOSEPH!” rang through the house, everybody knew that Joe Cartwright was indeed back.

The little gray cat slept with him nearly every night now. Joe still didn’t know how it got into his room or out again. He’d left the window open at night as long as he could, but eventually, it just got too cold, and Pa insisted on closing it. The cat didn’t come in for three nights after that, and Joe had just about reconciled himself to the notion that it wouldn’t be back when he awoke in the night to the light, insistent pressure of paws walking up his torso. He opened his eyes to see the large cat eyes, gleaming in the moonlight, as it bent its head and touched its nose to his.

“Hey, you,” he’d murmured. “I missed you.” He ran his hand along the soft fur, noting absently how the cat had grown since the first time it had brought him a mouse. It still brought these little offerings every now and then-mice, or occasionally a chipmunk. He always had a hard time stifling his laughter on those mornings when Pa came into his room and found a dead rodent lying on his bedside rug. “You think they’re not feeding me enough?” he’d said to the cat the night after the first time it happened. The cat merely looked at him, clearly not considering his comment worthy of response, and it settled itself down and went to sleep.

The cat hadn’t been in for a few nights now. Joe was half-tempted to ask Hoss to look around for it, just in case. He didn’t know how it was that nobody had ever come upon the cat in his room, but it had obviously never happened. There was no way that Pa would have tolerated a barn cat in the house, much less in his son’s bedroom, so if it had been discovered, there would definitely have been a comment. But Pa had never said anything, nor had his brothers ever warned him to get the critter out of there, so the cat must have escaped detection. Clearly, Joe reflected, the cat was much smarter than the humans who lived in the house.

Hop Sing had just come in to announce supper when they heard a commotion out in the yard. Pa and Adam ran outside, and Joe craned his neck to see out the open door.

“No leave door open!” scolded Hop Sing, closing it firmly. “Li’l Joe get sick all over again!”

“I’m not gonna get sick,” said Joe impatiently. “Go see what happened.”

“Hop Sing not have time for foolishness,” said the little man. “Supper all ready. Family eat.”

“The family can’t eat if Hoss isn’t back,” Joe pointed out. “Now, go on and find out what’s happening, or I’ll go myself!”

Muttering under his breath, Hop Sing opened the door and watched the scene. After a minute, he closed it and turned to Joe, his hands on his hips.

“Hop Sing no can tell,” he said. “Look like maybe horse fall, man fall off horse.”

“Who was it? Is he okay?” Joe demanded. “Go and see if he’s okay.”

Hop Sing watched Joe carefully. “Mistah Cahtlight, Mistah Adam outside,” he said more gently. “They take care. Li’l Joe come, wash up for supper.” He helped Joe stand up, not moving away until Joe was steady on his crutches.

Before Joe moved, the door opened, and Pa, Adam and Hoss came in. “What happened?” Joe asked. “Is everybody all right?”

“It’s all right, son,” said Pa. “Let’s have supper.”

Within minutes, the family had gathered around the table. “So, what happened?” asked Joe again. “Thanks, Hop Sing,” he added, accepting the platter of roast beef.

“It wasn’t anything,” said Adam. “Charlie’s horse stepped on something.”

“On what?” asked Joe as Hop Sing brought in bowls of vegetables.

Adam shrugged. “Looked like a cat, but it was hard to tell,” he said, taking the bowl of peas from Hop Sing. “Could have been a really big squirrel, I suppose. The horse spooked, and it dumped Charlie.”

Joe felt his throat close. “It stepped on a cat?” he managed.

“That’s what it looked like.” Adam sounded unconcerned. “Of course, once a horse had trampled on it, it was pretty hard to know for sure.”

“Don’t worry, son, Charlie’s fine,” said Pa, watching Joe closely. “The horse might have strained its leg, though. Charlie’s going to keep an eye on it.”

Hoss peered at Joe. “You okay, Little Brother?”

Joe nodded. “I’m fine,” he said, the words sticking in his throat. “You said–you said it could have been a squirrel. It was gray?”

Adam’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t pay that much attention, Joe,” he said as if to one who was a little slow. “It doesn’t matter. A cat, a squirrel–whatever it was, it’s dead.”

Pa was still watching Joe. “Son, there’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “Charlie’s fine. A couple of bruises, that’s all. The horse didn’t even go down.”

