Part Two

“Hey, Adam.”  Joe tried to sound casual as he swung out of the saddle.  His breath made little puffs of white in the crisp November air.

“What?” asked Adam after a minute.

“Huh?”  Joe busied himself loosening the cinch so that Cochise could rest while they ate lunch.

“I said, what?”  Adam loosened his mount’s cinch.

“Um—did you bring the coffee?”  Joe rummaged in his saddlebags as if he were looking for something important instead of avoiding his brother’s eyes.  Adam had an irritating habit of recognizing that there might be a problem before Joe was ready to admit it himself.

“No.  You did.”  Adam sounded as if he thought Joe was a bit slow.  Then again, he often sounded that way.

“Oh.  Oh, that’s right.  Sorry, here it is.”  Joe pulled out the paper sack.  “I’ll fill the pot.  Be right back.”  He grabbed the coffee pot and headed over to the stream, too aware that his brother was probably staring at him.

Maybe he shouldn’t say anything.  It probably wasn’t right to.  Men didn’t talk that way about their wives, not even to their brothers.  But it was unsettling.  Carrie was so . . . well, she just wasn’t what Joe was used to.  Something didn’t seem right.  And he needed to know whether it was his fault.

She was a maiden when they got married, of course.  Joe had never even questioned that.  So naturally, she’d be shy.  It was normal.  Probably showed that she’d been raised properly.

But even after a month of marriage, she was still shy.  It was like she thought there was something improper in letting Joe see her body.  She never dressed or undressed in front of him.  He had touched her naked body, but he’d never seen it except by moonlight.  Lovemaking could only occur in the dark of night.  When he woke up in the morning, she was always out of bed and dressed already.  One morning, he’d tried to get her to come back to bed, and she just stood in the doorway, staring as if he’d suggested something scandalous and wicked.  And the day they’d gone on a picnic and he’d wanted to make love right there in the woods, she looked downright scared, and so he’d backed off.

The funny thing was that it was only the being-seen part that seemed to bother her.  She wasn’t shy about touching or being touched.  Even the first night, when he’d expected her to be nervous and rigid, she’d been surprisingly eager.  Well, maybe “eager” was overstating it, but he hadn’t had to coax her.  It was almost as though the darkness had freed her, and she welcomed his touch.

Maybe he was just expecting too much.  She was the first virgin he’d ever been with.   For all he knew, her mother might have told her that nice girls didn’t let their husbands look at them.  Or maybe it just took ladies longer to get used to the whole notion of having relations.

Or maybe he was doing something wrong, and no girl had ever had the heart to tell him.

He watched his older brother from under the brim of his hat as he made the coffee.  Maybe Adam would know.  Surely by now he’d had the experience of being some girl’s first lover.  He must have had some idea how long it would take for a girl to stop being shy.

He took a deep breath.  “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”  Adam sounded almost too casual, like he had an inkling what was coming.  But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t.  So Joe made himself go on.

“It’s about women.”  If Adam laughed, Joe would pummel him.

“What about them?”

Good.  He wasn’t laughing.  Another deep breath.  “Have you ever been . . . the first?”

“The first what?”

“You know—a girl’s first. . . .”  He let the sentence trail off.

“Oh.”  Adam squatted on the other side of the campfire.  He used his bandanna to protect his gloved hand as he lifted the dented pot off the fire and poured out coffee into two cups.  He handed one to Joe, who barely looked up enough to take it.  “Yes, I have,” he said after they’d both drunk.

Joe set down the coffee and unwrapped his lunch as if it required all of his attention.  He could feel Adam watching him for sure now.  Finally, he said, “Was she . . . you know . . . shy?”

Adam chuckled.  “No,” he said.  “Anything but.  Why?”

“No reason.”  Joe took a bite of his sandwich, and another, and another as the silence stretched out.

“Every girl is different,” said Adam at last.  “Some of them take longer than others to get used to . . . things.”  When Joe said nothing, Adam ventured, “Everything okay at home?”

“Huh?  Oh, sure.  Yeah.  I was just wondering, that’s all.  We should get going.  There’s probably a lot of strays up by the ridge.”  Joe tossed his half-eaten sandwich onto the fire.  Before Adam could say anything, he’d poured the rest of the coffee over the flames to douse them, sizzle and steam rising as he dumped out the last drops.

The brothers packed up the remainder of their gear in silence.  Then, as they tightened their cinches, Adam said suddenly, “Just go slow.  Give her some time.  For some girls, it’s a lot to get used to.”  Joe nodded, trying to look as if the whole thing were no big deal.  “Let’s go,” Adam said with only the slightest grin.  “Those strays won’t round themselves up.”  He mounted and put his heels to his horse, riding off even as Joe swung into his saddle.

“Wait up!” Joe called.  He nudged his pinto into a lope after his brother’s chestnut.  Maybe Adam was right.  Maybe all Carrie needed was time.

Time, and a lot more opportunities to get used to . . . things.

*******

“So, does anybody know what’s going on with Joe?”  Adam helped himself to the mashed potatoes.  Hop Sing was the only person he’d ever met who could make them absolutely free of lumps.

“He’s sure been a caution lately, ain’t he?”  Hoss speared the largest steak on the platter.

“I haven’t seen him in a few days,” said Ben.  “Is something the matter?”

Hoss passed the string beans.  “Can’t hardly get two words out of him most of the time, and when you do, he just bites your head off.”

Ben frowned.  “I wonder what’s wrong.”

“Well, obviously, there’s something,” said Adam.  “He’s been like this all week, and frankly, it’s getting a little tiresome.”

“I think his back might be bothering him again,” offered Hoss.  “I’ve seen him holdin’ it a couple times.  ’Course, he says there’s nothin’ wrong with it, but I don’t know.”

“Maybe he and Carrie had a disagreement,” mused Ben.  “Has he said anything about her?”  The young couple had been married for just six months.  While Ben had held his peace as the preacher said, he’d never completely quieted the voice in his head that whispered that a longer courtship would have been preferable.

“Not a word,” said Hoss.

“Could be anything,” shrugged Adam.  “But nobody seems to know what.”

“Well, I think we should just mind our own business,” said Ben.  “If he wants us to know what’s wrong, he’ll tell us.”

Joe’s brothers grunted their assent as they ate.  The kid never could keep his feelings to himself for very long.  Sooner or later, whatever it was would either blow over or blow up.

The family had settled in by the fire when the front door opened.  “Joseph!” said Ben, pleased.  He smiled at the sight of his youngest son, but the smile faded when he saw his son’s expression.  “Would you like some coffee?” he asked, trying to maintain a jovial tone.

“No, thanks,” said Joe.  His eyes were dark with misery.  “Is it okay if I stay here tonight?”

“Of course,” said Ben, holding his voice steady with an effort.  “If you’re sure that’s what you want to do.”

Joe nodded.  “Thanks.”  Without another word, he disappeared up the stairs to his old room, and they heard the door close.

“So, what do you make of that?” asked Adam when they heard nothing more.

“I reckon him and Carrie’s having a fight after all,” said Hoss.  “Must be pretty serious for him to come back here.”

Ben said nothing.  He watched the staircase as if his son might appear.  Everything in him wanted to go right up those stairs and sit down with Joe, but he resisted.  His son was a grown man, and the decision to share his problems—especially if they were about Carrie—would have to be Joe’s.

Joe didn’t return downstairs for the rest of the evening.  As he was heading to his own room, Ben stopped.  Respecting his son’s privacy was all well and good, but a father had a right to reassure himself that everything was under control.  He tapped lightly on his son’s door.  When there was no answer, he opened the door quietly, just to check.

In the dark, he nearly missed the figure standing by the open window.  The curtains fluttered in the night breeze, and the room was cold, but Joe didn’t seem to notice.

“Joseph?”  When Joe made no acknowledgement of his presence, Ben entered the room.  “It’s pretty cold in here, don’t you think?”  His son, usually so talkative, was silent.  Ben reached past him to close the window.  Then, he laid a gentle hand on Joe’s shoulder.  “Would it help to talk about it?”

“I don’t know,” said Joe, and the pain in his voice was so sharp that Ben’s hand tightened on his shoulder.

“Sit down, son,” Ben urged.  He lit the lamp, revealing the anguish in Joe’s eyes.  They sat down on the bed, and Joe looked away.

Quietly, Ben waited.  At last, not looking at his father, Joe said, “She can’t have children.”

“I’m so sorry, Joe,” breathed Ben.  He knew how Joe had looked forward to being a father, having a family of his own.  When Joe said no more, he ventured, “Is it certain?  Have you talked to Doc Martin?”

