Part Three

“Hey, cowboy, you want to buy me a drink?”

Joe squinted up at the shiny blue bosom that hovered just above eye level.  Above it, nearly blocked by the abundance of woman that filled his view, was a mass of light-colored curls.

“Sure,” he said.  “Why not?”

A second later, or so it seemed, she was seated close to him and was reaching for his bottle.  His hand clamped on her wrist.  “Get your own,” he growled.

The woman shrugged.  “Frank!  Another bottle!”  Her voice grated, and he winced.

He couldn’t have said how long they sat there, but at some point, he felt himself being led by the hand up a flight of stairs.  “You’re a cute one,” the woman was giggling as she closed the door to a small room with a large bed.  Joe tried to find the words to protest, but she was taking off his jacket and he didn’t seem to know how to stop her.

As she reached for his trousers, he grabbed her wrist.  “No,” he said as distinctly as he could.

“Don’t you worry,” she said in a voice that was probably supposed to be soothing and seductive.  “Polly’s gonna take care of you just fine.”

“I said ‘no’!”  He shoved, and she fell back onto the bed.

“Hey, wait a minute—”  She started to get up, and he shoved her again, shouting, “No!”  He found his jacket and gunbelt and bolted from the room, ignoring her shouts of “Get back here!  You mama’s boy, you!” as he stumbled down the stairs.

“Hey!  You didn’t pay for that bottle!” called the bartender as Joe shoved chairs out of the way to get to the door.  “Hey!  Get back here!”

Joe nearly fell through the batwing doors, and somebody grabbed his arm.  “Lemme go!” he snarled.

“Take it easy, stranger,” said a man in an infuriatingly calm, deep voice.  Joe swung at him, but he caught Joe’s arm neatly.  “All right, you’re coming with me,” the man said.  Joe struggled to get loose, but the man seemed unimpressed.

Moments later, he shoved Joe into a cell and clanged the bars shut behind him.  “You stay there until you sober up,” he said.  Joe tried to protest, but the cell was spinning, and he flopped down on the rickety cot and let the all-too-familiar feelings overwhelm him.

The next morning, he was awakened by the smell of coffee.  He opened his eyes a crack; then, his eyes widened with surprise.  A dented tin coffeepot and an equally dented tin cup sat on a stool by the wall.  It was cold as hell in here, and the moth-eaten blanket over him was doing little to dispel the chill.  Maybe the coffee would help.  He lifted his head, the room spun, and he dropped back, groaning.

The next time he opened his eyes, sunlight was streaming in through the tiny barred window.  His head pounded, and he made good use of the slop bucket in the corner.  Then, he groped his way over to the coffee pot.  It was barely warm by now, but he didn’t care.  He poured a cup and drained it, and he poured another.

“You’re alive,” came a voice.  He snapped around to see a woman standing by the bars.  Her bright red hair seemed an odd contrast to her simple white blouse, dark skirt, and woolen shawl.  He wouldn’t have been surprised to see hair that color in a saloon.

She seemed to be waiting for him to speak, so he nodded.  “Thanks,” he said, holding up the coffee cup.  He didn’t know why, but he figured she was responsible for it.

“You should be more careful,” she said almost lazily.  “Polly doesn’t like men who tell her ‘no.’  You’re lucky she didn’t shoot you.”

“Huh?”  Nothing she was saying made sense.

She chuckled.  “You remember anything about last night?”

He squinted.  “Should I?”

She shook her head.  “Nothing worth remembering, except that maybe you shouldn’t drink so much.”

“Thanks for the advice.”  He meant to close the subject, but she didn’t seem to get the hint.

“I saw you last night,” she said.

He considered her statement as he poured out the last of the coffee into his cup.  He wasn’t even sure how long he’d been in this town, much less why.  He had vague memories of the name sounding familiar, but he couldn’t recall it at the moment.  So, he just grunted and put down the cup.  “How do I get out of here?  I’ve got money for bail.”

She smiled then.  “You didn’t do anything,” she said.  “Sheriff locked you up for safekeeping after you took a swing at him.  Anybody’d take a swing at our sheriff is too drunk to be allowed to run around loose.”

“Why?  Who’s your sheriff?”

“Russ Mottolese.”  When Joe didn’t respond, she said, “About six-foot-five and three hundred pounds.  Fastest gun in the Dakotas.  Nobody messes with him.  Especially not drunken fellows he could probably fit in his pocket.”

Joe grunted.  “I grew up with a brother who fits that description,” he said.  “Your sheriff ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen and whupped a dozen times.”  It was only half-true, of course, but he was pleased to see her eyes widen in surprise.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked.

“Why do you care?”

He’d expected her to get insulted and leave in a huff, but instead, she laughed.  “Feisty, aren’t you?”

“Rude is more like it,” came a familiar deep voice.  “You need me to teach you some manners, boy?”  The sheriff sauntered in, and Joe had to work to keep his face from showing any reaction.  This fellow was bigger than Hoss and lacked the middle Cartwright’s genial smile.  Until that instant, Joe had never quite realized how much he relied on his knowledge of Hoss’s gentle nature to keep him from being pummeled into the ground.

“You going to let me out?  Lady tells me I didn’t do anything to be locked up for.”  Joe hid his satisfaction as the woman looked up at the sheriff guiltily and the big man’s mouth tightened ever so slightly.

“I told him he took a swing at you,” she pointed out, and the sheriff nodded.

“Assaulting an officer of the law, public drunkenness, theft—I could keep you here for thirty days.”

“Theft?  I didn’t steal anything!”

“Frank over at the saloon says you didn’t pay for a bottle of whiskey.”  The sheriff sounded satisfied.

“Is that why you locked me up?” Joe demanded.  “I’ve got the money.  I’ll pay him right now if you let me out.”

The sheriff regarded him.  “I let you out, you better be heading out of this town,” he said.

“Why?  Is it against the law to drink in a saloon here?”

“No,” said the sheriff.  “But I been a lawman for twenty-seven years, and I know trouble when I see it.  You’re looking for a fight, and you ain’t gonna get it here.  Now, I’m gonna let you out, you’ll give me the money for Frank, and you’ll ride out and that’ll be the last time the town of Bushnell Flats ever lays eyes on you again.  You understand?”

For a second, the name didn’t register.  Then, it slammed into him like an iron fist.  He closed his eyes as nausea welled up.  Bushnell Flats. Of all the places in the world, why had he come here?  Was it just happenstance, or had something directed him here?  For the love of God, why?  What could he have hoped to find in this town?  What kind of answers could they possibly have?  His breathing grew rough.  Dimly, he heard the sheriff asking something, but he stumbled over to the slop pail and heaved up all the coffee he’d drunk.  Shaking, he leaned against the chilly, rough wall.

He hadn’t heard the key scraping in the lock, but he felt a hand on his arm.  “You okay, fellow?” the sheriff asked.

Go away, he begged silently.  He couldn’t fall apart.  Not here, in her town.  Not in front of people who might have known her.

“Should I get the doctor?” the woman asked.

“No need,” said the sheriff.  “I reckon last night’s still catching up with him.”  But the hand on his arm told Joe that the sheriff knew that something else was going on.  “How about fetching some more coffee and maybe some biscuits?”  After a minute, the sheriff said in a low voice, “She’s gone.”

“Thanks,” Joe whispered.

“Should I be sending for the doc?”

Joe shook his head slightly.  “No.”  He would have thanked him for the offer, but he was scared to move for fear a flood of tears could break out.

After a long minute, the sheriff let go of him.  “You can sleep it off here if you want,” he said.  “But if I need this cell, you’ll have to get out.”  Joe nodded to show he’d heard, and what sounded like Hoss’s size sixteen boots clicked against the stone floor as the sheriff left the cell.

It was dark when Joe awoke again.  His stomach pitched as if he were on a ship in rough waters.  Vaguely, he recalled a bucket somewhere.  He swung his legs over the side of the cot, and his boot kicked over something that rattled against the floor.  The bucket, mercifully emptied after his last use.  He used it again, and then he sat back, beyond exhausted.

Bushnell Flats.  How the hell had he ended up here?  Hot tingling in his face warned of impending tears.  God in heaven, would the thought of her ever bring up any other reaction?  He dropped his head into his hands, fighting back the tears and failing.

Finally, he straightened.  He squinted, but there was no sign of a water pitcher.  Of course not.  This was a jail, not a hotel.  He rubbed at his face, trying to obliterate the signs of tears.

