• Summary:  In this AU tale of the Cartwrights of the Ponderosa, evidence from a very painful part of Adam’s past turns up to forever change his present and that of his family.
• Warning: as I saw on someone else’s summary, I have broken the cardinal rule of fanfiction: none of our boys show up in the first chapters. But fear not… our four main Cartwrights are most assuredly present within. 🙂
• Rating:  T Mature language and themes are present throughout this story.  (122,875 words)

---

Warnings: Several chapters reference or depict corporal punishment of a minor.

Dedicated to Vicki Christian, who encouraged me to take a leap of faith and write this story. Apologies in advance for its weaknesses… <grin!>  It was my very first, almost thirty years ago.
Also, to my 2025 beta reader extraordinaire… you know who you are!

---

AS YE SOW, or MINOR ADJUSTMENTS

 

CHAPTER ONE

Hell’s Kitchen, New York City, New York
July 9, 1871

 

Heat sizzled off the street in the neighborhood of Hester Street on this hot, humid Sunday afternoon. Dirty, barefooted children skipped, more from the heat on the soles of their feet than in alacrity, as they dodged horses’ hooves and pedestrians’ boots in their play. Working mothers visited on tenement steps and street corners, enjoying a chance to gossip with their peers without looking over their shoulder for either the shift foreman, or the landlord. It was about the most peace a good portion of the poverty-stricken residents of this rough-and-ready neck of New York City were likely to get.

But the July heat was oppressive, and most people were too lethargic to bother cooling tempers about minor irritations and trials. Arguments broke out over small things, men disappearing into the saloons to drink away their frustrations. Street vendors tried vainly to hawk their wares, but this time of year was notorious for there being little spending money to be had in the neighborhood, and the mugginess kept most folks in what shade they could find in tenement alleys or under awnings.

On the shady side of the street, the smaller mothers and fathers of the poor – in other words, the slightly elder siblings – tended to the babies and toddlers; poor hot, sweaty little things who, to quiet their fretfulness, got jostled up and down on the knees of their elders…who themselves were all of perhaps ten years old. The ones able to sleep were usually tucked in on dirty rags in shady corners of the streets and alleys, covered only with prickly heat and dirty shifts while dozing as their caretakers played jacks and hopscotch, if the pavement wasn’t too hot to burn their feet.

One small bastion of the neighborhood’s population managed to find fun, regardless of the weather, and that was a passel of twelve to fourteen-year-old boys who swaggered through the neighborhood like the Irish kings from whom they believed themselves descended. There were eight or ten of them, mostly redheads, some darker, a few blonds, all ragged and dirty, but one. This king of kings clearly stood out from the crowd; tall, lean, and black-haired, with bright blue eyes that shone from a handsome young olive-skinned face even the dirt of the city couldn’t hide. At a glance, anyone observing the group could see this was their leader and from all appearances had decided he’d live up to the job. He carried himself with a natural pride that caused people to turn their heads and wonder from where he could have sprung.

At the moment, the gang of youngsters was contemplating harassing the fruit vendor.  Currently under discussion there was a plan to have half the group distract him.  Then, the others could lift an apple or two each before pelting down the street to avoid capture and then barreling toward their next adventure.

“Hey, Pat!” grinned one of the boys to the black-haired prince of thieves as he perched on a hogshead outside the ‘Witches’ Broth’ saloon and thought through the best way to pursue their afternoon snack. “Why don’tcha just walk up to Levinson and ask?”

The crowd roared with laughter. The one named Pat grinned sheepishly at the inside joke. A few weeks back, he’d decided to throw the street vendors off guard and had actually walked up to one of them and simply asked for a piece of fruit…after buttering the old man up about how beautiful his wife was, how smart his son was in school (as if this one would know, never in his life having set a foot inside a schoolroom!), and the general superiority of the man’s fruit above that of the other vendors. It had worked! And Patrick had carved his niche forever more in boyhood legend. 

“G’wan wi’ ya, Seamus,” he grinned. “I get one every aftanoon, right outta the palm of ‘is hand!” The crowd cackled with laughter and resumed their cooking up of a plan until another small, agitated boy burst into their midst and ran for Pat, grabbing him by the shirt.

“Patrick! Patrick!”

“Jaysis, what ails ya, Rory?” grinned Pat, jumping to his feet. This was his “crier,” a younger boy who was working hard to make himself worthy enough to be invited into their midst; one of his jobs was scouting the surrounding streets. You never knew when the gang a few blocks up was going to need attending to, or when you’d need a sentry to watch for the cops.

“It’s Su Chang, Pat!” he panted, pointing off up the street. “O’Leary’s gang is beatin’ him up somethin’ awful!”

The laughter dissolved from Pat’s face and turned to grim fury. “Where?” he demanded.

“Corner…9th and Battle Row,” panted the boy, sinking to his knees in exhaustion from his run.

Without a word, Patrick pelted off down the street with his gang right behind him. He slowed just enough to allow his lieutenant, a sandy-haired, quiet, intense boy, to run up alongside then they sprinted together side by side. “Jack, take half around the alley between Shaughnessy’s and the Fish Market,” panted Pat, his arms and legs pumping like pistons. “I’ll take the other half straight on and we’ll corner ’em. GO!” and without a word, Jack sectioned off his troops and followed their general’s orders.

As they rounded the corner in front of the tailor’s, they saw another sentry— not theirs—stationed in front of an alley. Pat’s hot, livid blue eyes met this boy’s, which widened in fear as he ducked back into the alley. Pat poured on the steam and managed to get to the mouth of the alley, his troops right behind him, before the other gang could escape, effectively blocking them in.

Slumped on the filthy pavement, his nose bleeding and his face bruised, was a small Chinese boy who looked younger than his fourteen years. His clothes were ruined from the filth of the alley’s cobblestones, and his pigtail was still clenched in the hands of one of the other gang members.

His eyes narrowed; Patrick slowly advanced. “Turn him loose, O’Leary,” he growled. The other boy glanced at the scanty numbers of his own gang and licked his lips. He was severely outnumbered, here, especially against this particular boy and his fellows; Jack and his forces had joined them now as well. But etiquette precluded Tim O’Leary giving in too quickly.

“Who’s gonna make me, Riordan? You and what army?” he demanded belligerently, yanking tighter on the Chinese boy’s pigtail, making the Chinese boy wince but not cry out. Su Chang’s eyes opened again and he stared at Riordan, willing him to stand down, sending a message in his eyes to not engage in violence. A message Patrick Riordan saw and promptly ignored.

“Why, Tim,” said Pat with an insolent, lazy smile that came nowhere near the sapphire blue eyes, “I won’t be needin’ an army…not against a wee amadán like you. Now, turn… him… loose.” Their eyes locked, and it was no contest; Tim O’Leary simply couldn’t withstand the intensity of those blue eyes burning into him.

O’Leary released the Chinese boy’s hair, and stood back, balancing on the balls of his feet, ready for battle. Su Chang rose with dignity and limped to Patrick, clutching his side.

“Go on, Su Chang,” Pat nodded toward the alley’s entrance, without taking his eyes off the other group.

“It is over, my friend,” said the Chinese boy quietly, wiping at the blood on his face with one hand, and wincing as he moved the hand protecting his ribs to grip his friend’s forearm. “Do not do this.”

“I’ll catch up w’ya tonight,” insisted Pat. Finally, irritated, he glared at Su Chang. “I mean it! I’ll catch up wi’ ya later!”

Sighing, Su Chang left the alley.

And the battle commenced.