“It’s certain,” said Joe.  “She had an operation.”

“What?  When was this?”

Joe turned to face him.  “Three years ago.  Almost four.”  The words were almost a challenge.

“But—that was before—”

“—before I ever knew her,” finished Joe.  “She’s known all along that she can’t have children.”

A thousand questions crowded into Ben’s head, but Joe was still talking, all the pent-up hurt and anger spilling over as he recounted how they’d talked about having a family.  “All those times we’d see people with children, and she’d say things like, ‘By next year, that’ll be us,’ and I’d think that maybe that was her way of telling me she was going to have a baby, but it was just talk, and she’d say, ‘I guess we have to keep trying.’  But she’d never—she’d never undress in front of me, she’d never let me see her, and I thought she was just shy, and now it turns out that she was hiding—I came into the bath house on Saturday just as she was getting out of the tub, and I saw the scar, and she started to cry, and I don’t remember who said what first, but the next thing I knew, she was admitting that she’d had this operation and she’d never be able to have children.”

He rose abruptly, returning to the window, as he continued, “She was crying and begging me to forgive her.  She was on her knees, begging.  On her knees, Pa.  And I couldn’t even say anything.  All I could think was how many times she’d looked me straight in the eye and lied to me.  I just threw her dressing gown at her and told her to get up, and I walked out.”

The pain radiated off the young man like the heat of the summer sun on a rock.  “I’m so sorry, son,” he said.  For a long time, the two men sat in silence, looking out the window as though the night would reveal an answer.  “Have you been back home since then?” Ben asked finally.

Joe nodded.  “I went back that night,” he said.  “She was sleeping in the chair.  I tried to get her to go to bed, and she wouldn’t.  She said I should take the bed.  We had another fight, about that, and I ended up sleeping on the floor and she was in the chair and nobody slept in the bed.  The next day, my back was killing me, so I figured I’d take the bed that night, but when I was ready to go to bed, she was already there and—I just couldn’t stand the idea—and I’ve been sleeping in the chair ever since, but my back’s been hurting so bad that I just thought, maybe I could sleep here. . . .”  His voice trailed off, and Ben’s arm tightened around his shoulders.  He didn’t question Joe’s back problems, but he had a suspicion that it was more than just physical pain that had brought his troubled son home tonight.

“I’ll tell you what,” Ben said.  “You get yourself ready for bed, and I’ll go heat up those irons of Hop Sing’s, and we’ll see what we can do for your back.”  Hop Sing’s long, flat irons, heated and wrapped in towels, were still the most reliable remedy for Joe’s aching back.

If only they could help his aching heart. . . .

“Thanks, Pa,” Joe whispered.  The anguish in his face was enough to break a father’s heart.

“Does Carrie know where you are?” Ben asked hesitantly.  “We can send Hoss or Adam over to let her know, if you want.”  He didn’t want to tell his son how to handle his wife, but from the strife Joe described, the girl was liable to be frantic if he just didn’t come home.

“I left a note and said I was coming over here,” said Joe.

“You left a note?  Where was she?”

Joe shook his head.  “I don’t know.  Maybe she went to town—there wasn’t anything on the stove for supper.  But I just rode in, left the note, and rode out.  Didn’t even look for her.  Pretty cowardly, I guess.  I wasn’t really thinking about it.”

Ben gave his shoulders a squeeze.  “Well, you get ready for bed while I heat up the irons,” he said.  “You can talk to her in the morning, after you’ve had a good night’s sleep.”

Joe’s smile was clearly forced.  “I’m sure I will,” he said.  “I mean, I have to talk to her sometime.  She’s still my wife, even if—”

“Yes, she is,” said Ben, not waiting for Joe to finish.  He could understand what a blow it was for his son, so honest and forthright, to find that Carrie had deceived him about something so important, but that didn’t change the fact that they were husband and wife, ’til death did them part.  He was certain that Joe would forgive Carrie eventually.  Whether Carrie would forgive herself—well, that remained to be seen.

He left Joe to undress, heading downstairs to put the irons on the stove.  As they heated, he poured two brandies.  One, he set on a small tray to take up to his son.  The other, he drank right there as he remembered holding his youngest son for the very first time.

Born early, the boy was so much smaller than his brothers had been that even as an experienced father, Ben found himself nervous when the doctor placed the baby in his arms.  And then, far too fast, the little one began to grow.  Unruly curls and energetic kicks and tiny hands that would pull on anything that came near.  Red-faced and howling one minute, bubbling with laughter the next.  Toddling after his brothers, and then running, and then riding his pony, calling to them to wait up.  Scrunching up his face as he did his homework.  Scuffing his toe on the rug as he handed over the note from the teacher.  Flinging his arms around his father’s neck as tears fell.  Laughing so hard at his own joke that he fell right off his chair in the middle of supper.  Opening his eyes after his fever broke.  Riding in triumphantly after his first cattle drive.  Walking into the house, silent and shaken, the first time he’d been forced to kill a man.  Laughing with happiness as he announced that he and Carrie were to be married.  Standing tall and proud, his eyes glowing, as he watched her come down the aisle.

Ben poured another brandy for himself.  He hadn’t realized until this moment just how much he’d looked forward to the day when Joe would come running into the house, shouting, “Pa, you’re going to be a grandfather!”

But it would never happen.  He would never hold Joseph’s child in his arms.

In the shadows of the living room, as his son waited upstairs, Ben allowed himself to grieve for the loss of a child who would never be.

*******

For the first instant he was awake, Joe’s heart was quiet.  He was in his own bed, in his own room, and for the first time in days, his back didn’t feel as if someone were pounding knives into it.  In the next moment, though, the noose dropped, and he remember why he was here.

Carrie.  And her lies.

He closed his eyes against the anguish.  How could he ever look at her the same way again?  She’d known all along how important it was to him that they have children.  Even before they were married, they’d talked about how their children would grow up on the Ponderosa.  She’d teased him about how much she hoped their girls would inherit his curly hair, and he’d traced her delicate features and told her that the girls would be lucky if they were a tenth as beautiful as their mother.  She’d even said that she hoped that their boys didn’t inherit his back problems.

Lies.  All lies.

And yet, she was his wife.  Somehow, he had to learn to live with her.

Somehow, he had to learn to forgive her.

A few minutes later, he was buttoning his shirt as he descended the stairs.  His brothers and Pa were already at the table, surrounded by platters of Hop Sing’s good cooking that Joe knew he should want, but didn’t.

“Morning, son,” said Ben, as casually as if Joe had never married and moved out.  “How’s your back feeling this morning?”

“A lot better, thanks,” said Joe.  He caught the glance Adam and Hoss shared, and he wondered if Pa would have told them the real reason he’d come by.  He picked up his jacket and gunbelt.  “Thanks for letting me stay here last night,” he added.

“Ain’t you gonna stay for breakfast?” asked Hoss through a mouthful of flapjacks.

“I’m not hungry,” said Joe.

“At least have a cup of coffee,” said Adam.

Joe shook his head.  “I need to get home,” he said quietly.

Ben walked Joe to the door.  “You let us know if you need anything,” he said quietly.  Joe nodded, his throat suddenly thick with tears.

“Hey, Joe, don’t forget, we’re looking for strays up by Wild Horse Canyon this morning,” called Adam.

Joe waved.  “I’ll be there,” he said, his voice only slightly husky.  He headed out to the barn, saddled his horse, and rode away, feeling his father’s eyes on him even when he was out of sight.

The ride back to the house was too short.  Before he was ready, he was looping Cochise’s reins around the hitching rail.  “Carrie!” he called.  No answer.  “Carrie!”  He went inside.  No sound.  Frowning, he noticed that there was no coffee pot on the stove.  He touched the cast iron stove:  cold.  No fire burned in the fireplace.  “Carrie?”  He pushed open the door to the bedroom.  No sign of her.  The bed was neatly made; impossible to know whether she’d made it this morning or hadn’t slept there last night.

“Carrie?”  Something about this felt bad.  Very bad.  He headed out to the barn, calling her name over and over, like one of those birds he’d heard about that could learn to speak.  “Carrie?  Carrie?”  No sign of her.  She hadn’t fallen out of the loft, or gotten trampled by the cow while she was milking, or anything.  He peered down the well.  “Carrie!” he shouted.

“Joseph?”

He looked up to see Pa and the sheriff riding into the yard.  He didn’t ask what had brought them; he didn’t care.  “I can’t find her,” he said.  “She’s not here, but the horses are, and the buggy is.  Pa, I can’t find her.”  He could hear his voice getting more frantic.  “Carrie!”