The door separating the cell from the outer office creaked open, and a bar of light fell into the cell.  Before Joe could think what to do, the sheriff came in, his massive silhouette blocking most of the light.  Joe couldn’t see his face, but somehow, he sensed that something had changed since that morning.

“You got a place to stay?” the sheriff asked when Joe said nothing.

“You told me to get out of town.”  His voice still sounded ragged.

“I know,” said the sheriff.  “You figuring to leave now?”

“Do I have a choice?”

Joe could feel the large black shape assessing him the way Adam sometimes did when he was trying to make up his mind.  “Yeah,” said the sheriff finally.  “As long as you stay away from the saloon.”

Joe snorted.  “You sound like my pa.”

“Maybe your pa’s a wise man,” the sheriff observed.  “You make a lousy drunk.  Maybe he’d like to see you stay alive a little longer.”

All at once, the conversation seemed exhausting and pointless.  “Is there a hotel in town?”

“Not anymore,” said the sheriff.  “Burned down two weeks ago.  Couple of drunks got into a fight.  Three people died.”

“Sorry to hear it,” said Joe.  He meant about the dead people, but as the words came out, he realized the sheriff might have thought he just meant he was sorry to hear that there was no hotel.  He tried to think how to explain, but the sheriff was already past that.

“I got a barn,” he was saying.  “You can bed down there if you want.”

The unexpected offer felt like a gift.  “Thanks,” Joe said.  “Appreciate it.”  He rose and looked around in the dim light for his jacket and gunbelt.

“Your things are in the office,” said the sheriff.

“Thanks,” Joe said again.  The sheriff turned and led the way out of the cell, and Joe blinked in the lamplight.  “What time is it?”

“Almost seven,” said the sheriff.  He handed Joe his jacket and gunbelt.  “My wife’s got some stew left from supper.  You’re welcome to it.”

“Thanks.”  It felt like the only thing he knew how to say.  He wanted to ask why the sheriff was being so nice, but he was half-afraid to question it for fear he’d end up riding out of town into the cold dark night with an empty belly and no answers.

“I’ll take you down there,” the sheriff said.  “Then, I gotta get back.  Deputy’s out of town, so I gotta make sure everything’s settled down for the night.”

Nothing looked familiar as he trailed after the sheriff.  “Can we stop at the livery stable?” he asked.  “I think my saddlebags might still be there.”  The sheriff just grunted, but half a block later, he stopped and gestured toward a barn door.  In the low light, Joe was able to see his pinto’s distinctive coat, and he allowed himself a moment of relief that whatever else he’d done, he’d made sure his horse had been well cared for.  His saddlebags were draped over the divider between Cochise’s stall and the next one, and the bedroll was sticking out of one of the bags.  He peered inside the bags, but everything seemed to be as he’d left it.  Slinging them over his shoulder and tucking his bedroll under his arm, he rejoined the sheriff, and they continued to a modest house on the edge of town.

“Barn’s back there,” said the sheriff, gesturing toward an unlit area behind the house.  “You can eat in the house.”  He opened the door and called, “Edie!  We’re here!”

The red-haired woman appeared in the doorway.  Joe wasn’t certain what surprised him more—the fact that she was there or the way she was dressed.  She wore a low-necked shiny green dress with black lace, and a white flower was pinned in her hair.  Definitely saloon-girl clothes, and he’d have bet anything he’d never see them on a sheriff’s wife.

“Stew’s on the stove,” she said.  “I’m late for work.  Do you have time to show him where everything is?”

“Not that much to show,” said the sheriff, but there was a smile in his voice.

She smiled, too.  “I’ll see you in the morning, Mister. . . .”  Her voice trailed off, inviting him to fill in the blank.

“Cartwright,” Joe supplied.  “Joe Cartwright.”

She held out her hand.  “Edie Mottolese.  You’ve met my husband, Russ.”

“Pleasure, ma’am,” said Joe, taking her hand.  “And I thank you both for putting me up.”  He was half-tempted to ask why, but he was tired and hungry and knew better than to press his luck.  A quick look passed between Edie and the sheriff that Joe didn’t understand, but his stomach tightened.

Something about this situation wasn’t a coincidence.

Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself firmly.  They weren’t doing any more than the Cartwrights had done for strays and strangers dozens of times.  His pa couldn’t have been the only man on earth who believed in tending to those who’d gotten themselves in some sort of difficulty.

Mottolese dished up stew and set the bowl on the long table.  “There’s more in the pot if you want,” he said.  “Pump’s out back if you want to clean up.  That’s for you to use,” he added, gesturing toward a table next to the back door that bore a folded blanket and a towel.

“This is mighty nice of you,” Joe said.  “You always this nice to strangers?”

Mottolese looked him up and down.  “I’ll be back later,” he said, and was gone before Joe could answer.

The stew was rich and savory.  It was the best thing he’d tasted since his last meal at home.  At the thought, his throat got tight, and he laid down his fork.  He’d been gone a long time, but he didn’t know how long.  Weeks, months—he didn’t know, and it wouldn’t have made a difference anyway.

He scraped the bowl clean and debated having more.  Deciding to wait, he sat back in the chair and looked around the room.  A simple home, but there was something about it that felt familiar.  The curtains, he decided.  They reminded him of the ones Carrie had made, except that these were blue instead of yellow.  She’d been so happy to find that yellow fabric.  “It’ll look like sunshine even when it’s raining outside,” she’d said, and he’d just grinned at how happy she was about such a simple thing.

Joe got up and looked more closely at the curtains.  He hadn’t really paid that much attention to the details, but he remembered how Carrie had sewed a ribbon border around them and how she’d worked so hard to make it exactly an inch from every edge.  These curtains had exactly the same kind of ribbon border, and if he’d had to guess, he’d have said that it was an inch as well.  Must be the kind of thing girls in this town learned, he supposed.

He stood in the kitchen, considering.  Was it possible that Mottolese and his wife had known Carrie?  His best guess put them twenty-five years his senior, but it was possible they’d known her when she was a little girl.  Then again, they could have come to town after Carrie left.  He should ask how long they’d been here.  But what if they asked how he knew her, or how she was?  What could he tell them?

Finally, he took his bowl and fork out back and rinsed them in the freezing water at the pump.  Hop Sing would have been astounded to see such a thing, but Joe figured his father would have approved.  He used his towel to dry the wet items and set them on the shelf with the other dishes.  He thought briefly of strolling back down the street to the saloon, but he knew that Mottolese wouldn’t approve and so it seemed disrespectful to his host.  Tomorrow, he’d leave, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about things like that any more.

Except that he didn’t leave the next day.  When Joe awoke, he heard wind whistling outside, and he looked out to see wet, heavy snow falling.  He cursed softly, but he had to admit that it could have been worse.  He could have been out on the trail somewhere.  At least here, he had a roof over his head.  It could definitely have been worse.  He looked around for a milk pail, and when he found it, he settled himself on the stool in the sole occupied stall and milked the cow.  “Sorry, Bessie,” he said when she mooed.  “Guess I’m out of practice.”  When he was finished, he tossed some hay into her stall.  “I don’t think you’re going out today,” he said, and she mooed again.

Joe had just rolled up his bedroll when Mottolese appeared in the doorway.  “Breakfast is ready,” he announced.  The big man reached for the pitchfork and paused at the sight of the milk pail.  Joe waited for him to say something, but he regarded Joe as though confirming something he’d suspected.  Then, he bent down, picked up the pail and headed back to the house, leaving Joe to follow.

Breakfast was simple, but plentiful.  Joe felt an unexpected pang of homesickness as he watched the sheriff shovel eggs and ham onto his plate; it was like watching Hoss.  Edie looked tired, but she smiled at Joe as she poured coffee into his cup.  “You sleep well?” she asked.

“Like a log,” Joe said.  “I appreciate your hospitality.  That stew last night was good.”

“I’m glad you liked it,” she said.  “Old family recipe.”  Her smile faded for an instant.  Then, she addressed her husband.  “When does Cutler get back?”

Mottolese shrugged.  “A week, maybe.  Depends on the weather.”  He turned to Joe.  “I could use a hand while my deputy’s gone, if you’re interested.  Fifty cents a day, plus room and board.”

Joe took a bite of toast to cover his confusion.  Yesterday, he’d been locked up in the jail, and today, the sheriff was offering him a job and a place to live.  It didn’t make sense.  “You trust me that much?”

“Any reason I shouldn’t?”

“No, but—I guess I’m surprised.  You don’t know me from Moses.”  Joe set down his fork.

“It’s like I told you yesterday,” said Mottolese.  “I been a lawman for twenty-seven years.  I can spot trouble at fifty paces.  When you’re not drinking, you’re not trouble.”