Fists flew, yelps and grunts of pain echoed in the alleyway, and bloody noses spurted until it was difficult to tell who was on which side. The warfare ended as abruptly as it began, however, when the time-honored outcry of “Cheese it! The cops!” rang through the alley by the “criers” from both gangs. Unfortunately, the two primary gladiators were at the very back of the passageway and weren’t able to escape before the alley entrance was filled with the huge body of a member of New York’s finest. Pat’s heart sank as he recognized the cop as Tom Ryan, a family friend. He was in for it now.

“All roight, all roight!” the beefy cop bellowed striding to the pair and gathering a collar full of cloth from both, dragging them both, still scuffling and protesting, out onto Battle Row, where a small crowd was gathering. “Enough, now!” He shook them both, hard.

He looked them up and down with a glance that would wither a grown man. “And it’s a sorry looking pair ye are,” he grumbled. O’Leary’s nose and the corner of his lip were bleeding, and Pat’s right eye was rapidly swelling and reddening from a well-placed poke. Both boys had skinned knuckles. Ryan kept a tight hold on Pat’s collar but turned O’Leary loose with a quick push and a firm kick to the behind. “Go on wi’ ye, and don’t be gettin’ into trouble no more today! I ain’t got the patience!” Tim took off at a dead run, grinning evilly back at his captured opponent, now seething with anger.

“Ryan, lemme go!” he demanded, fighting to get loose.

A solid shake lifted him off his feet, and then a jarring whump! back to the pavement rattled the boy’s teeth, making him gasp.

“Enough of yer nonsense, Patrick! I’m takin ye home, where yer mother can deal w’ye!” snarled the policeman, dragging the boy down the street. Pat shut his mouth, allowing himself to be dragged, while he worked to compose some explanation of his condition for his mother. He wasn’t looking forward to this conversation.

*****

“Ah, Patrick, what am I t’do with ye!”

Pat sat at the table in the larger of the two rooms of the tenement flat he and his mother shared, nervously keeping a wary eye on his mother as she paced. He knew only too well what a quick and rock-hard hand she had and wanted to have warning if a clip on the ear was coming his way. Besides, he was having a hard time seeing out of his right eye, which was now swollen nearly shut and darkening with a nasty bruise.

Siobhan Riordan paced the room, hands on her slim, shapely hips. Few people would guess that Siobhan was old enough to even have a son Patrick’s age, as her spirit had not yet been broken by poverty, brutally hard work, and degradation. She was still an intensely beautiful woman, tall and slender, her waist length black hair bound up on her head; her dress, though shabby, was clean and neat. She was ready to go to work, as a barmaid at the “Witches Broth.” She whirled on her son, and he shrank a little as his blue eyes met a pair so much like his own…only a helluva lot angrier. 

“How many times have I told ye, if ye lie down with dogs ye’ll rise with fleas!” she snapped furiously.

Pat swallowed. “But, Ma, if you’d just listen – “

“Ah, sure! Listen, he says!” she stormed. “I talk Jimmy O’Halloran into giving ye a day off just so’s ye can be hauled home by the civil patrolmen, is it?”

“But I had to help Su Chang, Ma!” he protested. “They was beatin’ up on him, and – “

“Oh, aye! And ye had to step in and prove yerself to be no better!” she snapped in return.

Pat angrily clamped his mouth shut, scowling at the top of the kitchen table.  Clearly, his mother was in too much of a rage to listen, so why bother trying to defend himself?

Getting control of herself with difficulty, Siobhan shook her head and turned to the doorway, where Tom Ryan was still standing, his bowler in his hand and an uncomfortable look on his face.

“It’s thankin’ ye I am for bringing him home, Tom,” she said quietly, turning back to glare at her son.

“Not at’all, Siobhan, not at’all,” Tom said, shifting his feet uncomfortably. He sighed and clapped his bowler on his head, and touching its brim, left the flat. 

Pat watched him go and barely managed to hide a grin at the cop’s discomfort. Tom Ryan had been in love with Siobhan Riordan ever since they’d met, fourteen years earlier, when she’d arrived on Hester Street, broke, pregnant and alone. All through Pat’s life, he’d had a surrogate father in the beefy, hot-tempered Irishman, sometimes turning to him for help in getting out of some scrape or other, knowing his mother would have killed him. While growing up, he’d often wondered why his ma had never married Tom. He knew they were dear friends, and now that he was older and a lot wiser, suspected they might have been more than friends at one time. But he also knew that no man could hold Siobhan Riordan’s heart; other men had tried. His own father hadn’t been able to do it, and he knew his mother had loved him more dearly than any man she’d ever known. When she’d left his father behind, she’d locked the door to her heart as well, tossing the key to the wind.

Pat knew little more of his father than his name and a face. His ma had a picture of them together which she kept on her bedside table. He would occasionally, even now, find her staring at it when she was depressed or weary. As a small boy, he’d asked about his father, wondering why he didn’t have one. She informed him he did indeed have a father, and a fine man he was. A student at a university in Boston he’d been, his mother told him. Earnest and young, handsome as the very devil and able to take her heart in his hands. But he had unknowingly committed a mortal sin; he’d been born of English blood.

Siobhan Riordan had been shipped off to America after her involvement in a Fenian uprising in her home village of Ballylynch, County Armagh sixteen years before. Her uncles, her father, and his father before him, had long been enemies of the Crown, fighting underground for the freedom of Home Rule for their people. In 1855, county elections were being held in Ballylynch, their tiny village. Padhraig Riordan brought his family out of hiding to vote in that election, gathering every croppy for miles around to do the same…and were hanged for insurrection the following day. The riot that hanging had incited burned half the homes of the wealthy landowners and resulted in the deaths of three Orangemen. Siobhan had joined in the battle, her own insurrectionist heart fueled as volatilely as that of the men in her family. But the magistrate had taken pity on her; instead of hanging, she was flogged in the square and unceremoniously dumped on a boat headed first for Liverpool, and then for America.

Pat thumped back to earth from his reveries as his mother slammed the door and turned to her son, hands on her hips. He swallowed hard and dropped his eyes… well, eye, anyway… to his lap.

Siobhan shook her head as she studied him. Dear God, but he’s the image of his da, she thought to herself. More and more lately she’d thought of that young man, wishing to God things had been different. She could have used his help in raising this youngster. Pat wasn’t a bad boy, but he was wild and rapidly growing out of control. She didn’t seem to have the time to spend with him, to guide him. Speaking of time… she shook herself and narrowed her eyes.

“Get yerself washed up. Yer coming to the ‘Broth’ wi’ me tonight, where I can keep me eye on ye,” she said tightly, crossing her arms over her chest.

Pat’s head snapped up in dismay. “But, Ma – !” he protested.

“Patrick, if ye canna be trusted in the daylight, what am I to assume ye’ll try in the cloak o’night?!” she cried. “Now do as I tell ye and hurry up about it!”

Muttering to himself, Patrick went to the washstand and began cleaning up. There was absolutely no point in arguing with her when she was in this frame of mind. He’d simply have to figure out some way to meet up with Su Chang after he got to the saloon.

 

CHAPTER TWO

Later that day

“Siobhan!  Another pint over here, lass!”

“Keep yer shirt on, Kevin!”   Laughter met this cheerful retort as Siobhan gracefully swayed through the crowded barroom, a heavy tray of beer mugs raised high over their heads.

“Ah, lass, yer a foin figure of a woman…’specially with that ale in yer hands!” crowed Kevin Shaugnessy, the self-confirmed shanachie, or story-teller, of the bar.  “Hurry it up, lass, it’s dyin’ we are for a cool draft.”

“Aye, here’s your draft, ye old reprobate,” she smiled, setting his drink before him.  “An’ if it twas dyin’ you were, you’d ha’ been dead long before this.”