“Easy, Joe,” said Ben.  “Did you look every place?”

“I looked in the barn and the bedroom,” he said.  “And I’ve been yelling for her ever since I got here.”

“Is she in the bathhouse, maybe?” suggested Ben.

Relief crossed Joe’s face.  “Of course,” he said.  “She must be.  This time of day, I didn’t even think—thanks, Pa.”  He loped around the corner of the house, calling, “Carrie?  You in there—CARRIE!”

Ben and Roy raced around the corner of the house and stopped short in the doorway.

Joe was on his knees beside the bathtub, his hands already covered with her blood as he lifted what was left of her head.  “Carrie!” he shouted into her face, as if she could somehow hear him.  “Carrie!”

Ben knelt on the other side of the bathtub, numbed by the shock.  Her fingers still curled around the gun.  The lovely face was still intact, but the back of her head was splattered across the room.  Why she’d chosen to sit in the bathtub would forever remain a mystery.

Joseph was moaning—gutteral, animal moans from someplace deep inside.  He pulled her close, mindless of the blood, and buried his face in what was left of her hair.  Ben moved around to kneel beside him, resting a hand on his son’s back, but Joe didn’t seem to notice.

“Ben,” said Roy quietly.  When Ben looked up, the sheriff said, “I’ll ride back and let the boys know what’s happened.”

Ben nodded.  “They’ll know what to do,” he said in a voice that sounded astonishingly controlled.  “Make sure they bring the doctor,” he added.

Roy looked surprised for just an instant; Carrie was clearly beyond medical help.  His practiced eye assessed the dried blood and torn flesh, and he guessed that she’d probably died some time last night, or maybe even earlier.  He watched Little Joe Cartwright, with her blood on his face and hands as he held what was left of her, and Roy shook his head.  Sad, sad business.

*******

Roy was the only one to look up as Ben and the doctor descended the stairs.  Hoss was staring into his glass, and Adam was refilling his own.  Roy didn’t usually drink when he was working, but today, he made an exception.

“How’s Joe?” asked Adam, turning to them at last.  Without being asked, he poured two more shots and handed them to his father and the doctor.

“He’ll sleep for a while,” said the doctor.  He downed the shot and set down the glass.  In twenty years, he’d never seen Little Joe Cartwright like this.  It had apparently taken the combined efforts of Ben, Roy and Hoss to get him to release his hold on the girl.  They’d gotten him back to the main house and washed her blood off him, but he hadn’t been able to get a coherent sentence out.  Even when the doctor and Adam had returned, hours later, Joe was still sobbing, his chest heaving with the effort of drawing breath and his voice nearly gone as he croaked out her name.  Ben convinced him to drink the water in which Doc had dissolved the sleeping powder, and when Joe finally dozed off, he made the hiccupping noises he’d made as a child when he’d cried himself to sleep.

Roy handed Ben the note they’d found on the table.  “I didn’t know if Joe might be wanting to see this at some point,” he said.

“What is it?” asked Adam.

“The note Joe left Carrie yesterday before he came over here,” Ben said.  His son’s writing, never clear at the best of times, would have been all but illegible to someone who wasn’t familiar with it.  It said simply, I’m spending the night at Pa’s.  No salutation.  No Love, Joe.  Just the terse message, saying so much more than the words themselves.

Beneath Joe’s writing was Carrie’s neat, carefully controlled script.  The note was just as brief, but infinitely heart-rending:  I just wanted you to love me.

Ben closed his eyes against the tears that welled up.  After a moment, he folded the note and put it in his pocket.  “Where was it?”

“On the mantelpiece,” said Roy.  “Ben, do you know what she was talking about?”

Ben sat down heavily.  “She couldn’t have children,” he said.  “She’d had an operation a few years back.”

“But Joe kept talkin’ about when they’d have kids—”  Hoss stopped, confused.

“He didn’t know,” said Ben.  “He just found out a few days ago.”

“That’s why he was here last night,” said Adam slowly, and Ben nodded.

“He was going home this morning to talk to her,” he said.  “To try to figure out how to deal with this.”

“The poor kid,” breathed Adam.  “And he went home to find this.”  He looked Roy squarely in the eye.  “This doesn’t change anything, though,” he said, not quite in question.  “There’s no doubt that she killed herself.”  His tone almost challenged the sheriff.

“None that I can see,” said Roy, and he saw Adam relax slightly.  Truth was that he didn’t question what had happened, even though he’d have given his eyeteeth to have a reason to believe some drifter had done the deed.  He knew what Adam was really asking, though:  did Roy believe that Carrie had killed herself, or did he think that Joe, her angry husband, had done it?  As if Adam had asked the question aloud, Roy shook his head.  “Her writin’ on that note he left makes it pretty clear that he’d been and gone by the time she did what she did,” he said.  He looked around at the group and decided to finish the thought that he knew was in all their minds anyway.  “No way to know what would’ve happened if he hadn’t left.  Mebbe she’d have done it anyway, next time he left the house, or mebbe they could’ve talked.  In any case, there ain’t no changin’ what happened, and I don’t reckon anybody’s got cause to try to come up with some other story.”  He rose.  “Ben, boys, I’m mighty sorry about this.  She was a real nice girl, and Little Joe seemed real happy with her.”  He put on his hat, adding, “Ben, you let me know when the service is.  I’d like to pay my respects.”

“Thank you, Roy,” said Ben.  His old friend patted him on the shoulder and let himself out.

Hop Sing came out of the kitchen.  Gently, as if speaking to a ward of invalids, he said, “Supper ready, Mistah Cahtlight.”

Ben turned to the doctor.  “Paul, would you like to stay to supper?”

“No, thanks, Ben,” said the doctor.  “I should be getting back to town.”  He shook his head sadly.  “I wish she’d told him before they got married.”

Hoss frowned.  “But he’d still have married her.”

“Maybe,” said Doc.  “There’s no way to know what might have been, but if he’d known, at least she wouldn’t have felt as if she needed to lie to him.  Knowing Little Joe, I’m guessing that her deceit was almost as hard for him as the news itself.”

“Harder, I’d guess,” said Adam.

“Joe’s never had much use for people who don’t tell the truth,” added Hoss.

“Which probably made it harder for Carrie to speak up as time passed,” said the doctor.  “In any event, I’m going to get back to town, and you all have your supper.  See if you can get Joe to eat something when he wakes up.  And, of course, if you need me, just let me know.”

“Thank you, Paul,” said Ben.  He walked his old friend to the door, promising to let him know about the service.  Then, the three Cartwrights took their places around the table, doing their best not to notice that Joe’s place was empty, as was Carrie’s.

After they had picked at their food long enough, they retired to the living room.  Hoss plunked himself down on the settee and stared into the fire.  Ben puffed on his pipe, futilely seeking comfort in the sweet scent of tobacco.  Adam held a book, but he sat for half an hour without once turning a page.

Just as Ben was about to head upstairs to check on Joe, they all turned at a sound from the stairs.  Joe stood on the top step, wearing only a too-large nightshirt borrowed from Adam.  His clothes, soaked with her blood, had been given to Hop Sing to burn.  He didn’t seem to notice the cold wood beneath his bare feet.  His eyes looked as bleary as if he were drunk.  Clinging to the railing, he made his unsteady way down the stairs.

“Joseph, are you all right?” asked Ben.  Foolish question, of course, but he meant it in the most immediate sense.  Joe missed a step, grabbing the railing to catch himself as he fell, and the others hurried to help before he tumbled all the way down the stairs.

“Easy, Joe,” murmured Hoss, holding his brother up against his strong chest.  He guided Joe to the settee, and Joe sank down as if he’d traveled for miles.

Ben sat on the table, across from his son.  “We didn’t expect you to be up so soon,” he said in the soothing voice reserved for nervous horses and heartbroken sons.  He reached out and smoothed Joe’s hair back from his forehead.  “Do you think you could eat something?”  When Joe shook his head, Ben pressed on.  “Joe, you haven’t eaten since yesterday.  You need to try a little something.  Hop Sing’s got some soup he’s been keeping hot for you.  How about a little of that, and then maybe back to bed?”

Joe’s head jerked up as if his father had suggested something awful.  Ben squeezed his hand and said, “Just try a little, okay?”  After a minute, Joe nodded dully, and Hoss hastened to the kitchen before Joe could change his mind.  “Adam, would you get my dressing gown and slippers,” Ben added over his shoulder as he steadied his youngest son for the walk over to the dining area.

“Sure, Pa.”  The eldest Cartwright brother loped up the stairs, grateful for a task, however small.