“How do you know?”

Mottolese shrugged.  “I know the name Cartwright.”

“You know my pa?”  Joe didn’t recall Pa ever mentioning Bushnell Flats or anybody named Mottolese.

“Didn’t say that,” said the sheriff.  He shoved back his chair and got to his feet.  “You want a job, let’s get going.  You want to leave, just try to not freeze to death.  Your choice.”

“Stay with us,” Edie said unexpectedly.  “Russ could use the help while his deputy’s gone.  Besides, it’s almost Christmas.  You don’t want to be wandering around on your own on Christmas.”

Christmas without Carrie, without his family.  He pretended to drink from his empty coffee cup to cover the sudden rush of emotion that flooded through him.

“Maybe he doesn’t care about Christmas,” said the sheriff.  “Anyway, Cutler’ll be back before then.”  Joe felt the sheriff’s eyes on him, and he forced himself to set down the cup and look up, meeting his gaze squarely.

“Let’s go,” he nodded, rising.  “Thanks for breakfast, ma’am.”  He ducked out the door to the barn, adding, “My gunbelt’s in the barn.”  He didn’t wait for an answer.

***********

By the time they reached the jail, several inches of snow covered the board sidewalks.  “Looks like a bad one,” said Mottolese.  He surveyed the streets with a proprietary air.  “I don’t expect much trouble, but cover that end of town and keep an eye out.”

“Don’t I need a badge?” Joe asked.

The sheriff grunted and opened the door to the office.  “Raise your right hand,” he intoned.  When Joe did so, the sheriff administered a quick oath, fished in his top drawer, and tossed Joe a tin star.  “Now, get to work,” he added.  Joe found himself grinning as he pinned the star on his jacket and headed back outside where the snow had already filled in his tracks.

By lunchtime, he was half-frozen.  He’d been up and down every street in that end of Bushnell Flats, and everything was quiet.  He walked slowly, looking at every house to see whether he might somehow be able to tell whether it had been Carrie’s.  He knew she hadn’t grown up in one of the fancy houses; in fact, when she saw their house for the first time, she was so excited that she threw her arms around him and proclaimed it the most wonderful house she’d ever lived in.  Tears pricked his eyes as he remembered, but the wind and the snow hid them.

When he finally returned to the sheriff’s office, wet footprints told him that Mottolese had already been there.  He peeked into the cell area, but there was no sign that anybody had been there since he left yesterday.  He wondered whether he should go down to the house for lunch; just as he decided against it, he saw a piece of paper with feminine handwriting lying on the desk.

Come home.  Lunch is ready.

Edie

The neat, controlled script gave him a jolt:  he could almost imagine that Carrie had written it.  Maybe he shouldn’t stay in this town after all.  Everywhere he turned, he was reminded of something about her.

The office door opened, and Mottolese came in, covered in snow.  “You’re back,” he said.

“I’m back.”

“Any problems?”

“Nothing.  Looks like everybody’s staying home.”

The sheriff nodded.  “We should do the same.  It’s getting bad.”

“Shouldn’t one of us stay here?”  Leaving the sheriff’s office empty seemed an odd choice.

“Everybody knows where I live,” Mottolese said.  “Besides, you saw what this town’s like today.  Snow gets worse, it’s just going to get quieter.”  He chuckled at his own joke.  “Come on.  Edie’s got lunch ready.”

“You’re a lucky man,” said Joe.  “She’s a good woman.”

The sheriff nodded.  “Best there ever was,” he agreed.  His eyes darkened as though remembering something, and then he said, “Let’s go.”

Three days passed before the snow ended.  At Edie’s insistence, Joe had brought his things into the house, bedding down in a small room where curtains with tiny flowers hung at the windows, framing the falling snow, and the coverlet on the bed matched the blue flowers.  “He’ll freeze out there,” she insisted, addressing her husband as though Joe wasn’t there.  “And it’s not like he can start a campfire in a barn full of hay.”

“I don’t want to put you out,” Joe began, but the sheriff rolled his eyes.

“And I don’t want to have to wire your pa that you froze to death in my barn,” Mottolese retorted.  “So get your gear in here.”

So, the three of them spent the snowstorm peacefully.  Joe insisted on shoveling a path to the barn and tending the cow and chickens, as well as hauling in firewood and pans of snow to melt on the stove.  Edie read aloud from The Old Curiosity Shop; when she suggested that she read A Christmas Carol, Mottolese simply shook his head and frowned, and the topic was closed.  Mottolese and Joe played checkers, and it reminded Joe so much of playing with Hoss that occasional waves of homesickness washed over him.

“Are you going to wire your family?” Edie asked one night.

“Huh?  Why?”  Joe had been concentrating on which piece to move.  He looked up, and Mottolese jumped his king.

“Christmas is the day after tomorrow,” said Edie.  “Don’t you think it would be nice to send them Christmas greetings?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” said Joe honestly.  It hadn’t occurred to him to send anything for Christmas.  Not a gift, not a letter, nothing.  He hadn’t been in touch with them in weeks.  They didn’t know where he was, or if he was even alive.

“Isn’t that just like a man?” Edie asked, clearly not expecting an answer.  “If I didn’t remind Russ of holidays and birthdays and such, he’d likely work every day of his life!”

“I do anyway,” said Mottolese.  “King me.”

A thought popped into Joe’s head.  Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Do you have any family around here?”

The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the whoosh of the wind.  Finally, Mottolese said, “No.”  His voice was so tight that Joe turned to look at Edie, only to find that her head was bent over her book.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.  “I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Edie, not lifting her head.

“No,” said Joe.  “I shouldn’t have asked.  I’m sorry.”  He, of all people, should have known not to inquire about those who weren’t there, who hadn’t been mentioned.

Later, Mottolese said suddenly, “Edie had two brothers, but they’re gone now.  We’d always hoped to have kids, but that didn’t work out.  We did have—well, she wasn’t really ours, but she was with us for a long time, and she felt like ours.  But none of our own.”

“I know what that’s like.”  Joe didn’t think he’d spoken loudly enough to be heard, but Mottolese gave him a long, searching look.  When Joe offered no more information, Mottolese said, “I don’t know what your circumstances are, but if you’re of a mind to send your family Christmas greetings, it would make Edie happy.”

“Then I’ll send a wire,” said Joe.  It was the least he could do for the woman who had done so much for him.

That night, as he lay on the narrow cot in the room with flowered curtains, he found himself thinking about this odd couple.  He couldn’t quite make out how Mottolese let his wife work as a saloon girl.  Besides the obvious fact that a sheriff made enough to support the two of them, Joe would have expected that the last thing any man would want his wife to be would be a saloon girl.  It didn’t make even a little bit of sense, but after the debacle of his last question, Joe wasn’t about to ask.

Christmas Eve dawned bright and clear.  Snow drifted halfway up the windows, but the path Joe had faithfully shoveled to the barn several times a day remained quite accessible.  He and Mottolese bundled up in their warmest clothes and trudged outside to see how the town had fared, and Joe found himself struggling to keep up as he practically jumped from one of the sheriff’s bootprints to the next.  It was a good thing he hadn’t been on his own, or that town wouldn’t have seen a sheriff until the spring thaw.

“Where’s the telegraph office?” Joe asked as he got the stove going to warm the sheriff’s office.

“Three doors down,” said Mottolese.  “You might want to give old Winston an hour or so to get in and get settled, though.  If the storm didn’t knock down the wires, he’ll have a lot of catching up to do.”  He gestured to the desk.  “You want to write it out, help yourself.”

“What about you?” Joe asked.

“I’ve got a town to check,” said Mottolese.

“I’ll come with you,” said Joe.  “I can send the wire later.”

Mottolese shrugged.  “Suit yourself.”

Two hours later, when they’d tramped through seemingly miles of snow and confirmed that nobody had suffered unduly, Joe made his way to the telegraph office.  Winston was a little round fellow with a red-gray fringe of hair around circling the back of his head from ear to ear.  His teeth were stained and uneven, but his smile was friendly enough until Joe handed over the wire.  Then, his smile faded and he looked up at Joe.

“Cartwright?”  He sounded almost stunned.

“Yeah, that’s right.  Something wrong?”  The challenge in Joe’s voice was unmistakable.

“Oh, no, nothing wrong,” said the little man hastily.  “You want this sent now?”

“As soon as you can,” said Joe, relenting.  “How much is it?”