Joe forced himself to look up and smile slightly. “That’s good,” he said. He tried to cut his meat, but all he could see was a tangle of red blood and gray fur against the newfallen snow.

He laid down his knife and fork. “I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’m going to go outside and get some air.”

“Are you all right?” asked Adam.

“I’m fine,” lied Joe. “I just want to get some air.”

“Joe, it’s pretty slippery out there,” said Hoss. “You could fall.”

“I’ll be fine.” Unsteadily, he picked up his crutches and got to his feet.

“Hoss, give him a hand,” said Pa unexpectedly.

“But, Pa–” The protest died on Hoss’s lips.

“Joseph, you make sure you’re wrapped up warm,” said Pa. “And don’t stay out too long. I don’t want you getting chilled.”

Joe nodded as he made his way around the corner to the credenza. As he balanced on his crutches and put on his jacket, he heard Pa and his brothers talking in low voices.

“It’s not surprising he’s a little shaken up,” said Pa. “I expect the thought of Charlie falling off the horse just threw him a little bit. He’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Adam. “Didn’t occur to me it would bother him, seeing as how it was so different from his accident.”

“Different in some ways, but not in others,” said Pa. “Just give him a little room. He’ll be fine.”

“You ready, Shortshanks?” Hoss came around the corner.

Joe nodded, not trusting his voice, and Hoss half-carried him out to the rocking chair on the porch. Joe wouldn’t have admitted it, but he was glad for Hoss’s help; the snow had indeed made the wooden porch slippery. One misplaced crutch, and he could have been in serious trouble.

“You really want to sit out here?” Hoss sounded dubious. When Joe nodded, Hoss supported him with one hand while he brushed the snow off the chair with the other. “You holler when you’re ready to come back in,” he instructed.

“Thanks,” said Joe, but his voice was lost in the snowy night.

He waited for the door to close before he allowed himself to think. A cat trampled by a horse. Just a barn cat. Nothing important, by most anybody’s standards.

It was just a cat, he told himself. A plain old barn cat. He shook his head in disgust. What kind of a cowboy would go all soft over a barn cat?

But it wasn’t just any barn cat. Somehow, the little creature had become his friend. Ridiculous, but true. If the ranch hands knew, they’d laugh him off the Ponderosa.

He dropped his head into his hands. He didn’t care what the ranch hands thought. He didn’t care what anybody thought. It didn’t matter now. The cat was gone.

I never even gave it a name, he realized. The gray cat had sought him out, listened to him, absorbed his tears, purred comfort, brought him all it had to offer, and he’d never even named it. He closed his eyes, fighting the ache in his heart that threatened to overwhelm him.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there when he felt a light hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see Hop Sing standing beside him. “Li’l Joe come in,” he said simply.

Slowly, carefully, Joe got to his feet with Hop Sing steadying his crutches. The little man held his arm as they made their way to the kitchen door.

The Ponderosa kitchen was Hop Sing’s domain. Every inch was immaculate and arranged for Hop Sing’s convenience. A massive oak hutch housed china and crystal on its open shelves, silverware and linens in its drawers, and serving pieces and cookware in its lower cabinets. The most frequently used pots and pans hung from iron hooks that had been pounded into the wall by Ben Cartwright himself at precisely the places that Hop Sing had decreed. Years earlier, Adam had installed a pump in the kitchen so that there would be no need to haul water. A heavy table with a thick maple top, shipped all the way from New England, stood in the center of the kitchen as a work table, its surface bearing the evidence of daily chopping and carving. A matching maple block had slits for various knives which absolutely no one else was ever permitted to touch. Hop Sing’s collection of cleavers hung over the stove, a silent threat to anyone who might dare to mess up his kitchen.

But Joe wasn’t intimidated by the kitchen. For him, it was a source of comfort and refuge. When he was very small, he had spent hours here with his mother and Hop Sing. After her death, Hop Sing had kept watch over the small boy by setting him at the work table to draw pictures or munch on cookies as the Chinese man prepared meals. In the years that followed, Hop Sing’s kitchen, warm and fragrant, remained a place where a troubled boy could come when his father and brothers were out working. Often, Hop Sing simply sat him down and went about his business, allowing Joe to be quiet until he was ready to talk about whatever was bothering him. As much as Hop Sing tried to give the impression to others that he was brusque and businesslike, he was never doing anything so important that he could not stop to listen.