By the time Adam returned, Joe had reached the table.  Adam wrapped the dressing gown around his brother’s shoulders, holding him close for a moment before he set the slippers on the floor for Joe to step into.

“Thanks,” whispered Joe.  Adam squeezed his brother’s arm, words momentarily failing the most articulate of the Cartwrights.

A few minutes later, Joe was seated at the table, his father at his right hand and a bowl of soup and piece of bread in front of him.  Ben stroked Joe’s arm, encouraging him quietly, and finally Joe ate methodically, clearly neither knowing nor caring what he ingested.  Hop Sing hovered in the doorway, watching silently.  At one point, Ben looked up and caught his eyes, and he knew that Hop Sing’s heart was as broken as his own.

When Joe laid down the spoon and closed his eyes, Ben nodded to Hop Sing.  The little man approached to pick up the dishes.  Then, he rested one hand on Joe’s shoulder, and he said something quietly in his native tongue.  Joe looked up, eyes brimming with anguish, and forced the smallest of smiles.  “Thank you,” he whispered.  Hop Sing patted Joe’s shoulder and gathered the dishes, but before he’d turned away, Ben saw tears glistening in the little man’s eyes.

Ben rested his arm around Joe’s shoulders and felt the young man shivering.  “Let’s get you back up to bed,” he suggested, but Joe shook his head.

“No,” he said, but the word, more breath than sound, sounded almost desperate.

“You sure?”  The boy looked as drained as a human could, but he nodded, and in the next instance, his father understood:  his son didn’t want to be alone.  Joe Cartwright had always thrived on being surrounded by his family.  Fine, then.  If being with his father and brothers could bring him even a shred of comfort, they would sit here with him all through the night.  “Well, let’s get you back over to the settee, anyway,” he said, helping Joe to his feet.

The day’s torrent of emotion and Doc’s sedative had left Joe as wobbly as if he’d spent the day drinking.  Ben steadied Joe on one side, and Adam hurried to Joe’s other side.  Together, they walked slowly, Ben holding his son’s arm and Adam’s hand resting lightly on his little brother’s back, as Joe made his way back to the living room.

Joe lowered himself to sit on the edge of the settee, as if he were waiting for someone to call for him.  When he showed no sign of allowing himself to lean back, Adam asked, “How’s your back feeling?  You think you might be better off lying down?”  Joe looked up, almost puzzled, as if the notion had never occurred to him.  Then, he nodded, but still he remained upright until Adam laid his hands on Joe’s shoulders, gently helping him to recline.  Hoss covered him with a blanket and Ben watched, allowing his older sons the comfort of ministering to their brother.

“How’s that, Shortshanks?  You warm enough?” asked Hoss.  At Joe’s nod, he added, “You think you can make some room for me?”  Without waiting for an answer, he lifted Joe’s blanket-covered feet and sat down on the end of the settee, replacing Joe’s feet in his lap.  The tension in Joe’s face eased ever so slightly, and he laid his head back against the pillow his father had placed behind him, closing his eyes as Hoss stroked his brother’s legs, just as he would have a sick horse.

Ben settled himself on the edge of the table, stroking Joe’s arm.  Tears began to trickle from beneath the closed lids, and Joe turned his face to the back of the settee.  Ben rested one hand on the disheveled curls, and with the other, he clutched Joe’s hand.  “Just hold on to me,” he whispered.  “Hold on tight.  I won’t let you go.”  As Joe began to shake, Ben moved to the edge of the settee and took his son in his arms.  “It’s not your fault,” he whispered, as he had countless times already.  “I promise you that, son.  It’s not your fault.”  Hoss continued to rub Joe’s legs, and Adam moved to the back of the settee, resting a hand on Joe’s shoulder as the young man’s anguish and guilt spilled over yet again.

Ben didn’t know how much time passed before the storm of Joe’s grief quieted.  At last, his son simply rested his head on his father’s shoulder, held fast in the strong embrace that had seen him through so many lesser struggles.  Silently, Hop Sing set down a tray bearing a bowl of warm water, a washcloth and towel, a glass of cool water, a spoon and a small paper envelope.  With a grateful nod, Ben continued to rub Joe’s back until his son lay back, drained.  As if the young grief-stricken widower was an invalid, Ben pressed the wet washcloth against his son’s face, and then he gently toweled the tear-blotched skin dry.

Without being asked, Adam dissolved the powdered contents of the envelope into the glass of water, and he handed it to his brother.  “Just drink it, Little Brother,” he said simply, but his voice betrayed his own pain.  Slowly, Joe drank.  As  he handed back the empty glass, his eyes met his elder brother’s as both knew again the enormity of their shared loss.

“Do you want to go back upstairs?” suggested Ben.  At Joe’s headshake, Ben started to speak again, but Hoss’ hand on his arm stopped him.  Hoss shook his head ever so slightly, and Ben understood:  once the sedative had worked and Joe was asleep, Hoss would take him up to his room.  Silently, in the midst of this darkness, he gave thanks once again for sons who would do anything for each other, even in the face of their own grief.

The room was still, save for the crackling of the fire.  The sedative was beginning to work its merciful magic, and Joe’s eyelids were drooping, but still he clung to his father’s hand.  For a moment, Ben was tempted to talk, to read aloud or pray, perhaps, but the notion felt clumsy.  And yet, the easy silence that accompanied so many evenings was beyond them now.

Then, he knew.  “Adam,” he said softly.  He nodded toward the corner, and his eldest son understood.  And so, as the Cartwrights huddled together against a grief more harsh and violent than any they had ever known, the gentle, clear music of Adam’s guitar spoke ever so quietly of the hope of comfort and healing.

*******

Many years later, after the death of his own wife, a philosopher would write, “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”  Had they lived in the same era, Joe Cartwright could have told him that.  The same dry mouth and sweaty palms.  The same dropping in his stomach when he thought of her being dead and gone forever.  The same trembling.  The same sense of the world spinning wildly out of control, and nothing to hold onto in order to keep from being flung off the planet and out into the great void.

The day after her funeral, Joe awoke with a hangover as fierce as any whiskey had ever created, except that this hangover was caused by sedatives and grief.  He closed his eyes tightly against the bright light edging the blinds.  For an instant, he didn’t know where he was or why.  He knew only that there was a great gaping hole in him, jagged and bleeding, even though his body looked to be intact.

And then, harsh, burning agony rushed into the hole, the acid filling it to overflowing and spilling out over everything, everywhere.  The pounding in his head, the roiling of his stomach–they were nothing compared to this.  He wouldn’t have thought he could possibly have any tears left, but they spilled down his cheeks anyway.  He rolled onto his side, trembling, his stomach turning over and over, and he curled up into the tightest ball he could manage, bracing himself against the onslaught, ignoring the knife-like protests from his back.

Carrie, he thought.  His lips formed her name, but he couldn’t say it.  He didn’t deserve to.  If it hadn’t been for him—his stupid anger, his idiotic pride, his selfish insistence that how he felt was the most important thing—she’d be alive now.  If only he’d looked for her before he came over here.  If only he hadn’t come.  If he’d stayed—she would never have done it.  She’d begged for his forgiveness, and he hadn’t given it.  Naked, on her knees, she’d begged him.  Begged.  But his self-righteous pride could only see how her actions had affected him.  In his arrogance, he was too blind to see why she’d done it, or maybe he just hadn’t cared, because he was too stubborn, too angry, to think about anybody else.  He wasn’t good enough for a woman like her.  It was his fault she was dead.  His, and his alone.

The gentle touch on his shoulder startled him.  He looked up to see his father’s face, lined with grief.  The dark eyes were brimming with tears and helplessness.  Pa sat on the edge of the bed, stroking Joe’s shoulder.

For a long time, neither spoke.  Then suddenly, violently, Joe’s stomach rejected its paltry contents.  He lunged for the edge of the bed, barely reaching it before he retched.  He lay back, as drained as if he’d been feverish for a long, long time.

Pa handed him a glass of water.  “Just take it easy for a few minutes,” he said quietly.  Joe sat up, clutching the glass with both hands to keep from spilling it.  He managed to drink a little bit, and then Pa took the glass, setting it on the bedside table.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get this cleaned up,” said Pa when he saw Joe looking over the edge of the bed.  “You just rest for a little bit.”  He called for Hop Sing, but it was Adam who came in and spoke with his father in a low voice.

“I’ll do it,” murmured Joe.

“You can stay right there,” said Adam in a teasing version of his strict-older-brother voice.  “I’ll take care of this.”  Joe wanted to argue, but suddenly, he was just too exhausted.  Still sitting up, he closed his eyes, letting the deep voices swirl around him.