“Twenty-five cents,” said Winston.  He still sounded nervous, as though Joe was some sort of outlaw instead of a duly sworn deputy, but he took the coins and promised to send the wire immediately.

Leaving, Joe paused in the doorway.  He ought to get something for Edie and Russ for being so good to him.  He headed over to the mercantile where he selected a soft blue shawl for Edie and a fancy checkers set for Russ.  He wished he’d thought about Christmas in time to send gifts to his family, but the fact was that if it hadn’t been for the Mottoleses, he wouldn’t have given the day a thought.  If only there were a way to disappear without upsetting Edie.  He couldn’t have said why it was important to him to make her happy, but it was.  Maybe because she’d been so kind to him, even back before she knew him.

As he headed back to the sheriff’s office, the wind picked up.  He bent his head forward, his packages tight against him, and traipsed through the snow.  Just as he reached the door, though, a snippet of memory flashed through his mind. . . .

“I’m home!” he sang out.

 “I’m in here!” Carrie called from the bedroom.  Joe hustled across the floor, not even bothering to take off his coat, but when he pushed open the door, she was fully dressed and the bed was covered with gifts.

“I think we should give your father the vest as well as the brandy,” she said.  “What do you think?”

From behind her, Joe wrapped his arms around her and kissed her neck.  “I think we should clear all this off the bed,” he said, kissing her again. 

“Joe!” she giggled.  “We’re due at your father’s in two hours, and I haven’t even finished wrapping all the gifts!”

“I’m more interested in what I get to unwrap,” he said, running his hands along her trim middle and up to caress her breasts.  Her breathing got faster, and he felt himself responding.

“No, we can’t,” she said after a minute.  “We can’t be late on Christmas Eve.”

“I’ll help you wrap everything afterward.”  He licked her ear, and he felt her shudder with pleasure.

She turned in his arms and kissed him, long and deep.  “That’s just a taste of what you’ll get when we get home,” she promised.  “But we can’t be late.  Not for Christmas Eve.”

Joe sighed.  She was right, but sometimes, he wished she could be more spontaneous.  So what if they were a little bit late?  But she would be mortified if his family figured out that they were late because they’d been making love.  Not that Adam and Hoss would ever say anything to her.  Of course, they weren’t above making a few whispered remarks to him.  Not that he cared.  He had the most wonderful woman in the world in his bed, in his life, in his heart.  It didn’t matter what anybody said.

“All right,” he said, releasing her.  “Let’s go play Santa.”  He dropped his coat on the chair and rested his hand on her back as she bent over the gifts.  Surely, next year there would be gifts for their baby as well.  It would be the best Christmas ever. . . .

Three hours later, Mottolese stomped into the saloon.  “I should have known,” he said, disgusted.

Joe looked up at him.  “You don’t know anything.”  Deliberately, he poured another drink and swallowed it in a single gulp.

“One thing I said, that was all.  Stay out of the saloon.  And you couldn’t do it.”  The big man spat on the floor.

“I never said I was any good.”  Even Joe could hear his voice wobbling.  “I’m the worst there is.”  He poured another and drank it.  “Don’t worry, I’ll leave.  Soon as I finish this, I’ll get my stuff and go.”

“Like hell, you will,” Mottolese snarled.  “Edie’d never forgive me.  Put that slop down, and let’s go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” said Joe.  “I’m staying right here.”

“You can’t,” said Mottolese.  “Frank’s closing.  It’s Christmas Eve.  You can either come home or get back in the jail, but you can’t stay here.”

“Then lock me up.”  It would have been the best Christmas ever, except it couldn’t have been because there could never have been a baby and now there was no Carrie because Joe had driven her to blow her brains out.  He should just blow his own brains out—

“Stop it, you damn fool!” Mottolese shouted.  He was holding Joe from behind, arms tight against his sides, and the bartender had a gun.

Joe squinted.  “That’s my gun.  Give me my gun!”  What had just happened?

“Don’t,” Mottolese told the bartender.  To Joe, he said, “I’m locking you up until you’re sober.  Then, you’re getting out of this town.  Understand?”

But he didn’t understand.  He didn’t understand how he’d gone from sitting there, drinking, to being restrained and somebody taking his gun.  Had he taken a shot at somebody?  What happened?

It didn’t matter.  He hadn’t been kidding.  He was the worst person ever, and it served him right, spending Christmas Eve in a cold, lonely jail cell.  He tried to grab the bottle, but Mottolese was holding him too tightly.

He could barely stay upright as he struggled through the snow, across the street to the sheriff’s office.  As soon as they got in the door, Mottolese ripped the tin star off his jacket and flung him into the cell.  “You’re a disgrace,” he spat as the door clanged shut.

“I know,” Joe called after him.  The outer door slammed. Joe groped in the darkness until he found the cot.  He sank down on it, black despair closing over his head.

***************

“You did what?”  Edie’s eyes were blazing.  “How could you?”

It probably would have looked funny to an outsider, the little redhead hollering at the six-foot-five sheriff.  But after twenty-six years of marriage, Russ Mottolese knew better than to think about appearances.  Edie might be small, but she was as tough as any man he’d ever met.  That was why he’d agreed to let her keep on at the saloon after they were married.  The girls who worked there needed looking after, and nobody looked after them better than Edie.  She listened to their problems, tended their cuts and bruises when a fellow got too rough, and taught them how to protect themselves.  She was the one who made sure there was a doctor to tend to whatever ailed them and a midwife when the inevitable happened.  She kept an eye on Frank so that there would be no question of a girl not getting paid for everything she’d earned.  Edie might not have wanted this life for any daughter of hers, but she treated the girls who worked at the saloon like they were her own daughters, and God help anybody who messed with them.

From the first, she’d been taken with that Cartwright fellow.  Of course, as soon as she found out his name, she’d put the pieces together, and from there on, he was one of hers whether he knew it or not.  She wasn’t going to say anything, though.  She felt firmly that it was up to him to say something or not.  It was pretty clear that something was eating him up, and Edie was sure it was more than just the obvious, but she wasn’t going to be the one to speak up.  If he wanted to keep his secret, she wasn’t going to spoil that.

Russ didn’t want to tell her what had happened at the saloon, but he knew that if he didn’t, somebody else would.  “He was drinking on the job,” he said.  She raised one eyebrow in that way she had, and he gave in.  “It looked like he was going for his gun.”

She frowned.  “He was going to shoot somebody?”

He might as well tell her the rest.  She’d hear it from Frank anyway.  “Himself,” Russ admitted.  “I think he was going to shoot himself.”

“What?  And you left him alone in that cell?”  Her voice was getting higher and higher.

“He’s safe there,” said Russ.  “No weapon, no whiskey.  He’ll sleep it off, and then we can bring him back here.”

“He’ll be safe here, too,” she insisted.

“Honey, no.”  Russ stroked her cheek.  Still so soft, even after all these years.  “What if he gets more whiskey somewhere?  What if he gets my gun?  It’s not safe.  Not until he sobers up.”

“But it’s Christmas,” she protested.  “Do you really think he’s going to be better in a cell at Christmas?  Do you think he’s going to feel less alone?  Less like killing himself?”

“Probably not,” Russ said.  “But at least he won’t have a way to do it.  That’s something.”

Tears filled her eyes.  “I want to see him.”

“Honey, it’s late,” Russ said, but he knew it was pointless to argue.  She wasn’t going to let Joe Cartwright spend Christmas alone in jail, and that was all there was to it.  Truth be told, it was one of the things he loved about her.  He watched as she bustled around the kitchen, preparing supper for the boy in the cell, and his heart ached for people like Joe Cartwright who didn’t have such an amazing wife.

The street was cold and silent.  The moon shone so brightly on the snow that they didn’t even need a lantern.  Thin blue shadows crossed their path occasionally, but for the most part, the moonlight looked downright warm.  As they reached the side of the jail with the cell’s window, they could hear choking sobs coming from inside.  Their steps slowed, and one word was clear.

Edie’s hand went to her throat.  She looked up at Russ, her face almost ashen in the moonlight.  Even with his name, there had been a chance.  It could have been a coincidence.  But now. . . .

Russ pulled her closer.  For a few minutes, they stood together, listening to the young man’s heartbreak even as their own threatened to overwhelm them.  Then, Edie straightened, and Russ leaned down to kiss her.  “Let’s go,” she said, and he knew again why he loved her so much.

He made a great show of jingling the keys and making as much noise as he could coming in.  “Cartwright!” he called out, just in case there was any chance Joe hadn’t heard them.