“Ah, t’is the truth yer speaking, Siobhaneen,” the old man sighed.  “Drink is the curse of the land…it makes ye fight w’ yer neighbor, it makes ye shoot at yer landlord… and it makes ye miss him!”

The room howled with laughter as Siobhan grimly smiled and, collecting her pennies, returned to the bar.  Pat came around from the storeroom at that point lugging a keg.  His mother had sternly informed him that she would help to keep him out of trouble by keeping him busy tonight and she’d kept her word.  He hadn’t had more than five minutes to sit and breathe since they’d arrived five hours earlier.  He wearily set the keg down behind the bar and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm.  His black eye was pretty pronounced now, deepening his look of vulnerability.

“Ma, can’t I please take a break?” he begged, slumping against the wall, exhausted.

She eyed him sternly and decided that he’d probably learned his lesson.  “Fifteen minutes, Pat, no more, understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he nodded with a devilish grin, suddenly full of energy and scooting out the door.  Siobhan gasped in surprise, but he was too quick to catch.  Seething, she slammed two empty mugs on the bar, making Liam, the bartender jump.

“Siobhan, ye’ll break them!” he howled in dismay, examining the glasses.  She silently started filling them with beer.  

Liam sighed.  “He’s just a lad, Siobhan, have a heart,” he said gently.

“A heart?!” she spat.  “He’ll be turnin’ into a wild Indian, he will!  I wish to God I could get him to school…per’aps that would straighten him out.”

“Patrick Riordan, cooped up in a schoolroom?” scoffed Liam.  “This I gotta see!”

“Well, t’is nay more’n a dream,” she muttered, a frown crossing her face..  “I couldn’t afford it anyhow.  We need the bread he earns.”  She glanced around the room and saw that things were pretty well cared for at the moment and glanced toward the steps leading to the upstairs back room. “Is Himself up there, then?”

“Aye,” nodded Liam, glancing up as well.  “If ye want to go up, I’ll keep a look see down here.”

She smiled and squeezed his arm.  “Thank ye, Liam,” she said warmly, gesturing toward one of the tables in the room. “These two pints are for Donnie and MacKay, aye?  They’ve paid,” and hurried up the stairs.

In the dingy hallway above, she heard the rumbling of male voices and the giggles of prostitutes as they worked their wonders in order to earn the week’s rent or tonight’s meal.  She continued down the hallway to the door at the very end of the hall, and after a short, two-tap then four separate, spaced out knocks on the door, she entered the room.

Seated around the large table were six men, Irishmen all.  They all looked up as she came in and most smiled.  There was one seat empty, and she slipped into it.

“Sorry for the delay, gentlemen,” she smiled tightly, then looked to the large, burly man on her right, Jimmy O’Halloran, the pub’s owner.  “‘Tis a full crowd ye have down there tonight, Jimmy.”  She glanced around the table and settled herself.  “So, are we ready for Wednesday?”

“Aye, lass,” responded the white-haired man across from her.  Michael O’Hara and Siobhan shared rank as the heads of the local group of Sinn Fein, or Fenians, as they were known to the Yanks.  Sons and daughters of the auld sod they were, with their hearts and purses still tied to Ireland.  It was through fundraising efforts they initiated that guns were being run into the old country on as regular a basis as possible, as well as money for food and medicines for the old, the women and the children.  As poverty-stricken as the Irish of Hell’s Kitchen were, there was usually a copper tossed in for the families they’d left behind.

“Keiron has already mustered dozens from the Tenderloin to stand with us,” added Jimmy. 

Siobhan nodded.  “The Orangemen won’t find as docile a herd of sheep as they were confronted with last year,” she said with dark satisfaction.  July 12th marked the commemoration of 1690s crossing of the River Boyne in which the army of Roman Catholic King James II of England was defeated by that of his Protestant successor, William the Orange.  Last year, New York City’s Orangemen, or Irish Protestants, planned their annual celebration and parade in Hell’s Kitchen to mark the anniversary of the Battle.  The Fenians had been violently opposed to celebration of this anniversary, being as determined to rid the local neighborhood of Orangemen as they were to help Ireland gain Home Rule.  The protests had been violent, but on a very small scale.  This year, however, Sinn Fein refused to allow a replay of the previous year’s events.

“We’re already hearing from McShea and Tulane that the coppers will be out in full force,” said one man from the corner.

“Aye,” sighed Siobhan, nodding.  “Tom Ryan speaks the same.  Says the 18th precinct is mustering 800 strong, as well as calling in the State militia.”

“Just like back in Armagh,” grinned one younger man.

“Aye, like in Armagh!” snapped Siobhan.  “And how many of Hell’s Kitchen’s women and children will go without a husband or father after Wednesday?”

This silenced many, and she gathered them all with her eyes.  “Our protests must be heard, but we should, under no circumstances, start the violence.  Let that rest on the heads of the Orangemen!”

“Lass, we’ll do what we have to do,” said another man, sullenly studying his beer.

One man at the table had, to this point, said nothing.  He was easily the finest dressed of the bunch and carried himself with great pride.  His name was Ray Connelly, the only first-generation American at the table.  His father had arrived in America forty years before and found himself prospering as a saloon-keeper in the Tenderloin district.  He prospered so well that his son was able to attend college, earning himself a degree in the law.  Ray and Siobhan had met and become involved about ten years earlier and, while their love affair was brief and stormy, their surviving friendship was as solid and enduring as time itself.  Like Tom Ryan before him, Ray Connelly knew that no man could hold on to Siobhan Riordan’s heart but the father of her son, and even he had been unable to keep her.  So, Ray stayed close, with a thriving law practice in the city. One so successful that he was able to take on pro bono cases as well, representing the oppressed in the Kitchen and keeping himself available to help Siobhan and her boy when he could…and when she’d let him, which wasn’t often.

He rose to his feet and walked to the sideboard to draw himself a beer from the keg and then turned back to the others in the room, leaning his hip comfortably against the sideboard.   Ray Connelly held the respect of every man in that room, and all were quiet when he began to speak.   “Siobhan may occasionally give us reason to wish her on a slow tug down the East River,” he said dryly to the chuckles of the men around him and a sly tilt of Siobhan’s lips, “but in this case I do agree.  We must do everything we can to be sure that we do not initiate any hostility.  It must all come from them.”

“How do we keep that from happenin’, man?!” snorted another.  “It’s daft y’are!”

“By keeping yer tempers, ye stupid amadáns!” snapped Siobhan.

“And here’s the pot callin’ the kettle black!” laughed Jimmy Halloran, as the rest of the table joined in.  Siobhan sighed and sat back until the laughter died uncomfortably.

“Ye’ll be laughing out of the other sides of your mouths,” she said sadly, “when ’tis the bodies of our own lads ye’ll be burying come Thursday.”

 

Pat tore down the street, dodging carts and horses, and the curses of pedestrians as he headed for Death Row.  He carefully eyed the railroad track up one side and down, then crossed it, running to a tiny shack at the end of the row.

There was lamplight coming from the front room, and he tentatively knocked at the door.  He waited impatiently until the door opened just a crack, and a tiny Chinese woman peeped through.  When she saw who it was, she beamed and opened the door wide enough for him to slip in.

“Good evening, Mrs. Lee,” he said politely in perfect Cantonese.  

“Welcome, Patrick,” she responded quietly, gesturing him in.  Seated on a settee, wrapped in blankets, was Su Chang, the bruises on his face now discolored and swollen.  Worried, Pat walked to him and dropped to his haunches.

“Oh, Su….” he sighed, his hand going to his friend’s arm.  Lee Su Chang opened his eyes wearily and when he saw who it was smiled weakly.  “They nailed you good, huh?”