“Joe,” came Pa’s voice, so warm and forgiving.  Joe pressed his fist against his mouth.  Pa would have forgiven her.  He’d have understood.  So would Adam, or Hoss.  Joe was the only one who was so cold and selfish that he would walk out on a distraught woman, would let her believe that her husband didn’t love her.

“But I did,” he protested.  “I did love her.  I did.”

“I know,” said Pa gently.

“I never meant for her to think—I should have stayed—it was my fault. . . .”  He was shaking now, icy fear running through him like the river just after the thaw.

“Sssh,” murmured Pa, pulling him close.  “It wasn’t your fault.  I promise you, Joe.  It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was,” Joe said.  “She thought I didn’t love her.  I should have gone back.  If I’d gone back, she’d never have done it.”  He repeated the words over and over, as if sheer repetition could rob them of their power, their truth.  He wanted to break free of Pa’s arms—he didn’t deserve this comfort, this love—but he wasn’t strong enough.  Instead, he rested his head on his father’s shoulder and let exhaustion cover him like the first snowfall.  His words faded, and eventually, he felt Pa laying him back on the bed.

“Just rest, son,” came the quiet words through the fog.  Joe felt blunt, work-roughened fingertips resting ever so lightly against his cheek, and he heard Pa whisper, “It wasn’t your fault.”

He wanted to argue, to tell Pa he was wrong, but the words wouldn’t come.  Everything seemed to be moving farther and farther away—the cold, the fear, the sounds.  The gun.  The blood drying in her hair.  Her fingers, curled around the butt of the pistol.  The pine box in the hole up on the bluff.  The absence of her, forever and ever.  All moving silently away.  Only the agony remained, fiery and immediate and all-consuming, like a river of lava, leaving nothing untouched.  He would have held on, but he was too tired.  Let grief have its way.  He couldn’t fight any more.  His eyes closed, and blessed oblivion claimed him again.

*******

Wearily, Ben strode into the sheriff’s office.  “Morning, Roy,” he said.

Roy nodded.  “Mornin’, Ben,” he responded, rising from his desk.  “He’s in there,” he added, gesturing to the cell.

“How much this time?” asked Ben as he drew his wallet from his vest pocket.

“Sam said to tell you fifty dollars should cover it,” said Roy.  The truth was that Sam had figured a whole lot more than that, but he’d told Roy to say fifty, and then only if Ben asked.

It wasn’t like this was the first time, or the tenth, that Joe Cartwright had busted up Sam’s saloon in the past two months, but Sam figured the kid sort of had a right.  Everybody knew by now what had happened, and why.  Granted, most of the gossip had died down by now, but every now and again, some miner with a snootful would get irked about how much money he was losing to Joe at the poker table and would make some comment about Carrie, and that was all it took.  Usually, it was just a brawl, but twice now, Joe had been the faster gun, even drunk, and people were starting to talk about how the kid’s luck couldn’t run forever.  Then again, Sam mused, maybe after the bad luck he’d had, he was entitled to ride this train at least a little while longer.

Adam and Hoss usually appeared early enough to haul their drunken brother out of the saloon before things got too bad, but they’d been off on a cattle drive for the past week.  As a result, Ben Cartwright had taken to making the rounds of the saloons, hauling the boy out of one only to have him find his way into another.  His elder sons had been reluctant to leave, but Ben had insisted:  the cattle had to be moved, and Joe was in no shape to join them.

The first few days after the funeral, Joe had been largely silent, barely seeming to notice his surroundings.  Then, a week after Carrie’s death, Joe appeared at breakfast one morning and announced that he was going home.

“Son, do you think that’s a good idea?” asked Ben hesitantly.  Adam and Hoss and Hop Sing had tried their best, but there were still bloodstains on the wall and floor of the bath house.  They’d planned to go back and whitewash the room before Joe saw it, but there simply hadn’t been time yet.

“It’s our home,” said Joe.  Something hard and angry in his eyes challenged anyone to dispute him.

“Joe, it’s still—we haven’t finished cleaning up,” said Adam.  “Give us a couple more days, okay?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Joe.  “You can whitewash from now until kingdom come, but her blood’s always going to be there, no matter what.  Might as well leave it just the way it is.  It ain’t like there are any secrets any more.  Everybody knows what happened.”

There was nothing they could say to that:  everybody did seem to know what had happened, and why.  Nobody was quite certain how, but it seemed as if all of Virginia City knew the sordid details—Carrie’s lies, Joe’s anger, and how he went off to stay at his pa’s house and she put a gun in her mouth.  They didn’t even add extra details; the truth was so bad that it didn’t need embellishment.  But still, they speculated about what had been said, and more than one person advanced the theory that Carrie might still be alive if Joe had been a little more forgiving.  The cowhand who spat out that notion in a saloon a couple weeks after the funeral woke up two mornings later in Doc Martin’s clinic, battered nearly beyond recognition by the grieving widower’s fists.

That brawl had marked the first time since Carrie’s death that Joe had spent the night in Roy’s jail.  As the weeks went on, Adam and Hoss sometimes got to Joe in time, and sometimes Roy got to him first as late-night saloon fights became early evening fights.  By now, they were sliding back into the afternoon, as Joe dove deeper into the bottle and his legendary temper burned hotter.

“Will there be any charges?” Ben asked as Roy fished the keys out of his desk drawer.

“Nope,” said Roy.  “Ever’body in the place said Fletcher started it.  Lucky thing Joe was as drunk as he was.  Folks seem to think that, if he hadn’t lost his balance on that last swing, he’d have put Ned Fletcher’s head right through the wall.”  Roy’s matter-of-fact tone simultaneously irritated and relieved Ben.  To the naked eye, it was just a saloon brawl.  Nothing exceptional at all.

But it wasn’t just a saloon brawl.  Roy opened the door separating the office from the cells, and Joe stirred slightly on the cot.  His face was a mess of dried blood and new bruises on top of the older ones.  Even in sleep, his arm cradled his midsection as if in pain.

“You might want to take him on over to Doc Martin,” suggested Roy.  “I couldn’t tell for sure, but it wouldn’t surprise me if he done cracked a rib or two.  Fletcher’s no slouch with his fists, I can tell you that.”

“Ned Fletcher is nearly as big as Hoss,” said Ben, staring at the slight young man who had taken him on.

“Nearly as big, with ten times Hoss’ temper,” agreed Roy.  “How Joe kept from getting beat to a pulp is anybody’s guess.”  He unlocked the cell and opened the door.  “He’s all yours,” he said.  “Bucket’s over there,” he added, stepping out into the office and deliberately closing the door to the cell area.

Ben didn’t have long to wait.  One of Joe’s eyes was swollen almost shut, but the other opened slowly.  “Pa?” he managed.  He turned his head, and almost at once, his face went white.  He leaned over the side of the cot and cringed as he vomited into the bucket his father held.

All-too-familiar pain welled up as Ben gazed down at his son.  The part of him that wanted to take the boy to task for such behavior warred with the part that understood all too well what he was feeling.  In the weeks and months after Elizabeth’s death, Ben had repeatedly fought down the urge to punch something, scream at someone, do anything to try to relieve the pressure of grief.  But he’d been accompanied by an infant and a nurse, and he’d forced himself maintain some modicum of control for their sake.  And so, he’d pushed down his rage and his guilt and his pain and even his love for her, locking his feelings away until he was little more than a cold, bitter shell.  Not until he met Inger, five long years later, did he understand what he had done to himself and, by extension, to his son.  Even now, Adam’s response to anger and grief was to push them down, hide them deep inside, and keep everyone from knowing how he felt.

“Come on,” Ben said, more roughly than he’d intended.  “You need to get over Doc Martin’s.”

The bleary green eyes were sullen, almost daring his father to touch him.  “I’m fine,” Joe mumbled.  “Don’t need a doctor.”

“Don’t you?”  Ben pressed ever so lightly on Joe’s torso, and his son gasped in pain.  “Let’s go.”  He walked out of the cell without looking back.

A few minutes later, as Ben stood on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, Joe stumbled out, blinking against the daylight.  The bruises were even more colorful in the morning sun.  The edges of Joe’s hair were wet, evidence that he’d tried to wash off some of the dried blood, but he hadn’t done much good.  Grief, anger, sorrow, contempt and compassion battled in Ben’s heart for a moment, and he read in his son’s face that Joe saw it all.

“Pa,” said Joe.  Ben waited.  “I’m sorry, Pa.  I didn’t mean to. . . .”  His voice trailed off, as if he’d forgotten what he was going to say.