But there was no answer.  He lit the lamp in the office as Edie bustled into the cell area with the lantern, calling, “Joe!  Wake up!  We’ve come to take you home!”

“No.”  The word was barely audible.

Russ unlocked the cell and swung the door open.  “Come on, Cartwright,” he said.  “Time to get out.”

Joe was lying on the cot, not looking at them.  “No,” he said again.  “Just leave me here.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Edie.  “We can’t leave you here—especially not over Christmas.  Now, let’s get going.  I’ve got supper in the oven.”

“I’m serious,” said Joe.  “Go home and do your celebrating.  Let me stay here.”

“Can’t do that,” said Russ.  “If we leave you here, we’ve got to come back and forth, make sure you’ve got food and such.  It’s a lot easier if you just come with us.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” said Joe.  “You can have your Christmas.  I’ll ride out.”

“You can’t do that,” Edie protested.  “Please, Joe.  Come home with us.  You said you’d stay and help Russ until Cutler got back, and he’s not back yet.”

“You did say that,” Russ commented.  “I thought you were a man of your word.”  He was ready to send Edie outside and talk to the kid alone when Joe sat up.

“All right,” he muttered.  “All right, I won’t leave town, but—just let me stay here, all right?  You two go home and have Christmas, and leave me here.”

“We can’t do any such thing,” said Edie.  “We couldn’t possibly enjoy Christmas if we knew you were sitting here all alone.”  Her voice was trembling, but Cartwright didn’t seem to notice.  Russ did, though, and that decided it for him.

“Edie, wait outside,” he said.  “I want to talk to Cartwright alone.”  Their eyes met; hers asked the question, and his answered.  Without another word, she went out into the office and closed the door.

“Listen,” he said in a low voice.  “She wants you there.  So get your jacket, and let’s go.”

“She doesn’t want me.”  Joe wouldn’t look up.  His voice was a monotone.

“Yeah, she does.”  Russ was doing his best to hide his anger.  Edie had been through enough, and the last thing she needed was this.  “She wants you, she gets you.  That’s how things go around here.  My wife wants something, I make sure she gets it.”

“So, you’re the perfect husband?  Is that it?”  The bitterness was unmistakable.  What the hell had the kid done?

“No, not perfect,” he retorted.  “There’s a lot I haven’t been able to do for her, but I can do this.”  He glanced over his shoulder, then continued so quietly that Joe had to look up to catch his words.  “Things are hard enough for her.  She’s lost a lot, and this year. . . .  Look, you don’t have to sing Christmas carols or anything like that.  Just let her have more at her table than me and a few of the saloon folks.”

Joe dropped his head into his hands.  Just as Russ was about to grab his arm and drag him to his feet, he mumbled, “We were supposed to have a baby.  A Christmas baby.  And instead. . . .”

Russ stared.  What the—what was he talking about?  Had they gotten it all wrong?  He almost asked, but suddenly, Cartwright was on his feet.  Unsteady, but standing.  Even in the low light, Russ could see something in his eyes that was pleading for—what?  Then, he recognized the look, and the ache in his heart swelled.  No matter who she’d been or what was supposed to happen, loss was still loss.

Russ drew a deep breath.  “I’m sorry.”  When Joe said nothing more, Russ laid his hand on his shoulder.  “No matter what you do, it’s gonna hurt like hell.  But maybe, if you come with us and let Edie make you something to eat—maybe it’ll hurt a little bit less.  If it doesn’t—well, at least you know you did something for somebody else.  Sometimes that helps.”

For what seemed like a long time, Russ waited in the cold, dim light.  Just as he thought he would have to give up, he heard the quiet words:  “I bought presents.”

Russ swallowed hard.  “I know,” he said.  Frank had brought them over after Russ had thrown Joe into the cell.

“Russ?”  Edie’s voice was so musical.  It was one of the first things he’d ever noticed about her.  “You two about ready to go?”

Russ looked down at the smaller man.  He knew what that kind of crippling pain was like.  If it hadn’t been for Edie, he’d have given Cartwright a bottle and left him to drown in it.  Let him handle his own pain in his own way.  But she needed to have that young fellow at her Christmas, and for Russ, her need outweighed everything else.  So, he said, “Well?”

Cartwright took a deep breath.  “Okay.”

“Russ?” came Edie’s voice again.

“We’re coming,” Russ called.  He turned and walked out to the office, quietly relieved to hear Cartwright’s boots clacking on the stone floor behind him.  When they walked into the room, he was completely unsurprised when Edie threw her arms around the younger man, holding him just the way she’d once held her little brothers when they were hurting.  For a minute, Cartwright stood stiffly; then, it was as though the ice had thawed, and he wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her bright red curls.  They stood like that for a long time, until finally, Edie loosened her grasp.  When Joe did likewise, Edie kissed his cheek and released him.

“Let’s go,” she said, and only someone who knew her as well as Russ would have heard the heartbreak in her voice.

*******

The next night, Joe lay in the room with the flowered curtains and tried to sort it all out.

Christmas at the Mottoleses’ hadn’t been at all what he expected.  The way Russ talked, he’d had visions of the three of them sitting around a sad little table.  Instead, when they got back from the jail, Edie practically shoved him into Russ’ armchair with a cup of coffee and told him not to move because she had a lot to do and the last thing she needed was to be tripping over men.  That lasted for about ten minutes; then, she started calling on Russ and Joe to move this and carry that.  They cleared a place in the front room for the tree that Russ had apparently cut while Joe was snoring in a cell, and the next thing Joe knew, Edie was handing him ornaments and telling him where there was a bare spot on the tree.  When Russ, who didn’t need a ladder, had placed the last ornament on a high branch, he turned to Edie and said, “Well?”  Her smile positively glowed, and Joe understood in that moment why the big man would do anything to see it.  It reminded him of the way Carrie had sometimes smiled, with all the love and happiness in the world, as well as a tiny bit of trepidation, almost as though she hadn’t really thought a time this good would come along and she was scared that it wouldn’t last.

He didn’t realize he’d gotten quiet, remembering, until he looked up and saw that Edie’s smile had faded, just the way Carrie’s used to.  So, he took a deep breath and said, “Hey, Mottolese, you think this angel’s going to fit on top of your tree?” as he winked and nodded in Edie’s direction.

“What angel?  We have a star!” Edie protested, but Mottolese grinned and picked her up. Over her squeals as he held her up to the tree, he said, “Nope, don’t think so.  Get me an ax.  Got to make it shorter.”

“The tree or the angel?” Joe asked, and Edie’s laughter was his reward.  It was the kind of teasing and warmth that had always been part of Christmas when he was growing up.  He wondered whether Pa had gotten his wire.  Edie had been right to make him send it.  A good woman, that Edie.

Christmas morning, he awoke to the last sound in the world he’d have expected.  As quietly as possible, he moved to the doorway of his room and peeked out.  Edie was sitting at the table, weeping as though her heart were broken.  He drew back, not wanting to interfere with her private moment.  A woman should be able to cry in her own home.  Finally, when she’d quieted, he took a loud step, and as he’d expected, she immediately gasped and stood up, turning away from him.  So, he took a good long time wandering into the parlor, and by the time he greeted her, she’d composed herself.  He didn’t say it in words, but when he squeezed her hand, her watery smile let him know she understood.

Joe had tucked his gifts for Edie and Russ under the tree after they went to bed.  Sometime in the night, other gifts had joined his packages.  To his great surprise, there was even a present for him:  the muffler that Edie had been knitting throughout the snowstorm.  Around midday, people started to arrive:  Frank, the girls from the saloon, and others who crowded into the little house.  None of them seemed to be connected to anyone else; Joe overheard one of the saloon girls commenting that Edie seemed to have found more strays than usual this year.  Again, he was reminded of home and how Pa always made sure that everybody he’d encountered had a place to go for Christmas.

And so, Joe got through Christmas.  Maybe because it was so different, and yet it had such a familiar warmth to it, he didn’t find himself dwelling overmuch on what he’d once expected this Christmas to bring.  He’d done that last night, in a jail cell stinking of whiskey. He’d been careful to confine himself to coffee ever since, just in case, and maybe that helped.  Or maybe it was just that he’d only had one Christmas with Carrie, and so she wasn’t as intertwined with that holiday as she could have been, so he was able to look farther back and recall other Christmases when she hadn’t been around and he’d still been happy.  And if he hadn’t actually managed happiness this year—well, he’d gotten through it, and that was something.

*******

“You gonna turn in, Pa?”

Hoss stood at the foot of the stairs, his round face hopeful.  But Ben shook his head.  “Not yet, son.  You go on up.  Good night.”