“That they did,” murmured his friend.  “You are hurt as well?”

When Pat appeared bewildered, Su Chang carefully raised a hand to his own eye, and Pat grinned sheepishly.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he reassured him.  Su Chang smiled and relaxed.

Su Chang and Pat had become fast friends when they both were little shavers and Pat had defended him against a gang of bullies, not that much unlike the boys he now led.  It had been almost comical to see the two six-year-olds back to back in the alleyway ready to take on the older boys; luckily, Tom Ryan had intervened before things got out of hand.  Pat had been raised to believe the English and their allies were his enemies but had developed no particular distrust of anyone else.  He was able to charm just about anyone he met, often to his mother’s dismay, and he and Su Chang had become pals against all odds.  In gratitude for Patrick’s acceptance and friendship, Su Chang taught him how to fight with the grace and harnessed power of the Chinese and their martial arts, as well to speak passable Cantonese.  It hadn’t taken long for Su’s parents to accept the Irish boy as well, practically adopting him as a second son.  

“You bring us great honor by visiting us, Patrick,” said a voice from the hall.  Pat looked up and saw Lee Ming Ho entering, a book in his hand.  Su Chang’s father had been a scholar in his country, and though he’d been reduced to nothing more than a launderer here, had maintained his dignity.  “My son tells me it is thanks to you he was not hurt any worse than bruises and cracked ribs.”

“Cracked ribs!” breathed Pat, looking down at Su. “Wha – should I get the doctor?”

“No, my son,” answered Mr. Lee, patting his shoulder.  Though four months shy of his fourteenth birthday, Pat was already as tall as the tiny Oriental, and they were able to look eye to eye.  “I have bound his chest.  He will recover.”

“Su, I’m so sorry,” Pat sighed sadly.  

“Sorry?  For saving my life?” smiled the other boy.  

Pat looked helplessly at the Lees. “I wish I coulda got there faster,” he said humbly.

“We are most grateful you got there at all, Patrick,” replied Mr. Lee, solemnly.  “My son is indeed lucky to be able to claim such a young man as his friend.”

“Will you stay and dine with us?” asked Mrs. Lee.

“My great thanks, Mrs. Lee.  I wish I could,” he replied, carefully sticking to the formalities of the household, “but I’m only on a break from work.  I better get back.  I just wanted to be sure Su Chang was all right.”

“Yes, my son, he is,” said the older man, looking down at his son, then back at the taller boy.  “Thanks to you.”

Pat patted his friend’s shoulder and promised he’d visit the next day, took leave of Su’s parents and headed back toward Hester Street.  He walked slowly at first, thinking about Su Chang and his family, then suddenly remembered his mother had said fifteen minutes, and groaned.

“Oh, dammit all to hell!” he hissed, and started back for the saloon at a dead run.

 

CHAPTER THREE

July 10, 1871

Pat walked along the street beside his mother, taking in the less humid air of the night and the sounds of the sleeping city.  The streets were cooler on his bare feet than earlier, and he sighed, contented.  He heard a baby’s cry, and a rumble of manly laughter, but mostly he heard the night, as much a part of his blood as the woman at his side. 

He glanced over at her.  It had been a long hard night at the saloon, and Siobhan was weary to the bone; he could sense it in her walk and the way her shoulders drooped a little.  But he wondered if it was more than just tiredness.  When he’d gotten back to the saloon, worried that she’d be angry he was late, he found that she hadn’t come downstairs yet.  He knew about the back-room meetings; hell, he’d been brought up in them.  Fenian insurrection was nothing new to him.  But this air about his mother…this was new, and it worried him.

“Hey, Ma?”

“Hmm?

“You okay?”

She glanced over at her son, startled.  “And why do you ask?”

Confused, he looked down at the street as they walked. “I dunno, you look kinda … worried, maybe.”

She sighed and allowed her shoulder to gently bump into his.  “Worried….aye.  And me mind is crowded with memories tonight, Patrick.”  She shook herself and managed a smile for him. “Goose on me grave, I expect. Nothing more.”  She eyed her son.  “And you, lad?  What is it that’s haunting ye tonight?”

Pat squirmed uncomfortably.  Why did she always do that, turning his concern for her over onto himself?  “Nothin’.”

“Ah, sure,” she said dryly.

“Now, Ma – ” he grinned at her.  She draped an arm around his shoulders, and they walked home in a companionable silence.

But her mood returned once they were back in the oppressive heat of their flat.  Siobhan wearily trudged into her bedroom and tossed her reticule on the bureau, looking at herself in the mirror.  Sure, you’re but a young woman yet!  her heart cried out.  Her hand reached up and touched her cheek, still youthful at 32 years.  In the mirror she saw the bed and closed her eyes.  Empty.  She had been sleeping in an empty bed for so long now.  Wearily she crossed to the night table and stared at the daguerreotype portrait that sat in state.  She’d been so young, then!  And so had he.  Too young to have his future abruptly ended for him.

She picked it up with trembling hands, and traced the outline of his hard, lean cheek…the waves of his dark hair.  She could remember the feel of that hair, thick, brown-black and wavy, in her fingers.  Closing her eyes, Siobhan allowed her mind to drift back more than fourteen years….

 

His fingers ran sensuously over her neck, tracing the line of her collarbone…..

“Oh, darlin’,” she moaned as his hot lips played over her eyes, her face, her hair….

“Siobhan….” he whispered.  “Oh, God, how I love you…..” 

Their love-making had been amazing…astounding…she could never have imagined anything could be that powerful.  He was so tender, so gentle, and yet the passion and fire in him matched anything she could have hoped for, and his skill at pleasing her…she had never hoped to experience that kind of ecstasy, either…. 

And their time together was so much more than just physical.  Oh, the discussions they had!  He had a sharp, incisive mind that stimulated her own, and their arguments as well as their quieter talks served to make her feel more alive than she had even known she could feel.  They were so right for each other….

It had nearly killed her to run from him…

   

Reality came back to Siobhan with a thump as she heard her son bumping around in the other room.  Her son…. their son.  Her eyes were drawn again to the photograph.  Once again, her fingers traced the outlines of his face, and as she looked deeply into his dark eyes, her own eyes welled and tears spilled down her cheeks.

Pat had reluctantly started the fire in the stove, despite the almost smothering heat of the flat, desperately needing a cup of coffee before bed.  He padded into his mother’s room to ask if she’d like one as well, and stopped, his heart constricted.  There she was again, holding that damned picture, and weeping!  Crying for that rotten…!  Pat’s jaw tightened, and he dropped his head, closing his eyes.  

“Why, Ma?” he muttered.  “Why do you do this ta yerself every single time?”

Startled, Siobhan came out of her memories and looked up at her son.  She winced as she saw him this time; he looked so much like his father, it almost hurt.  She turned away, shaking her head.

Pat sat beside her on the bed and took the daguerreotype from her hands, studying it.  He saw his mother, so young, just past seventeen, and so happy.  The man who looked back at him was undeniably handsome, but Patrick couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than anger.  He learned long before that the angry feelings kept at bay the other feelings… the feelings of resentment and of abandonment.  Emotion boiled over in him, and in a sudden rage, he hurled the photograph at the wall, clambering to his feet amid the sound of shattered glass.

With a guttural cry Siobhan dove for the picture frame.  “No, Pat!”

He grabbed her arms and pulled her up to face him, away from the photograph.  “Ma, for God’s sake, look at what he’s done to you!” he cried in anguish.  “For years now I’ve watched ya stare at that damn picture and cry your eyes out!  You’ve thrown away every chance for happiness all for a … because of a….

“Don’t say it, Patrick!” she warned, weeping.