Ben’s heart ached.  He wanted to tell his son that drinking and fighting weren’t going to bring Carrie back, anymore than beating up everyone in the territory would somehow absolve him of the blame he placed on himself.  He wanted to tell the boy that he knew what it was like to feel utterly responsible for the death of someone he loved, to spend countless hours trying to figure out what he could have done to make it come out differently and then to weep hot, bitter tears at the reality that it didn’t matter anyway, because nothing could change what had happened.

But that conversation was for later.  There was a more immediate matter to be addressed now.  Ben said simply, “After we finish at the doctor’s, you’re coming home with me.  You’re not going back to that house or coming back into town until I say so.  Is that understood?”

“I’m going back to my own house,” said Joe, his contrition suddenly vanishing.  “I can go home if I want to.  I can go wherever I want.  I’m not a kid anymore.”  He raised his bruised chin defiantly in the face of his father’s orders.  For an insane moment, Ben could feel laughter bubbling up inside him:  but for the blood and bruises, he might have been looking at the curly-haired ten-year-old who had once insisted with just such defiance that he was good enough to ride a particular chestnut mare who was only greenbroke.  Ben’s strictest orders hadn’t kept the boy off the horse that day, although the next day, a throbbing backside was enough to keep him from sitting in a saddle, or pretty much anywhere else.

Ben pulled himself back to the present argument.  Putting the boy over his knee was obviously no longer an option, but he still had a few cards in his hand.  “You’re also not twenty-one yet,” he said firmly.  “In the eyes of the law, you are indeed still a child.”

“I’m a grown man!” snapped Joe.  “I was old enough to get married, and I’m old enough to live in my own house if I want to.”

“Even if that were so, I’m still your father, and I still have some authority, regardless of your age.”  He fixed his son with a stony glare, but Joe held his own.  Ben continued, “I don’t want you going back there.  You can’t handle it right now, any more than you seem to be able to handle coming into town.  Either way, you end up passed out drunk.”

“I can handle what I’m doing,” said Joe.  “Besides, if I can’t, it’s my problem, not anybody else’s.  You don’t have to come and bail me out.  You don’t have to send Hoss and Adam to drag me home or sober me up in the morning.  I can handle my own life just fine.”

“The way you’ve been doing?” Ben challenged.  “Look at yourself.  Is this what Carrie would have wanted you to be?”

“Don’t say her name!”  The shout was obviously a reflex, borne of too many callous comments by too many drunks.  It caught them both off guard for a moment, and then Ben pressed his advantage.

“The truth is that, while you may be bound and determined to drink yourself into an early grave, I’m not going to stand idly by and let you do it,” he said steadily.  “This family has known enough grief already.  I won’t let you add to it.”

He was gratified to see that Joe looked startled by that statement.  Instinctively, he had veered away from the topic of what his son was doing to himself; the past two months had shown all too well that Joe was dangerously unconcerned about what could happen to him.  On the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, Ben played the one card he trusted to get his son’s attention—Joe’s love for his family.

He held his breath as he forced himself to maintain a stern glare.  After a minute, the boy looked down and away.  “I’m sorry, Pa,” Joe said, his voice barely audible.  Relief washed over Ben; the gamble had worked.  He could still reach his son.  He held fast now.  Joe’s apology was choked with anguish, but from twenty years of dealing with Joseph, Ben knew what was needed, and he made himself press on.

“Joseph.”  Ben waited, but Joe didn’t look up.  “Joseph.  Look at me when you speak to me.”

Joe swallowed hard.  “Yes, sir,” he whispered, his bravado gone.  Ben waited again.  Finally, Joe looked up, tears glistening in the morning sun as he met his father’s eyes.  “I’m sorry, Pa,” he whispered.

Ben nodded.  “I know, son,” he said quietly, resting a forgiving hand on his son’s shoulder.  “Now, let’s get over to the doctor’s and get those ribs looked at.”

But Joe’s lips were trembling.  “Pa—” he began.

“Come here,” said Ben.  Swiftly, he shepherded Joe back inside, past Roy’s desk and back toward the cells, where he closed the door.  There, he held his son as closely as the cracked ribs would allow, and the boy’s grief spilled over once again, tears carving tracks through the blood on the battered young face.

“I’m sorry, Pa,” he wept.  “I’m so sorry. . . .”

Ben closed his eyes against the agony in his son’s voice.  “I know, son,” he murmured, stroking the back of the rumpled green jacket.  “I know.”

Eventually, the battered young body stilled, and Joe lifted his head from his father’s shoulder.  “I didn’t mean to mess up your shirt,” he said, brushing ineffectually at the blood that had smeared on Ben’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about that,” said Ben.  “Let’s just get you over to the doctor’s and then go home.”  He handed Joe his handkerchief, and the boy did his best to wipe away the signs of tears and blood.

“Pa?”

With red-rimmed eyes and bruised face, Joseph appeared to be so young, but the pain in his eyes made him look far older than his years.  Ben nodded for his son to continue.

“Will it ever stop hurting?”

Ben caught his breath.  He wished so much that he could lie, could tell him that it would all be over soon.  But he’d made a promise to himself, the night Carrie died, that he would tell Joe the truth.  Ben had had no one to walk with him through the agony of Elizabeth’s death or Inger’s.  Even after Marie died, when he was settled and had friends, none of them had experienced what he was going through.  If any good could be said to come from those tragedies, it was this—that he could say to his son, in all honesty, I know how you feel. 

And so, Ben cupped his son’s face in his hand.  “Not completely,” he said truthfully.  “But it will fade.  And you will get through this.  I promise you that.”

Joe considered this for a long minute.  “Thanks, Pa,” he whispered.  He started to give back the handkerchief, but Ben shook his head, smiling.

“Let’s go,” he said.  He reached for the doorknob, but Joe’s hand on his stopped him from opening the door.

“Not yet,” Joe said in a voice strangled with pain.  “Please.”

Ben regarded his son.  Everything in him wanted the boy seen by a doctor, home and in bed.  He wanted to fix what he could, he realized ruefully.  Because there was so much more that needed fixing, and so little anyone could do.

He guided Joe back into the empty cell, and the two men sat on the cot—the son leaning against the father as he searched his heart for the courage to face the day, and the father holding his son as if he would never let him go.

*******

Ben glanced at his youngest son as the preacher droned on.  The old Joe would have been fidgeting, flipping through the hymnal, anything to stay awake.  Now, he sat unmoving, as if he were paying rapt attention to every word.  Only someone who knew him as well as his father did would have realized that his mind was miles away, on a bluff overlooking the lake.  Casually, his own gaze focused on the pulpit, Ben rested his hand on Joe’s thigh.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe’s head turn abruptly, and then he saw the tense shoulders relax slightly.

It had been nearly six months since Carrie’s death, but in some ways, it was as fresh as if it had happened last week.  Joe had returned to the main house, and if he hadn’t stopped drinking entirely, at least there were fewer saloon brawls.  But those were small things.  The bigger issue—the way Joe blamed himself for her death—hadn’t gone away, or even faded.  Joe just hid it better now, with very little talking and a lot of time in his room or in the barn, alone.  Most of the time, whatever they said to him had to be repeated, because the first time, he wouldn’t hear it over his own thoughts.

After the service, Ben turned to his sons.  “I was thinking it might be nice to stay in town for dinner,” he said.

Hoss grinned.  “I was just thinkin’ the same thing,” he said.  With Hop Sing away, he’d been hoping for a suggestion like that.  Pa had a lot of fine qualities, but he just wasn’t much of a cook, and sadly, all of his sons had inherited his lack of culinary talent.  When their beloved cook was away, the Cartwrights subsisted on a lot of overcooked beef and underdone potatoes, alternated with beans that stayed bland no matter what they threw into the pot.

“Sounds good to me,” offered Adam, for much the same reasons.

“Joseph?” Ben asked.

“What?  Oh, sure, fine.  Whatever you want.”  Joe tried to sound agreeable, but the fact was that he couldn’t have cared less what they did about dinner.  Nothing had any taste anyway.  Over the past few months, he’d lost so much weight off his already slim frame that his father had insisted that he allow the doctor to check him over.

“All right, then, let’s go,” said Ben, stepping out of the pew.  He turned just as Matilda Wilkins came up the aisle with another equally round woman beside her.

“Oh, Ben, this is my sister, Dolly,” said Matilda proudly.  “Dolly, this is the gentleman I was telling you about, Ben Cartwright.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Ben.  He was well-accustomed to the local ladies bringing their unmarried relatives and friends to meet at least one member of his family.  Judging from Dolly’s age, he suspected that Matilda might have had her eye on Ben himself as a potential brother-in-law.