Hoss nodded.  “’Night, Pa.”  He trudged up the stairs, the slowness of his gait betraying his concern.

But there was nothing to be concerned about.  Joe had said as much in his wire.  Ben drew on his pipe, recalling the brief message.

Pa, Adam and Hoss:

Hope everything’s okay at the Ponderosa.  I’m doing fine.  Spending Christmas in Bushnell Flats.  Will write soon.

Merry Christmas,

Joe

 “Bushnell Flats?” Adam had said when Ben read the wire aloud.

“Uh-huh.”  Ben was still studying the wire as if there was something more to be divined from those few words.

“You know it?” Hoss asked.

“I may be wrong, but I think that’s where Carrie was from,” said Adam.

Ben’s head jerked up.  “What?”

“Why would he go there?” Hoss asked.

Adam shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Maybe he just wanted to go someplace connected with her.”

“She didn’t have any family, though, did she?”  Ben would have sworn that Joe had said she was an orphan.  But Ruth Gillam had said something at the funeral about notifying Carrie’s kin.  Somehow, Ben had never remembered to ask her about that.  Now, he wondered who she’d contacted and what she’d said.

Hoss shook his head.  “But mebbe there’s neighbors who remember her.”

It was all Ben could do not to crumple the paper and throw it into the fire.  All this time, he’d been hoping that Joe was doing better, was working through his grief, and all the boy had done was to head off to the one place guaranteed to bring him more pain.  What could he possibly hope to accomplish in her town?  See where she grew up?  Talk to people who knew her?  And what would he tell them when they asked how she was?  Would he tell them how she died?  Would he insist on telling them that it was his fault?  What if somebody believed him and decided to avenge her death?

Why had she put his son through such agony?

Now, as he listened to Hoss’s footsteps in the upstairs hall, Ben tried again to push away what had become a recurring theme in his nightly ruminations, the question of why Carrie had chosen to inflict such cruel, violent torment on her husband.  If she’d truly loved him, how could she have done such a thing?  Didn’t she understand that she wasn’t the one who would be hurt?  Didn’t she realize that she would devastate Joe, that he would spend months and probably years—quite possibly the rest of his life—trying to come to grips with what he’d found on that grisly April morning?

If she’d had to do it, why couldn’t she have chosen a different method, something that would let Joe believe that it could have been an accident?  A death that appeared to be an accident would have been bad enough, but at least it would have left a question.  They might have been able to convince Joe that she hadn’t really meant to kill herself.  He would still have grieved, of course, but it would have been so different.  Yet she had deliberately taken away that choice, and for what reason?  Why would she elect to end her life in such a brutal way, one that left no doubt about her intentions?

Or was that what she had meant to do:  make sure everybody knew what Joe had done?

But it wasn’t just Joe who had been shattered by her actions.  The Cartwrights had lost a member of their family.  The Gillams had lost a dear friend.  Doc Martin and Roy Coffee and the undertaker had had to care for her mutilated body.  Adam and Hoss and Hop Sing had tried to scrub crusted spatters of blood and flesh and brain off the wall and floor in the bathhouse.  The young couple’s friends were as scared as they were distraught, almost as though they thought that whatever had driven Carrie to such a desperate act might be contagious. Still others in the community had been affected in a variety of ways, from discomfort to gossip to avoiding the Cartwrights entirely.  That single act of pulling a trigger—an act Ben himself had performed a thousand times—had had such wide-reaching effects, just as the pebble in the pond creates ripples that spread farther and farther.

But the person most directly affected had undoubtedly been Joe, who had gone off to seek solace and somehow landed instead in Carrie’s hometown.  As he drew on his pipe again, Ben wondered whether Joe had intended to go there.  Was this sheer happenstance, or had it been his plan all along?  For what reason?  Penance?

All at once, Ben rose and strode across the room to his desk, where he took out a sheet of paper.  He didn’t know whether his letter would reach Joe before he left, but he needed to try.  He unstopped the ink well and dipped his pen.

Dear Joe,

We were pleased to get your wire.  We think about you a lot, and it’s good to know that you’re doing well.

We were surprised to hear that you were in Bushnell Flats.  It’s hard to know where the road will take a man.  I hope that this trip brings you everything you’re looking for.

If you need anything, don’t hesitate to get in touch.  Your brothers and I hope to see you soon.

Love,

Pa

Ben read over the letter.  It barely said anything.  Perhaps that was just as well.  What could he say?  I’m so sorry she broke your heart?  Joe already knew this.  She did a terrible thing to you?  No.  No point in putting Joe in the position of defending her.  And he would, Ben knew it.  It would be one thing for Joe to be angry at her, but quite another for anyone else to express anger at her.

Besides, these weren’t things you could write in a letter.  They were things that could only be said face to face.

Face to face.  It had been far too long since he’d seen his son’s face.  One more thing Carrie had taken away.

Hopefully, someday, he’d get his son back.

*******

Joe was awake long before dawn.  Today, he would ask.  The worst they could say was  no.  If they hadn’t known her, there would be no harm in having asked.  And if they had. . . .

If they had. . . .

This was the hard part.  If they’d known her, they’d undoubtedly ask how she was.  When he told him she was gone, they’d ask how it happened.  Part of him wanted to lie, to say it was an accident, but even now, his stomach lurched at the thought.  It hadn’t been an accident.  She did it on purpose.

As he dressed, he debated packing his gear now, before he raised the issue.  In one way, it seemed cowardly.  In another, it was merely sensible.  He’d already been here for longer than he’d expected.  Cutler was back.  Mottolese didn’t need him anymore.  It was time to move on, and he was just asking the question on his way out the door.

He’d lit the stove, brought in water and milked the cow before he heard Edie and Russ stirring.  By the time Edie came into the kitchen, he’d already made the coffee.

“You’re up early,” she smiled.  “Sleep well?”

“Oh, sure.  How about you?”

“Pretty well.”  She poured two cups of coffee.  “Let’s leave Russ’s in the pot.  No point in letting it get cold.”  She took half a loaf of bread from the box and set it on the table with a knife and a jar of jam.  “I wonder if Sadie Jefferson will have any eggs today.  I’ll have to get over to the mercantile this morning and see.”

Joe stood by the stove as she talked.  She didn’t look at all like Carrie, but there was something about her manner that reminded him of her.  It was possible she’d been a friend of Carrie’s, even though she was much older.  A friend of Carrie’s mother, maybe.  It was worth asking.

He took a deep breath.  “There’s something I need to ask you,” he said, not even realizing he was interrupting.

She grew very still, almost as though she knew what was coming.  “What is it?”

“Did you ever—there was a girl who used to live in this town.  Her name was Carrie.  Carrie Mulrooney.  I was wondering—did you ever know her?”

Edie’s gaze dropped to her cup.  For a long minute, she didn’t speak or move.  Then, she raised her head and met Joe’s eyes squarely.  “Yes,” was all she said.

“How did—I mean, did you know her well?”

Edie nodded.  “Very well.”

Something about the way she said it made Joe’s stomach lurch.  For something to do, he sipped his coffee as the silence stretched between them.  Finally, he said, “So you know who I am?”

Edie nodded again.  “I know.”

“Then you know . . . what happened?”

“Yes.”

He had to look away then.  When he felt his voice was under control, he said, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What was there to say?”  Her voice was unbearably sad.

“How long . . . how long have you known?”  He could hardly get the words out.

“Christmas Eve.”

There were a thousand things to ask, and he couldn’t make himself say any of them.   What had Carrie told her about Joe, about having babies, about anything?  Did she know how Carrie had died?  Did she know why?  Was there anything she could say that would explain why Carrie had done what she’d done?

“Morning,” said Russ, yawning.  He stopped at the doorway to the kitchen, his icy blue eyes cutting from Joe to his wife.  “What’s going on?”

“We’re just talking,” Edie said, but her tone said much more.

“About my wife,” said Joe.  “Seems I was the last one to know what was going on here.”

“Take it easy, Cartwright,” said Russ with a touch of iron in his voice.  He poured himself a cup of coffee.  “When you first showed up, we didn’t know.  Name could have been a coincidence.  You never said anything, so we figured you didn’t want to talk about her.”

“Is that it?  Or is it that you didn’t want to talk about her?  Maybe she had other secrets that I never knew about, and you wanted to be good and sure I never found out!”

“Joe, calm down,” said Edie, rising.  “Let’s sit down and talk.  We’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“You mean, whatever I know enough to ask about,” Joe spat.  “And if I don’t ask, it won’t be like you kept it from me, will it?”