“A stinkin’ Orangeman!” he shouted.  She wrenched free of her son’s strong hands and slapped him fiercely, rocking him on his heels and snapping his head back.  She turned back to the floor where the shards of glass and the broken frame rested.  Carefully, she shook the photograph free from the splintered glass and picked it up.

She looked up at her son and saw the white imprint of her hand clearly marking his cheek, contrasting starkly with the purpling bruise around his right eye.  His eyes were shining with stubbornly unshed tears.  The fire was back in her own eyes as she stared at her son.  “This man, he’s yer da, Patrick,” she declared, rising again to her feet and trembling as she gestured to the lad using the picture in her hands. “A good, kind man, he was, no older than a boy himself, when we fell in love. Only five or six years older than yerself, like! Back then, passion was all that mattered to us, politics and the Troubles, they seemed miles away. But he had a future, all planned out for him, and I had no part in it! He had a family waitin’ for him, way across the world it seemed! Them times in Boston, they were just little bits of his life, but he wouldn’t see that! I saw it, even if he wouldn’t. Can’t ye try to understand?”

“But, Ma,” groaned Pat sinking to the bed and burying his face in his hands, “if he really loved ya…”

“Aye!  Love!  ‘Twas because of me love for him that I refused to ruin his chances at a good life!”

“What about your chances?  Your future?!” he cried, glaring at her.

“There … was …no …future for us!” she cried, emphatically.  

Passion filled her, making her color high and her eyes flame.  In their struggle her hair had shaken loose and Pat looked up at her, his heart breaking at her beauty.  So much love she could have shared with someone, and instead she was here, alone, slinging beer in a saloon by night, and plotting insurrection by day.  What a goddamned waste.

She regained control of herself and, sighing, sat beside Pat on the bed.  “Pat, whatever can I say to get through to ye?  How do I help to rid ye of the hate ye feel for him?” she asked wearily.

He stared at her and laughed harshly.  “You’d sooner have ta tell me ta forget everything ya taught me from the time I nicked my first apple off a cart!  Everything ya fought for, everything ya were run out of Ireland for…it’s all there in his picture, Ma!  He’s one of ’em, dammit!” he gestured furiously at the photograph.  “How in God’s name can you forget that pain?!”

“He caused none of it,” she responded dully.  

“Ahh….” sputtered Pat, waving his hand in disgust, and jumping to his feet stormed to the door.

“Where are you going?!’ she cried.

“Out!” was his curt reply as the door slammed shut behind him.  Siobhan stared at the door for a few moments, then down at the photograph in her hands.

“Oh, lad…” she whispered, her blue eyes welling with tears as she gazed at the handsome young man in the image.  “Your son needs ye so badly…”

 

“I’ll see your three, and raise you two more.”

Pat fingered his cards, leaning back in his chair and studied his opponent.  The downstairs back room at the ‘Witches Broth’ had long been the site of poker games, and Pat had cut his teeth on the cards.  While he couldn’t spell to write his name, his agile mind had an innate grasp of mathematics and numbers and he’d figured out the concepts of odds quickly and thoroughly, with no help.  He also, for some reason unknown to anyone but God, had the best poker face in Hell’s Kitchen.  All of his life, Pat had a knack of guessing the state of mind of the people he played against, and knowing whom he could bluff and whom he couldn’t.  It had actually become something of a lark for the toffs to come to the saloon to see this little kid bluffing the pants off experienced poker players twenty and thirty years his senior.   For years now, Pat had subsidized the extra pieces of meat on their table with his poker winnings; Siobhan wasn’t happy about it, but could do very little to stop him.

Tonight, Pat was on a major winning streak.  There was almost twenty dollars in the pot.  Four other players had dropped out, and Pat was now left with Joe McNamara, a small, skinny railroad laborer not known for being a good loser… or canny at cards, either.  

Pat was playing as though the devil himself were dealing the cards; he’d been dealt incredible hands all night long, and Joe figured the boy couldn’t continue on this kind of a winning streak.  The man held three kings and was sure he had the better hand.  But he was nervous… the rent was sitting in that pot, and his wife was expecting their third child.  He couldn’t afford to lose it.

Patrick was filled with pure cussedness after the fight with his mother, and was determined to win, at any cost.  He’d been lucky earlier, but that luck eluded him this hand.  He gauged Joe’s psychological situation:   Joe was a little nervous and unsure.  Pat threw caution to the winds and decided to play it out, devil take the hindmost.

He reached into his pile of money and tossed five dollars into the pot.  Joe relaxed with an almost imperceptible smile as it appeared the boy would only call, then his heart stopped as he saw Pat’s hand reach again into his pile.

“Well, let’s see, McNamara,” he said quietly, eyeing the smaller pot in front of his opponent.  His blue eyes cold as ice, Pat saw in McNamara’s face that he’d correctly judged the situation.  “What you got left there?”

Joe reddened.  “Ye can’t have another hand, it ain’t possible,” he growled.

Pat gave nothing away, simply stared into the eyes of the older man.  “I’ll see your five,” he said quietly, then pushed everything he had left into the pot, “and raise you twelve more.”

McNamara licked his lips and stared at the boy.  “Yer bluffin’.”

“Think so? Then call.”

“I ain’t got that much!” cried McNamara.

“Tough luck,” said Pat softly.  “Borrow it.”

Over by the door, Jimmy O’Halloran frowned.  He had never seen Pat this ruthless before.  He’d watched this kid grow up and knew his skill at poker, but something else was driving him tonight, a real desire to hurt someone else, and it appeared poor McNamara would be the target of his wrath.  With a publican’s uncanny sense of impending trouble, Jimmy grasped a ten-pin he kept handy near the door and softly moved around the crowd to within arm’s reach of McNamara.

Desperately, Joe looked around him, but no one met his eyes.  “Sure, and somebody here’ll lend me the money to teach this bastard brat a lesson!”

Pat’s eyes burned at the epithet, but his face still gave nothing away.

“Kevin!”  Joe desperately begged the old man.  Shaughnessy looked away, shaking his head.  Joe whirled back around, facing the cold, aloof boy in front of him.  “It’s the rent in that pot, damn you!” he screamed at Pat.

“Shouldn’t bet what you can’t lose,” the boy replied flatly, his heavy-lidded blue eyes cold as ice and almost empty.

“Why you rotten little—” Joe started to lunge, but O’Halloran’s muscular arms shoved him back down in his chair.  

“Meet the bet or end the game!” he barked.

“You know I ain’t got it, Jimmy!” cried Joe piteously.

“Then fold and get out.  The kid is right; don’t bet what ye can’t lose.”

Joe looked around him, saw he had no quarter, and furiously threw his cards at Patrick, leaning over the table nearly mad with fury.  “Ye miserable little whelp!  Son of a Boston whore!”

Joe never saw what hit him.  Pat bounded out of his chair and threw a colossal punch directly at the man’s solar plexus, dropping him like a poleaxed steer.

O’Halloran shoved Pat back into his chair and nailed him with his eyes.  “Pick up your money and go home, Patrick!”  He was furious; this had been no gentleman’s game.  Pat had been driven to hurt, and he’d accomplished his goal in spades.

Pat held his gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes.  He was spent.  His anger was spent, too, and now all he felt was shame and disgust with himself.  He glanced at Shaughnessy, who also eyed him with disdain.  Sighing, he got to his feet and counted his money.  He looked down at McNamara, just now groaning and beginning to move.  He stared at the wad of money in his hand, then dropped it on the floor beside the older man, and walked out.

 

The following afternoon, Siobhan arrived early at the saloon, unable to bear the thought of another fight with Patrick.  He hadn’t gotten home until nearly dawn, and in the morning had been uncommunicative, despite her scolding.  No matter what she threatened him with, she couldn’t worm out of him where he’d been.  Sick of her badgering, he’d stormed out again, leaving her frustrated nearly to tears.  