“And these are Ben’s sons, Adam and Hoss—oh, and this one is the youngest, Little Joe.”  The last part seemed to have some special emphasis, and Ben saw his son stiffen.  Pleasantries were exchanged, but Dolly’s eyes kept darting to Joe.  As the ladies moved off, Dolly twittered, “So, that’s the one whose wife—”

“Ssssh!”  Matilda looked back over her shoulder to see Adam glaring at her.  Her round cheeks reddened as she ducked her head next to her sister’s and the two women scurried up the aisle.

Hoss rested his hand on Joe’s shoulder.  “Don’t you pay them no mind,” he said.  “They ain’t worth the bother.  Now, come on, let’s get over to the International House before Pa decides we should go back to the Ponderosa so’s he can cook for us!”

Joe’s face was stony.  “You all go ahead,” he said.  “I’m not real hungry.”

“Joe—” Ben began, but Joe held up his hand.

“Pa, please,” he said.  “I just—I don’t feel like eating right now.  I’ll meet you at the livery stable later.”  He ducked past his father and started up the aisle.

“Joseph.”  At Ben’s call, Joe turned back.  Everything in Ben wanted to tell his son that he was forbidden from going to the saloon, but as he looked at the fresh pain flaming in his son’s eyes, he couldn’t do it.  “We’ll see you later,” he said simply.  He watched as Joe nodded briefly, turning to leave without another word.

Hoss and Adam had gone to bed by the time Joe returned that night.  The end of his tie was sticking out of his jacket pocket, and his cheeks were ruddy with the chill of the autumn night.  He let himself into the house and turned to see his father exactly where he’d expected him, in the leather chair by the fire.

He knew that Pa had probably been more worried than angry, although he was probably angry, too.  He knew he should apologize.  They’d likely checked every saloon in town, looking for him.  The truth was that he’d only had a couple of drinks, enough to take the edge off, and then he’d been overwhelmed by the need to just get out of town and be someplace where there weren’t any other people.  So, he’d gone to the livery stable and told old Pete to let them know he’d meet them back home, and he’d ridden for miles and miles, luxuriating in the feeling of not being some sort of circus freak to be stared at and whispered about.  He’d gone all the way up to Rocking Chair Butte before he stopped, pulling off Cochise’s saddle to give him a good rest.  The next thing he knew, the sun was setting, and the whole afternoon and evening had gone by without his even realizing it.

Pa’s eyes were that combination of stern and kind that only he could manage.  Before the lecture could begin, Joe strode over and sat down on the table.  “Pa, I want to go away,” he said.  “I need to get away from here.”

His father regarded him for a long minute before he said, “Running away isn’t going to change anything, Joe.”

“I’m not running away,” said Joe.  “At least, not the way you mean.  I just need to go someplace where nobody knows about—where I’m not that fellow whose wife—where I’m not—where nobody knows.”

Ben puffed on his pipe.  The truth was that he’d been expecting this.  It was almost surprising that Joe had held off this long.  “I can understand why you’d want to go,” he said.  “But what about afterward?  Do you think it’ll be any different when you come back?  Or—aren’t you planning to come back?”  The thought hit him hard, but he kept his tone level.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Joe said honestly.  “I just need to get away.”

Ben drew on his pipe.  “To be quite honest, son, I’d rather you didn’t go,” he said.  “Not now, anyway.  Maybe in the spring. . . .”

Joe stood up.  “Pa, I’ve done what you asked,” he said, his voice tight.  “I came back here, I’ve stayed out of the saloons, I haven’t been drunk.  I’ve tried, I really have.  I’ve tried to move on, to put it behind me, to figure out how to be normal again, but I can’t.  I can’t do this anymore.  I’ve got to go now.  I need to get away from here, from this whole thing.  Can’t you understand that?”

“Joe, I know it’s hard—”

“No, you don’t know,” Joe cut him off.  “Because my mother’s death wasn’t your fault, and neither was Hoss’ mother’s, and neither was Adam’s.  Nobody blamed you for any of them.  And nobody blamed them, either.”  He was pacing now.  “I can’t even go to my own mother’s grave without being reminded of what happened, because Carrie’s right beside her.  If I go to the lake—that’s where I proposed to her.  If I head up to the north pasture, I go past our house.  She’s everyplace, but she’s no place because she’s not here and she never will be again, and it’s my fault, and I need to go someplace where that’s not staring me in the face every second of every day!”

Joe’s fists were clenched.  The anguish he’d learned to mask so well was obvious now, in his voice and his face and his body.  Everything in Ben wanted to hold his boy close and tell him to stay right here, that they’d face down the demons together, but bitter experience had taught him that this only worked up to a point, and they’d passed that point.

Some demons have to be faced alone.

More quietly, Joe said, “Pa, I don’t need your permission to go—but it would mean a lot to know that I had it.”

Ben watched the young man.  Slowly, he puffed on his pipe, buying time.  There were a thousand reasons to say no, but only one reason to say yes:  because his son had asked him to.  He set down his pipe and leaned forward.  “When were you planning on leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Joe said cautiously.

Ben swallowed hard.  He didn’t want to say it, but he forced himself to speak anyway. “Then I expect you need go and pack.”

Understanding dawned in Joe’s eyes.  “Thanks, Pa,” he whispered.  He headed up the stairs, leaving his father alone by the fire.

Ben laid his head against the back of his chair.  Joe was wrong.  There was indeed someone who had blamed Ben for the deaths of his wives:  Ben himself.  When Elizabeth died, he chastised himself for having let her work while she was with child, for having gotten her in that condition in the first place, for not having somehow foreseen this and had better medical help.  When he lost Inger, he berated himself for taking her away from her safe little town, out to the prairie where Indian attacks could happen.  And when Marie died, he held himself responsible for having bought that blasted horse in the first place and for not having the sense to know that she would ride it, regardless of what he said.With each loss, guilt had complicated his grief, overshadowing it at times. Finally, though, he began to recognize how miniscule was his power over the events of this world.  And with that recognition came the ability to begin to let go of the guilt, and to reclaim the love that was, after all, the only thing worth remembering.

He drew on his pipe, but it had gone out.  He thought briefly of relighting it, but instead, he set it on the hearth.  Upstairs, his son was packing, thinking that getting away would lessen the agony of living in a world without the woman he loved.  He would learn, as his father had, that grief is no respecter of geography.  It would ride his coattails no matter where he went, as long as Joe allowed, and even after that, it would pop up every now and again, just because it could.

But this was something Joe would have to learn for himself.  And when he did, he would come home.

Or so his father prayed.

*******

The horse’s breath made cloud-like puffs in the chilly morning air.  Joe tightened his cinch and turned to his family.  Brave was the only word that came to mind as he watched them trying to appear casual about his departure.

“You take care, now, Shortshanks,” said Hoss, pounding him on the arm.  The big man’s grin was determined and unconvincing, but Joe just nodded, forcing a grin of his own as he rubbed his arm in mock indignation.

“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Adam said quietly.  He knew a thing or two about loss and grief and taking time to figure things out, but this was the first time he’d been the one to watch somebody else leave.  In that moment, he appreciated how hard it had been for his father to let him go after the end of his relationship with Regina Darien.

“You’ll let us hear from you,” said Ben.  It wasn’t a question, but Joe nodded.  “Take this,” Ben added, tucking an envelope into the inner pocket of Joe’s jacket.  “Just in case.”

“Pa, I’ve got enough money, I don’t need—”

“Just take it,” said Ben, and something in his eyes made Joe fall silent.

“Thanks,” he said after a minute.  He looked at the three of them, ready to let him go in spite of everything they thought best.  “I’ll be in touch,” he said.  He swung into his saddle and kicked Cochise’s sides, raising his hand in a wave as he rode out.

*******

Days blurred into one another as the trail wound through the mountains.  He couldn’t have said where he was going, except away, but for now, that was enough of a destination.

It was oddly comforting to have no one to talk to except Cochise.  He found himself commenting on things he saw as if the horse might answer him.  Sometimes, when he stopped for a break, he made coffee even if he didn’t want it, just to have something to share.  His brothers always got a kick out of watching Joe hold the coffee cup for Cochise as the pinto drank with surprisingly little splashing.  Now, there was nobody to watch or tease, but that was all right.  It was the price to be paid for not having anyone to hover or stare.