“Sit down,” said Russ, and it wasn’t a suggestion.  After a moment, Joe sat, but he didn’t look at either of them.

“How long did you know her?” he asked, his jaw clenched.

“All her life,” said Edie.  “After her mama died, we raised her.’

Then, he set down his cup with such force that if there’d been anything in it, it would have slopped over.  “How did you find out she was dead?”  Dead.  The word felt harsh, brutal, hurtful.  Good.  He wanted it to hurt.

“Ruth Gillam wrote to us,” said Edie.  “She told us what happened.”

“What did she tell you?”

“That Carrie was—that she’d killed herself.”  Tears welled up in Edie’s eyes.

“What else?”

“What else should she have said?” Russ asked.

Joe glared at him.  “I want to see the letter.”

“Listen, Cartwright—” Russ began, but Edie cut him off.

“It’s all right,” she said to Russ.  “He’s her husband.”  She moved into the sitting room and returned with a large Bible which she set on the table.  From inside the front cover, she withdrew a sheet of paper.  “You can read it now or later.  Whatever you want.”

Joe didn’t answer.  He unfolded the sheet.  Ruth’s handwriting was much more formal than he’d have expected.  Clenching his jaw, he read:

My dearest Edie and Russ,

It is with great sorrow that I must inform you of Carrie’s passing.  She was such a beautiful girl, but she was always too fragile for this world, and as we had long feared, her troubles finally overwhelmed her.  As you know, she married last year, and her husband seems to be quite devastated, although whether because of her death or the manner of it, I cannot say. 

Ray and I are still in shock.  We feel completely responsible.  You entrusted her to us, and we let you down.  Please accept our most profound apologies for our failure to protect her as she deserved.

She must have been in such terrible pain to do such a thing.  May the good Lord have mercy on this troubled angel, and may you forgive us for not having kept her safe.

With deepest regret,

Ruth

Joe couldn’t have said how long he sat there, reading the letter over and over.  Gradually, two facts made themselves clear.  The first was that the Gillams blamed themselves for what had happened.  They didn’t blame Joe, and they didn’t blame Carrie.  They blamed themselves.  He’d always thought Ruth blamed him.  Apparently, he’d been wrong.  She didn’t think it was his fault at all.  Somebody other than his own family actually didn’t think that he was to blame for what Carrie had done.

But just as this began to settle in his mind with cooling relief, the second fact shoved itself into his consciousness, and it was all he could do not to put his fist through something as that reality became clear.

All of them—Edie and Russ, Ruth and Ray—they’d known something like this was likely to happen.

Long before Carrie had come to Virginia City, they’d known what was going to happen.  Before he’d fallen in love with her—before he’d kissed her, before he’d even known her name—these people knew that one day, she would do exactly what she’d done.

But nobody had said a word to him.  Ruth and Ray Gillam had never warned him about what he was getting into.  He’d known them since he was a little boy, and he’d never suspected them of holding anything back.  Once he and Carrie were courting properly, Ruth had been reasonably pleasant to him.  She’d always greeted him when he encountered her in town, and she’d even had him to dinner on occasion although he was sure that was due to Carrie’s urging.  Ruth had sat in the front pew at their wedding as Ray gave Carrie away.  For their entire married life, Joe and Carrie had slept beneath the quilt that was Ruth and Ray’s wedding present to them.

And neither of them had ever once so much as hinted that there was anything like this he should know.

Edie and Russ were watching him when he looked up.  He held out the letter.  “You weren’t even surprised, were you?”

“What do you mean?” Edie asked carefully.

Joe shook the letter at her.  “Ruth Gillam knew.  You had to know, too.  You knew this would happen someday.  How?  How did you know?”  He stared at her.  She dropped her gaze, and he knew.  “Oh, God,” he breathed.  “This wasn’t the first time she tried, was it?”  When Edie didn’t answer, he demanded, “What did she do?  Tell me, what did she try last time?”

“Joe, don’t.”  Edie’s voice was breathless.  “You don’t understand.”

“Understand what?  What don’t I understand?”  Joe didn’t realize that he’d stood, that he was shouting, until Russ grabbed his arm.

“That’s enough, Cartwright,” the tall man snapped.

But Joe yanked his arm loose.  “Don’t tell me what’s enough.  My wife killed herself, and it turns out that everybody expected this would happen, because she’d probably tried it before, and I’m not supposed to ask any questions?”  He turned to Edie.  “Do you want to know how she did it this time?  I can tell you, because I’m the one that found her.  I got home, and there she was, lying there in the bathtub with a gun in her hand and blood all over the wall and the back of her head—”

A sharp fist snapped Joe’s head back.  “I said that’s enough!” Russ shouted.  Edie was weeping quietly.  “You get your things and get the hell out of my house!”

“No, Russ,” Edie protested.  “He has a right to be upset.  Don’t—”

“That’s all right, I’m going,” said Joe.  “I know everything I need to know.  I’m getting out of this godforsaken town right now.”

“Joe, wait,” said Edie.  “You’re right, you’re entitled to know everything.  I’m sorry.  We should have told you before.”

“Don’t apologize to him!”  Russ was towering over Joe.  “You get out of my house!”  He grabbed Joe’s arm as if to hustle him out, even as Edie tugged at his other arm to pull him back.

In the next instant, fire exploded in his back.  He didn’t realize he was screaming until he felt himself falling to the floor.  Dimly, he could hear them yelling at each other, and he tried to tell them to stop, but he couldn’t make words come out.

It seemed like forever before Edie was kneeling beside him.  “Are you all right?”

“No,” he managed.  The wooden floor was so cold.

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?”  Her voice was gentle, but he could hear a thread of near-panic.

“My back.”  Even those two words were an enormous effort.

“Russ has gone for the doctor,” she said.  She stroked Joe’s hair.  “I’m so sorry.”

“Not . . . not your fault,” he murmured.  She shook her head slightly, and even through the fiery pain, he understood that that wasn’t what she was sorry about.

By the time Russ returned with the doctor, Edie had tucked a blanket around Joe and was sitting on the floor beside him.  The sheriff and the doctor maneuvered Joe into Edie and Russ’s bed, and Joe barely realized what had happened until it was already done.

“I can’t stay here,” he murmured.  “Put me on the cot.”

“Absolutely not,” said the doctor firmly.  “You’re not moving again.  Now, somebody tell me exactly what happened here.”

“It happens,” Joe said.  The doctor bent low as if he couldn’t hear, and Joe tried to speak louder, but the effort was enormous.  “Few times before.  It’ll pass.”

“So, you’ve got a history of this kind of thing,” said the doctor, sounding strangely relieved.  A few more questions revealed the treatment that had been used in the past, and Edie put her long, flat irons on the stove to heat while Russ headed down to the mercantile to purchase a bottle of laudanum.  A short time later, with the well-wrapped irons on his back, Joe swallowed two spoonfuls of laudanum and closed his eyes.  He could hear Russ and Edie talking quietly, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying.  He tried to listen harder, but he felt as though he was slipping away down a long corridor, and finally, as the pain eased, the sound faded into silence.

*******

There had been times in the past several weeks that Joe had missed his family, but never as fiercely as he did in the days after his back flared up.  He hadn’t fully appreciated what it meant to have them around to help until now, when he was forced to rely on strangers who didn’t know what to do or how to do it.  Pa had always made a point of keeping him well-sedated until the first couple of days had passed, but Edie and Russ didn’t know to do that, and by the time he was awake enough to ask for more painkiller, it was already too late.  On more than one occasion, he woke in the night and  found himself alone with searing pain and no way to reach the bottle.  Russ helped him with personal matters, but he didn’t have Hoss’s gentle touch, and the pain of moving was so sharp that Joe dreaded his moments of need.  Edie’s soup was good enough, but it didn’t have the rich flavor of Hop Sing’s broth, and she didn’t have his pa’s knack for being able to spoon it into the mouth of a supine patient without spilling.

Even so, slowly his pain eased.  He knew he was probably pushing harder than he should, and if Pa had been there, he’d have thundered orders for Joe to remain flat in bed, but Pa wasn’t there and nobody else knew the difference.  If nothing else, he needed to get out of Edie and Russ’s bed.

More importantly, he needed to get out of their house.  They’d all been careful not to talk about Carrie or anything that might lead to talk about her, but that couldn’t go on forever.  Not with Carrie being the one thing they had in common, the one subject that was undoubtedly as uppermost in their minds as in his.

He didn’t know how many days he’d been bedridden when the evening came that Russ came in and sat down.  His face looked solemn.  “We need to talk,” he stated.