He was getting beyond her ability to control, and she didn’t know how to reclaim him.  He needed a man’s firm hand, and a good man, one he could look up to, she’d sighed to herself as she walked to work.  God knew Tom Ryan and Ray Connelly had done their best over the years to give him a male figure to look up to, but she knew it wasn’t the same.  She couldn’t help but thinking his own father would have better luck in guiding his strong-willed son.

The saloon was deserted when she arrived, except for Liam polishing the top of the bar.  He glanced up when she walked in but reddened as he realized who it was and went back to polishing as though his life depended on it.  Siobhan sighed.  So, this was where Pat had been.  Playing poker, no doubt.  She’d have a stern word or two for him when he arrived tonight for his shift!  Sighing, she walked to the stairs and went up to the back room.

Michael was there, and Ray, discussing their plans for the protest day after tomorrow.  Ray looked up when she came in and smiled at her automatically, then noticed her worried expression.

“What is it, lass?” he asked in concern.

“Nothing more than me scapegrace son,” she sighed, waving it off as she sank wearily into a chair across from the two men.  Michael sensed that Siobhan needed to talk and decided to leave them to it.

“Ray, I’ll go down to the Tenderloin and see if all is in readiness there,” he said, meaningfully, as he walked to the door.

“Aye, Michael.  Let me know if there’s anything you need from me.”

The older man stopped beside her and rested a hand on her shoulder, then leaned over and kissed the top of her hair.  “Be easy, Siobhan,” he said gently, and left.

Ray eyed her quietly for a moment, then rose to his feet and slipped into a chair beside her.  “Darlin’, what is it?”

She shook her head.  “He’s running wild, Ray,” she sighed.  “He takes off for hours without telling me where he’s going; he’s suddenly filled with such anger, and no place to be safely lettin’ it go.  I’m watchin’ him turn as closed-mouthed as a convict, I am, right before me eyes.”

“Are you sure it isn’t just normal rebellion?” he asked gently.  “I seem to remember giving me father fits at his age.”

“Aye, giving your father fits!” she exclaimed, rising to her feet and walking to the window, clasping her arms around her middle as if she hurt.  “I can’t help but feel none o’ this would be happening if he had his da.”

Ray sighed and hung his head.  He drew in a deep breath.   “I tried to offer a substitute, but his mam didn’t think I could fill the man’s shoes,” he smiled wryly.  She glanced back at him and offered a fond smile.

“And I was grateful to ye, lad.”

“Not grateful enough to say yes.”

“Don’t let’s be goin’ through this again, Ray,” she begged, turning to the dingy window and staring out blindly.  Ray got to his feet and walked to her.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed. He tipped his head to the side and studied her.    “Sure, an’ ‘tisn’t merely Patrick bothering you, then, is it, lass?”

She shook her head.  “It is not.  Actually, it’s glad I am that ye’re here..”  She turned and looked at him.  “It’s a dear friend ye are, Ray Connelly.  I’d be beholden to ye if ye’d give me a bit of help.”

“Name it.”

“I’d like to make me will.”

Startled, Ray searched her eyes.  “Yer will, did ye say?”

“Aye.”  She walked back to the table and sat down, looking up at him.  He stared at her, then sat beside her.

“If something happens to me, Ray, I want Pat sent to his father.”

Ray stared at her as if she’d grown a second head.  He started to laugh nervously.  “Oh, aye, and pigs will fly next St. Patrick’s Day!”

“I’m serious.”

“So’m I!” he declared.  “An’ does your sainted son know of this plan o’ yours, then?”

She shook her head, toying with the tablecloth.

“Uh huh,” Ray sighed.  “And, unless something has changed since the last time we spoke of it, Himself has no idea he’s even got a son, is that not correct?”  He got no response and rose to his feet in frustration.  “Siobhan, what makes you think the man will even acknowledge him?!”

“Because I know him.”

“No, lass,” he said harshly.  “Ye knew him!  You knew a twenty-year-old college boy mad with love for an Irish barmaid!  Ye don’t even know if he’s dead or alive out there!”

“I’d know if he were dead, Ray.”

“How?!

“I just would!” she cried.  She turned on him.  “Ye said you’d help me!  Name it, ye said!  Well, did ye mean it, then, or not?!”

Helplessly, Ray raised his hands.  “Ah, Christ, Siobhan….”

She beseeched him with her eyes.  “Will ye do it?  Draft it today?  I want it signed tomorrow night.”

That brought him down to earth.  “Tomorrow?!”  Then the tumblers fell into place, and he stared at her.  “You’re worried about the parade.”

She got to her feet and walked again to the window, not saying a word.  He got up and came behind her, putting his arms around her.  Wearily she leaned back in his arms.  “I’ve seen too many lads die for Ireland, Ray,” she said, her voice catching.  “Me own brothers, Tim only three years older than Paddy is now.  I don’t want Patrick to be one of them.  If he stays here, that’s exactly what will happen to him, and he’s too young for that.  He needs his da, and I know his father will love him and raise him well.”

“But – “  

She turned around and grasped his shoulders, looking directly into his eyes.

“Promise me if anything happens to me, ye’ll find Pat’s father and take the lad to him?  Promise me, Ray?”  He looked away, frustrated.  “Please, Ray, if ye’ve truly ever loved me, promise you’ll do this for me?”

Shaking his head, he sighed.  “All right, Siobhan.  I promise.  But ye’ll have to break the news to that spalpeen o’ yours.”

Closing her eyes, she nodded, thinking of the scene last night.  “I know,” she said sadly.  “And may the blessed Mother help me find a way to make him understand.”

 

CHAPTER FOUR

July 12, 1871

Wednesday dawned muggy and miserable over New York City and Hell’s Kitchen was hotter than usual.  Siobhan dragged herself out of her damp, uncomfortable bed and slipped a light wrapper around herself as she went into the other room to start a pot of coffee…and talk to her son.  Ray had done as she asked; the will was written and she had shakily signed her name as Pat’s father had taught her all those years ago.  Then Ray reminded her again that there was no way on God’s earth he would be the one to break the news to young Master Riordan.

Patrick was still asleep, sprawled over the settee half-naked.  Smiling she looked down on her son; asleep, the hard expression was gone from his face and he finally looked like the thirteen-year-old he was.  His face was relaxed, and the scowl he’d been wearing for days was erased.  Even the shiner he sported couldn’t take away the youthful handsome innocence from his face.  She studied him again, trying to see where she was represented in him.  The eyes were obvious, but with them closed he looked more like his father than ever: the tall, powerful body, broad shoulders, the snubbed nose, the cupid’s bow mouth, the thick black brows and eyelashes, and high forehead. Even his hands, Siobhan sighed silently.  Pat’s hands were his father’s too, large but sensitive, with long dexterous fingers…that had been put to work most lately in fist fights and poker games.  Sighing she reached down and stroked his cheek.  He stirred in his sleep and yawned.

“Hmmmmm?”

“Time to get up, darlin’,” she said softly.  His heavy-lidded eyes fluttered open, and their intense blue made her smile.  Her own Da’s eyes, that’s what they shared.  Padhraig Riordan of County Armagh had given her those eyes, and now his grandson and namesake shared them.  Siobhan felt a shiver as she realized that he might look like his English-bred father, but an Irishman’s soul fired his spirit and an Irishman’s blood coursed through his veins.