At night sometimes, Joe lay back, his head on the saddle, and looked up at the night sky, clear and cold.  That was when the memories were strongest.  Moments that he thought he’d forgotten began to crowd his mind, silly little things like a pie Carrie had baked that she’d thought turned out badly, but which hadn’t been bad at all, or how excited she was about the curtains she’d made for the window in the kitchen.

After a while, he began, very cautiously, to let himself remember her as his wife:  the warmth of her body pressed against his, the softness of her lips, the sweetness of her voice moaning with pleasure.  Her breasts, cupped in his hands like sun-warmed apples.  Her hands, delicate-looking but unexpectedly strong as they caressed his backside.  He recalled being deliciously surprised by how firmly she held him inside her.  One night, as he let his mind wander through these memories, he was almost shocked to find that he was aroused by them.  It was the first time since her death that his body had responded this way.  Reflexively, he sat up and looked around, embarrassed, but there was no one present to see or to judge.  After a minute, he lay back, allowing himself to enjoy the memory, willing her to be present in his mind.

It occurred to him one day that he didn’t know the date anymore.  The realization jarred him.  Carrie had died on the tenth of April.  On the tenth of May, he’d spent the day thinking, “A month ago, she was still alive.”  Then, in June, it was two months, and then three and four, five and six.  But now, if he didn’t know the date, how would he know when it was seven months?  What if he missed the tenth of November, or December?  A good husband wouldn’t forget about the anniversary of his wife’s death.  But if he’d been a good husband, there wouldn’t be an anniversary to mark, because his wife wouldn’t be dead.  The realization slammed into him as if someone had thrown an enormous rock at his gut, and he had to dismount before he crumpled to the ground.  There, by the side of the road, the pinto waited patiently as Joe fell to his knees, moans escaping him as doubled over with anguish that felt as fiery and all-consuming as the very day she died.

He didn’t know where he was going, but as the days passed, he found that he didn’t care.  All he knew for certain was that he wasn’t ready to turn back.  Being anonymous suited him.  Even when he stopped in a town, as he did from time to time, nobody knew who he was.  He was just another drifter.  If he had a beer or got into a poker game, his name didn’t matter.  When somebody asked, he just said he was Joe; if they pressed for his full name, he gave them a level stare with a glint of danger and repeated, “Joe.”  Maybe it was the look in his eye that said that he had nothing left to lose, but nobody pushed beyond that point.

The nights were getting colder, and it occurred to him that he should find a town so that he could sleep inside.  He still had enough money to cover food and lodging, but among the thoughts that drifted through his brain was the recognition that eventually, he would need to start working occasionally, if only so that he’d have the option of not working when it suited him.  He didn’t want his funds to run so low that he might be forced to work when he’d rather not.  With winter coming on, there would come a point when ranches wouldn’t be looking for hands, so the likelihood was that he’d need to find work in a town.  A livery stable, maybe.  It wasn’t like there was a whole lot of other work he knew how to do.

The other matter that was starting to become more prominent was the increasing ache in his back.  He’d been fortunate so far, but if his back went out on him, he’d do well to be near somebody who could lend a hand.  One night, as he poked at the campfire, he found himself thinking about how Pa and his brothers had taken care of him that time he’d been supposed to meet Carrie and his back had flared up.  He’d been so convinced that he’d never see her again after that.  If Ruth Gillam had had her way, Carrie would have been on the next stagecoach out of Virginia City rather than ever seeing Joe Cartwright again.  But she’d forgiven him, and he’d known then that he’d do anything in the world to keep from hurting her again.

But he had hurt her.  He’d hurt her so badly that she’d—

“No!” he shouted.  He dropped his head into his hands.  No matter what, it kept coming back to him.  He couldn’t outrun it.  Here he was, out in the middle of God only knew where, without another living soul for miles, and the vision of Carrie in that bathtub danced before him like he’d seen it just that morning.

Almost idly, he fingered his gun.  Maybe he’d been wrong all this time.  Maybe she hadn’t done it out of anger or revenge, the way he’d sometimes thought.  Maybe she’d just wanted to stop hurting.  He drew out his gun and felt its familiar heft as he wondered.  Maybe she’d been right.  Maybe there was no other way to make the pain stop.

He traced the barrel with his finger, feeling the smoothness of the opening.  It would fit in his mouth.  The metal was colder than he’d have expected, considering that the gun had been in his holster all day.  He started to turn the gun so that he could look down its barrel, but he could almost hear his father and brothers shouting at him to be careful, and he set the gun down, shaken by the vividness of their voices.  Then, defiantly, he turned the gun and stared into the small black hole that could deliver a bullet into his brain and end forever the agony of living.

He could do it.  He could die out here in the snow.  One last movement—squeezing the trigger—and he could be done with it all.  His body would rot, and by spring, there would be nothing more than a skeleton.  He could throw his wallet on the fire and turn Cochise loose, and nobody would ever know what he’d done.  The man who drove his wife to suicide would be gone, their shared pain ended.

But even as he considered the relief of oblivion, a bizarre logic intruded.  Carrie’s decision had caused such horrific pain to all of them—how could his do less to Pa and Adam and Hoss and Hop Sing?  If they ever found out—if his wallet didn’t burn and someone found him . . . he closed his eyes.  It would kill them all.  And even if they didn’t actually know what he’d done—if they only knew that he never came home—they’d suspect, and they’d wonder, and they’d blame themselves for letting him go off by himself.  It wouldn’t matter that it wasn’t their fault.  They’d never forgive themselves.  Because you just didn’t.  When someone you loved did something like this, it put forgiveness squarely out of bounds forever.

Joe ran his finger around the opening of the gun.  He’d never really thought about how small the hole was that delivered death.  A man couldn’t even fit a finger inside.  And the bullet . . . a silly little nugget of lead that could have been used to make a pencil.  You could probably write your name with it if you had to.  Smaller than his thumb, and yet capable of killing, of destroying a family, of obliterating hopes and dreams while inflicting heartache the likes of which no one could imagine.  It wasn’t even logical that something that miniscule could have such an enormous impact on a person’s world.  An instrumentality that could shatter lives that way should be massive, like a cannonball.  For such a tiny little bit of lead to wreak such havoc . . . utterly senseless, and terrifyingly true.

He didn’t realize he was still holding the gun until the snowflakes began to land on the silver-colored metal.  He watched as the tiny white flurries landed and dissolved, leaving wet droplets behind.  Then the droplets began to get bigger, because they weren’t from snowflakes any more.  The gun blurred.  Slowly, ever so slowly, he set it down.  He couldn’t do this.  Not to his family.  Not to himself.  He didn’t deserve such an easy release from his pain, any more than they deserved a lifetime of wondering what had happened.

The snowflakes landed so lightly on his face that he wouldn’t have known they were there except for the delicate kiss of cold they left.  He looked up, and they fell straight down around him, into his eyes.  He opened his mouth the way he had as a boy, and he felt the tiny flakes floating onto his lips and tongue.  For a long time, he sat motionless, hot tears trickling out of the corners of his eyes, cooled by the gentle caress of snow.

*******

“It’s been almost two months,” said Hoss.  “That’s too long.  Somebody oughta go after him.”

“Hoss, relax,” said Adam.  “Joe can take care of himself.”

“But he ain’t himself now,” said Hoss.  “Two months with no word?  Don’t tell me you ain’t worried.”

“I’d never say that,” said Adam.  “I might say I wasn’t worried, but I’d never say I ‘ain’t’ worried—ooof!”  The sack of grain his brother tossed to him for that comment nearly knocked him off his feet.

“Seriously, Adam,” said Hoss, his grin fading.  “I think we oughta go after him.”

“Hoss, we’re not going anywhere,” said Adam.  “Joe needs time to himself, and we’re going to respect that, even if it’s hard for us.”

“But—Christmas is comin’.”  Hoss’ blue eyes were distraught.  “It’s gonna be hard enough without Carrie, but I can’t imagine how Pa’s gonna manage if Joe ain’t here.”

“He’ll manage the same way you and I will,” Adam said quietly.  “By knowing that we’re giving Joe the one thing he really wants right now—a chance to heal.”  He hoisted the sack of grain, piling it on the stack in the corner.  “I know how you feel,” he added.  “As much as the kid drives me crazy, I miss him, too.  It’s not going to seem like Christmas without him.”

“We don’t even know where to send a present,” said Hoss.

“Then we’ll just hold his presents until he gets home,” said Adam.

“Adam?”

“What?”

“You reckon he’s gonna come back?”

Adam straightened the sack on top of the pile.  When he couldn’t fuss with it any more, he turned to his brother and said the words they both dreaded.

“I don’t know.”