Joe regarded the big man for a long minute.  “So talk.”

“Edie says you’re entitled to know everything.”  It sounded almost like a challenge.

“And what do you say?”

Russ looked like he was evaluating something.  “I reckon she’s right,” he said finally.  “You were Carrie’s husband.”

“Yep,” said Joe.  “I was the big dumb fool who thought we were going to live happily ever after.”

“Don’t,” said Russ.  “It could’ve happened.  You two could have been happy.”

Joe snorted.  “And how do you figure that?”

Russ looked down at his fingernails.  “I’m not saying it would have been easy,” he said.  “But it could’ve happened, maybe.  If it hadn’t been for . . . well, what happened a few years ago.”

“What was that?” Joe asked when Russ didn’t go on.

“She’d been having a lot of problems with her monthlies,” said Russ as if this were a typical subject for two men to discuss.  “Ever since she was about thirteen.  Two, three, even four days every month, she’d be curled up in a ball because she was hurting so bad and bleeding so hard.  Edie tried everything, but nothing helped.  So, when that new doc came to town and said he knew how to fix it, we said okay.  Maybe we should have asked more questions, but I don’t know if he’d have told us anything more than he did.”

“What did he do?” Joe asked, but the sudden sick feeling in his gut told him the answer.

“He cut her open, and he took out her womb,” said Russ.  His eyes were distant.  “We didn’t know he was going to do that.  I don’t remember now what we thought, but when he came out and said she wasn’t going to have any more problems with hurting or bleeding, we thought it was a good thing.  I don’t even remember how we got on the topic, but then he said, just as casual as day, that of course she wouldn’t be able to have children.”  His jaw was tight now.  “Of all the things he could have said, and to Edie of all people . . . it was a wonder she didn’t just choke him where he stood.  As it was, I had to pull her off him, and she was screaming and clawing at him like I’ve never seen.”

“And nobody knew?”

“Well, the doc obviously knew, but we didn’t, and Carrie didn’t.  Maybe he figured we had to know, because what else could he be doing?  Except nobody’d ever heard of fixing women problems by operating, and we didn’t know what to ask.  He just said this was a new thing they were doing back east.  She was suffering so much every month that we’d have gone along with practically anything.”  He sipped his whiskey.  “I’ll never forget the look on her face when Edie told her.  It wasn’t until a long time later, after she’d recovered.  Edie knew better than to say anything earlier.”  He stared into his drink.  “Doc said that if she’d ever tried to have a baby, she’d likely have bled to death.  So, it was better this way.”

“Was it?”  Joe’s voice was hoarse.  What she must have gone through, then and every day after . . . and what she must have felt when he found out.  Right then, he’d have given anything for a drink.  Instead, he reached for the water glass on the bedside table.

“I don’t know.”  Russ’s voice broke into his thoughts.  “I don’t know if that doctor was right or not.  Maybe he really was saving her life, or maybe he was a lying butcher.  We’ll never know.”  Abruptly, he rose and left the room.  A minute later, he returned with a bottle and two glasses.  He poured and handed one to Joe.

“I just wish—I wish she’d told me.  Before.”  Joe drained his glass, and Russ refilled it without asking if he wanted it.  Instead, he asked the question that so many before him had wanted to ask.

“Maybe it’s none of my business, but . . . if you’d known, would you still have married her?”

Joe bit his lip slightly.  Everything in him wanted to tell Mottolese that he was right—it was none of his business.  But Carrie was their family, too.  At least, in a way.  They might not be her blood relations, but they’d raised her.  They’d done their best for her.  And they’d loved her.  He was sure of it.  Because there was no way to know her and not love her.

So, he answered as honestly as he could.  “I think so.  I’m not saying it wouldn’t have taken some getting used to, but in the end—I’d have fallen in love with her regardless.  So—yeah.  I think that, if she could have believed me, we’d have gotten married.”

“Believed you?  About what?”

“That I loved her anyway.  Thing is, I always wanted a whole passel of kids, and I’d told her that.  Maybe I made too much of it, and she didn’t feel like she could admit the truth.  She just said she wanted a big family, too.”  He shook his head, remembering.  “But we could have had them some other way.  There’s an orphanage in Virginia City, and it’s always busting at the seams.  We probably could have adopted as many of those kids as we wanted.  Sure, it wouldn’t have been the same as, say, having a little girl who looked just like Carrie, but we could have been happy anyway.”  In a voice so low that Russ could barely hear, he said, “I wish she’d trusted me.”

Russ’s voice was almost as low.  “That was one of the things about her that I never understood.  She was beautiful and smart and talented, but she never thought she measured up.  It was like she didn’t believe anybody would love her if they found out she wasn’t perfect.  And then, when Walzer called off the wedding—well, it was like it was carved in stone that she wasn’t good enough.  That’s why Edie sent her to the Gillams.  She knew Ruth and Ray would take care of her, and she was hoping that just maybe, if Carrie could get a fresh start where nobody knew about her past or her operation, it might go better for her.”

Joe held out his glass, and Russ poured him another shot.  “But why didn’t she ever tell me about you and Edie?  You’re like family, right?”

“Depends on what you call family.  Edie and Ruth and Carrie’s ma were friends ever since they were little and their families came west together.  I got to meet Marianne, but she died when Carrie was little.  Carrie’s pa died before she was born, and they didn’t have any other kin.  So me and Edie raised Carrie, and Ruth helped until she moved away.  Mostly, it was Edie and me.”

“But why didn’t she tell me about you?”  It didn’t make any sense.

Russ shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Maybe she was afraid we’d spill the beans.  Edie would have said you should know.  Maybe Carrie was afraid that if she didn’t tell you, Edie would.  All I know is, from the time she went to Virginia City, we always wrote to her at Ruth’s place.  Even after she wrote to say she was married, she wanted us to keep writing to her there.”  He regarded Joe soberly.  “It worried us.  We asked Ruth about you, and she said you were a fine man and she was sure you loved Carrie, but we were still worried that something was wrong.  We were thinking that when spring came, we might take a trip down Virginia City way and visit her, but before we could do that, we got Ruth’s letter.”  His voice trailed off.

“So many secrets.”  Joe didn’t mean to sound bitter, but Russ’s sharp look let him know that it had come out anyway.  Fine.  He was bitter.  Bitter and angry and hurt that the woman he’d loved so much hadn’t trusted him, had felt she had to hide something so important, had lied to him over and over.  Had chosen such a horrific way out of her secret, leaving him with the violent, blood-soaked memory that still threatened to smother him.

Abruptly, he looked away.  He had to get out of there.  He’d found out the truth.  He needed to get away.

“Cartwright.”  Russ was standing.  He was silent until Joe looked up at him, and then he said, “Don’t hate her.”

“Why not?” Joe spat.  The notion had never been in his mind before that second, but now it made perfect sense.  He was entitled to hate her.  She’d destroyed his life.  He raised his chin in defiance, daring Russ to give him a reason.

But Russ just shook his head slowly.  “If you did it, she’d forgive you.”  For a long minute, the two men watched each other.  Then, Joe set his glass on the table and turned his head, closing his eyes until he heard Russ’s boots on the wooden floor as the big man walked slowly out the door and away.

*******

The good part of being on his own again was that there was nobody watching him.  The bad part was that he felt more alone than ever.

It had taken nearly a month before he was able to leave Edie and Russ’s, but as soon as he could, he did.  He thanked them for everything, and he tried not to notice the pain in their eyes as he mounted his pinto.

“Please keep in touch,” said Edie, her hand resting lightly on his leg.  “Let us know how everything’s going for you.”

“Sure.”  He wouldn’t, but it was easier than arguing.

“We’re so sorry,” she said, and she sounded like she meant it.

“Don’t worry about it.”  He knew that that would sound like he was saying he forgave them even though he wasn’t anywhere close to that.

“I put a little something in your bag,” she said.  “It was Carrie’s.  But please—don’t open it now.  Just wait until . . . until the time’s right.”  Joe wanted to ask her when that would be, but he saw her chin quiver just a little bit, and so he just nodded.

Russ stood beside her, his hat shadowing his eyes.  Then, just as Joe was about to ride off, the big man pushed back the brim, and the look in his light blue eyes echoed everything he’d said that night.

Don’t hate her.  She’d forgive you.

 So, Joe touched the brim of his own hat, thanked them again for all they’d done, and rode off before he had to admit to anybody that there was no way on earth he was ever going to forgive Caroline Ann Mulrooney Cartwright.