Totally unaware of the philosophical discourse taking place in his mother’s mind, Patrick nodded sleepily and hauled himself up to a sitting position, wincing slightly.  Siobhan raised a knowing eyebrow and moved off to start the kitchen fire.  He tottered over to the washstand and splashed the tepid water on his face, shaking his head to loosen the cobwebs from his brain.

“Oohhhhh,” he groaned, stretching.  That settee was starting to get a little short for him.  He wondered what he’d do if he continued to grow the way he’d done lately?  He already towered over almost all the boys his own age that he knew.  He tried to imagine what it must be like to be really tall and see over the heads of most men.  Ahh, phhftt!  he snorted, wiping his face.  He was too tired to bother with philosophizin’ this morning.

He shot a wary glance at Siobhan and was grateful his mother was smiling to herself this morning.  She’d been hopping mad at him yesterday.  His disobedience and running off had earned him an unpleasant dose of strap oil, his first in a very long time.  Guilt had made his conscience easily as sore as his backside as he realized his behavior had pushed her to the point that she was angry enough to punish him.  He didn’t know what was wrong with him lately!  He just seemed to have so much energy and so much anger and no place to use it! He knew the heat of the city and the tensions of today’s parade and protest were telling on her, and it bothered him that he couldn’t seem to curtail his disobedience long enough to give her some peace.  As he had stretched out uncomfortably on his side last night on the too-short settee he vowed to do his best to improve his behavior and do what she expected of him.

He glanced over at her again as she put the coffee on to boil and saw her staring pensively into the stove’s fire.  He dressed quietly and came up behind her.  He was startled when she addressed him; he’d thought her far away in her thoughts.

“Patrick, sit ye down, it’s needin’ t talk we are.”

Embarrassed, figuring this was phase two of his punishment from the day before, Pat sighed and obeyed her reluctantly, finding himself needing to shift a bit uncomfortably.  Good Christ, but that woman’s got  an arm on ‘er! 

Eyeing him seriously, she sat down across from him. “Patrick, I need ye to promise me ye’ll sit still and listen to me,” she said firmly, looking him directly in the eyes.  “I have some serious things to discuss with ye and I cannae have ye boltin’ out o’here in a fury, not today.”

“Yes, Ma,” he replied softly, his cheeks reddening.

She drew in a deep breath and prayed to God to give her the words to unlock her son’s stubborn heart.

“Pat, ye know what’s happening today?”

Startled, he nodded.  “Yeah,” he said, wondering where this was going.  “I heard ya and O’Hara talkin’ about the parade.  D’ya think there’s gonna be trouble?”

“It’s likely,” she admitted. “It’s for this reason I need ye to be quiet and listen.”

Chastened, he shut his mouth and dropped his head a little, looking up at her from under those thick, black lashes.  She felt a stab of pain in her heart at his expression; lately, it seemed every time she looked at the boy she saw the father, who used to peer at her just that way when he felt embarrassed about somethin’.  She felt more sure than ever of her decision, as though guided to it.

“While the Fenians have sworn off startin’ the scrap, ’tis likely it’ll come to it. I want, first of all, yer solemn promise ye’ll stay clear o’ the bother.”

Pat started in dismay; he and the boys had planned to very much be right  in the very middle of it!  Every Irish boy in the neighborhood knew what today was and what was planned!  “Aw, Ma!” he protested.

“Jaysus, Patrick Riordan!” she snapped.  “Yer promise is gone quicker than a fart in the wind! I need yer word, and I need it now, so!”

Pat opened his mouth to retort, then thought better of it.  Reddening, he dropped his eyes, and nodded.

“Right, so, here’s the next bit…and this is somethin’ we haven’t chatted about before. ‘Tis not going to be easy for ye to hear, but hear it ye must.”  She drew in a deep breath.  “I won’t be around forever, Pat. I’ve been givin’ it some thought, what needs done if somethin’ happens to me.”

Alarmed, Pat raised his head and stared at his mother.  It took every bit of discipline he had not to interject, but he could see how serious she was.  She saw his concern but plunged on.  

“I’ve spoken with Ray and have made me will.”  She chuckled to herself, shaking her head.  “God knows, I’ve nothing of importance to leave, lad.  Except for you.  Ye are and have always been me most precious possession.”

Pat was confused.  What was she getting at?

Eyeing him seriously, Siobhan took his strong, brown hand in hers and clasped it.  “If anything happens to me, lad, I have given Ray instructions to take ye to your father.”

Pat stared at her, shocked.  Then anger hit him and he snatched his hand away as though her touch burned him.  “What?!”

She said nothing but held his gaze.

“Ya can’t… ya can’t mean that, Ma!”

“Oh, I mean it very seriously, Patrick.  Your da is a good man, with a strong family behind him, and he’ll be able to provide everything for ye that I haven’t, includin’ an education.”

“Wait a minute,” spluttered Patrick, rising to his feet and putting his hands out as if to literally push the horrible words away from him.  Shaking his head, he stared at his mother.  “What about me?  Don’t I got nothin’ to say about it?”

She’d expected this, and shook her head in negation.  “No, not this time, Pat. Ye’re only thirteen, lad, not a man yet, no matter how much ye think ye are. Ye’ve a power of growin’ up still to do, and if I can’t be here to guide ye, then I want ye wi’ yer da.”

“What makes ya think somethin’s gonna happen to ya?” he cried, his heart pounding and his palms sweating.

“Patrick, today could be a major turning point for the Irish in this city,” she said, her eyes growing cold.  In dismay and fear, Patrick began to lose his temper.

“I don’t care about the Irish!” he spat at her, stubbornly setting his jaw. “I care about you…and about me! And no matter what happens, I ain’t goin’!”

She rose to her feet in one swift motion, grasping his upper arms in a grip so fierce it hurt.

“Patrick, in this ye must obey me,” she said fiercely.  Her intensity startled him.  “I will tolerate no nonsense in this!  I want yer word ye’ll do as I tell ye!  Ye’ll stay away from the parade today, and God forbid, if something happens, ye’ll go to your father!”

He tried to wrench away but winced in pain as her fingers dug into him.

“Promise me! and God alone will know what will happen if you break your word to me!”

Hesitating, his mind reeling, Pat thought wildly.  Go to his father?!  Dear God, why would she want to punish him so severely?!  Go to the other side of the world to be under the authority of a… a damned Orangeman!  Leave the only life he’d ever known to be stuck in the boondocks someplace?  Never!

“I… can’t, Ma,” he whispered brokenly, helplessly.  Furious, she shook him till his teeth rattled.

“Patrick!  By all that’s holy, and for every sacrifice I’ve made for ye all your life, you will obey me!” she stormed.  He tried to look away, but she shook him hard again and forced him to meet her eyes. Sullenly, he clamped his mouth shut… his memory of last night was still fresh enough, after all.

Rolling her eyes heavenward, Siobhan called on her sainted father’s gift o’ gab to find the words to shift  her stubborn son’s belligerence.

She sighed, hands on her hips and her eyes downcast.  “Pat… when me da and me brothers, may they rest in peace, were hanged by Prods, I remember him sayin’ t’me just before they marched him out to the gallows.  He said t’only t’ing tha t’was on his heart was that he’d not made preparations for me.  Aye, for me,” she nodded, at her son’s narrowing eyes.  “How he wished he’d tied me down t’home with me mam so that I’d nay ha’ followed Tim, and Conor and Liam!  But he did not.  And that meant he couldn’a stop me sufferin’ as well.”

Pat eyes, troubled now, gazed into hers. He had a sneaking suspicion where she was going with this, and wasn’t sure he could hold up against it…

“Patrick, I can at least do that much for ye, somethin’ me own blessed da couldna do for me.  Paddy… I’m askin’ ye, please… please, lad.  Don’t be makin’ everyin’ I gave up to make your future possible all a waste and a lie.  Please, lad, I’m beggin’ ye.”