Now, Hop Sing helped Joe into the kitchen. The delicious smells of dinner lingered, and the stove radiated its warmth through the room. Hop Sing deposited Joe in his customary chair and turned to retrieve Joe’s dinner plate, which had been kept warm on a corner of the stove.

“Li’l Joe eat,” the little man instructed. He set the plate and flatware on the table and pointed. “Eat!”

Joe took a deep breath. There was no way to explain to Hop Sing what was troubling him. The best thing, he supposed, was to go along with Pa’s notion that he’d been upset about Charlie falling off a horse. He took up his knife and fork, turned to Hop Sing–and froze.

Beside the stove stood a small table with a canister that held whisks and wooden spoons. Normally, there was nothing underneath the table. But now-on the floor next to the stove, almost invisible in the shadow, was a round basket, lined with scraps of a quilt. And nestled in the basket was the gray cat–with a litter of kittens.

Joe looked up at Hop Sing, disbelieving. A smile spread across the little man’s face as he nodded.

“Li’l Mama have babies three days ago,” he said. “Too cold in barn. Hop Sing bring in where warm.”

Joe tried to gather his crutches, but his hands were shaking. Without being asked, Hop Sing supported him as he hopped the few steps to the basket, settling himself on the floor next to the stove.

“Hey, you,” he said, his voice thick as his hand rested on her fur. “So this is where you’ve been. How many have you got here? Five? You’re gonna be mighty busy with all those little ones.” He petted the gray cat, struggling to hold back tears of relief. “I was afraid something had happened to you,” he admitted. “You’ve got to be careful, you know. It’s dangerous out there.”

He looked up at Hop Sing, his eyes glistening in wonder and gratitude. He didn’t know how he’d missed it. From the very first time, when the kitten had brought him the mouse and fallen asleep on him, and he’d awakened to find the mouse gone and his crutches neatly placed under the sofa, to the times he’d wakened to find his breakfast tray present and the cat conveniently gone before anyone else in the house was awake. He saw the large pockets in Hop Sing’s apron, and he knew how the kitten had gotten upstairs in the early days. The window over the kitchen sink would have made a fine entrance for a slightly older cat, especially one who was carrying a gift of a mouse or chipmunk.

He stroked her fur. Never in a million years would he have thought that he’d become attached to a cat, but here he was. When her kittens were old enough to do without her at night, he would take her back to his room, and let Pa say what he would.

“What do you call her?” he asked Hop Sing.

Hop Sing smiled. “Before, she Li’l Missy,” he said. “Now, she Li’l Mama.”

“Little Mama,” Joe repeated, nodding. “Hey there, Little Mama.” He looked up at Hop Sing, who was still watching. “Thanks,” he whispered.

“No talk foolishness!” said Hop Sing, flapping his hands as if to shoo Joe and Little Mama away. “Hop Sing have much work! No time for foolish talk! Hop Sing work hard, make supper, Li’l Joe eat!”

Joe laughed. He held out his hands, and Hop Sing helped him to his feet, holding Joe tightly as he hopped back to his regular chair. He ate his supper at the maple-topped table as Hop Sing set the bread to rise and Little Mama nursed her kittens. Every so often, Joe’s gaze would fall on the basket, and he marveled.

He could hear the rest of the family talking in the living room. Someday, he would tell them about the little gray cat. Hoss would understand. Pa and Adam would probably think he was being silly, but maybe not. Maybe, if he told it right, even they might appreciate what she’d meant to him.

He got to his feet, positioning his crutches. “Thanks, Hop Sing,” he said. Balancing carefully, he bent down to pet the gray cat one more time. “You take good care of your babies,” he said. “And be sure to bring them up to visit, okay?”

The little gray cat lifted her head, looking at him with those large, inscrutable, green-gold eyes. He stroked her head, and she rubbed her whiskers against his hand. Then, she settled down, closed her eyes and went to sleep.

The End

Author’s note: Thank you so much for reading my story. I’ll be delighted if you’d like to leave a review, but if you do: please, please, please-don’t mention that Joe didn’t lose his leg or that the cat didn’t get trampled. Some people read reviews before they read the story, and that would spoil the story for them. If you want to tell me privately what you think of those parts, feel free to send me a PM or e-mail. Thanks!