Her eyes both pleaded with him, and also remained proud.  And it was that combination, ultimately,  that he could no longer fight.  Tears welled in his own as he miserably nodded in defeat. 

Slowly, the anger left her and she gently reached a hand to his cheek.  “Pat, I know this isn’t easy for ye.  I wish I knew what caused ye to hate him so much, but if ye’ll just give him a chance…”

Angrily, he shook his head, trying to turn away.  

“Never have I spoken ill o’ him to ye!’ she cried.  “Never have I said he mistreated me, or was cruel! Why?  What is it, Patrick, what story have ye woven in yer own mind to make him the villain!?”

He snapped his head up then, and she was taken aback by the pain in those eyes.  “I said I’d go,” he said tightly, sniffing back his tears and his jaw setting into a stubborn line.  “I didn’t say I’d like it!”  With that he wrenched free from her and stomped out the door.

 

1500 Orangemen had registered to march in the parade today.  But when gathering time arrived, only about 160 showed up on 8th Avenue, decked out in their orange sashes.  Numerous threats from both sides had severely dwindled their numbers.  But the numbers that had not dwindled were the 6500 New York City policemen and five regiments of National Guardsmen  who arrived to defend these men.  Hundreds of Irish Catholics, and Irish Protestants with their German neighbors and other sympathizers, were gathering their forces in Hell’s Kitchen and Hibernia Hall.  A mob of 800 or so began to storm over to 29th Street and 8th Avenue through Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen, bringing along anyone they could find along the way.

Siobhan and Ray were on the periphery, trying to gauge the situation. Ray had tried his best to get Siobhan to stay in a place of safety, but her Celtic blood was roused as it hadn’t been since leaving Armagh.  They were stationed at the junction of 24th Street and 8th Avenue and watched as many more protesters joined the crowd.

“It’s going to be bloody, Siobhan,” said Ray, his eyes darting nervously back and forth.

“Aye.  Thanks be to God Patrick swore he’d stay away,” she breathed, though she knew her own blood ran in his veins as well… how, then, could she ha’ been so surprised he’d felt the call of it himself t’be here?

Ray looked at her.

“You talked to him?”

“Aye.”

“How’d he take it?”

“And how would ye expect, then?” she demanded impatiently.  “Let’s be keepin’ our minds on the business at hand!”

“Dear God…” breathed Ray as he looked down 8th Avenue.  Siobhan glanced at him, then whirled, looking in the same direction as he, and gasped.

 

Pat ducked behind a storefront, making very sure he couldn’t be seen by Ma and Ray.  If she knew he’d disobeyed her  she’d kill him, he thought with a grim smile.  He’d manage to stay behind the worst of it, but he was damned if he was going to miss this!

He watched the marchers, the Orangemen, look around themselves in fear and trepidation, cowering a bit behind the thousands of protective guns.  Something stirred in Pat, some ancient Celtic call to freedom, maybe.  He shook himself with a grin, noting with irony his poetic Irish soul. Or, maybe it was just hunger; he’d bolted from their flat without having eaten breakfast that morning.

Pat leaned against the storefront’s door jamb and watched Ray suddenly turn east down 8th Avenue, and his mother’s head turn to follow his stare with a look of horror on her face.  Curious, Pat turned too, and what he saw stopped his blood cold.

 

The crowds were boiling out over the street like lava from a volcano, and policemen and militiamen were scared, warily moving their guns back and forth.

Days afterwards, Ray wondered if what the militia had claimed was true.  They said they heard shots first, though Ray was sure he’d heard nothing but the cat calls, jeers and screams being tossed back and forth by the two factions.  A mob mentality had totally overtaken the heavily charged air of 8th Avenue. But no gunshots.

Until, suddenly, the militia opened fire and the tension erupted into a full-fledged riot.  Women screamed and dragged their children indoors; many being trampled as they tried to flee.  Men screamed and dropped as bullets flew through the crowd, fathers dropping to protect their sons, sons screaming as they dragged their wounded uncles and friends out of the path of the hordes as they charged down the Avenue.

 

In terror, Pat turned back to his mother and saw her and Ray running toward the crowds, Ray holding her hand tightly.  Screaming his mother’s name, he pelted after them, but found himself fighting a wave of human bodies, reeking of terror.  

Pat had nearly caught up with them, when he watched the wave of humanity literally rip Siobhan and Ray apart, tossing her roughly to the side of the street, and gathering Ray up and carrying him with it.  Siobhan quickly regained her feet, and scanned the crowd, fear and determination illuminating her face.  A very shocked Pat watched as though seeing a play, amazingly detached and observant.

He was no more than fifteen feet away from Siobhan when he watched her desperately trying to drag a hurt child from being trampled under the mob; she frantically plucked up the screaming child and literally tossed him out of the way, turned back and suddenly her mouth opened wide in shock and surprise as the echo of a shot rang out.  Instantly his detachment disappeared and Pat’s eyes widened in horror as he watched her move her hands awkwardly to her midsection and crumple in on herself, falling to the ground.

“Mama, NO!” he shrieked, heedless of the danger and running to her, dropping to her side and repeating her name over and over.

Her eyes, filled with shock and pain registered his presence and she nearly wailed a keen of frustration.  “Oh, Pat, ye promised…” she groaned.

“Mama, no! Don’t die, Ma, please!” he wept, ripping off his shirt and pressing it to the wound.  

Within ten minutes, most of the crowds had fled.  The police and the militia stood, wild-eyed but ready.  And more than one hundred people lay dead or wounded in the street.  Terrified, the 160 marching Orangemen stared at each other as they continued on their way.  

The parade continued without further incident.

 

Tom Ryan desperately plowed through the crowds now back on the streets, trying to save those either still alive or keening over their dead.  He couldn’t believe it.  He’d abandoned his post.  He’d never done anything like that before in his eighteen years on the police force.  But just the thought of Siobhan out there, possibly hurt, had dragged every bit of discipline from him and he broke ranks and ran back to 24th Street.

Ripping off his uniform jacket as he ran, Tom searched through the dozens of bodies and those standing in shock but could not find Siobhan.  He saw neighbors, friends, some dead, some dying, but could not stop his search.

Then he stopped dead in the road, and a silent scream exploded in him as he saw a woman, her long black hair swirled and matted in the dirt, crumpled at the side of the street.  Kneeling beside her, trying desperately to stop the bleeding from a serious wound in her lower chest, was Pat, tears streaming down his cheeks unheeded as he struggled to staunch the flow of blood with his shirt.  Tom staggered to them and dropped down, shouldering the boy out of the way.

“Tom, she’s hurt so bad!” sobbed Pat, frightened out of his wits.  “Tom, you gotta help her!” he begged, as the big man quickly took in the situation.  Tom sagged. A chest wound…God, the lungs?  Stomach?  He desperately blinked back the tears in his eyes.  He turned to Pat.  

“Go find Connelly!” he barked, scooping Siobhan in his arms.  The gut-wrenching moan she gave as he lifted her made Pat squeeze his eyes shut.  “He’ll be able to bring a doctor.  Hurry, Pat!”

“Take her to the hospital!” cried Pat.

“They won’t let her in without money, Pat!” Tom shouted.  “I’ll take her home, and you get Connelly!  He’ll be able to cough up enough cash to get her some help.  Do it, lad!”

Desperately torn between not wanting to leave his mother’s side and obeying Tom, Pat’s mind was reeling and he was unable to move.

“Patrick, do as I say!” roared Tom, gathering Siobhan in his arms and hurrying off down the street. 

Tears streaming down his cheeks, and groaning in an agony of fear, Pat pelted off in the opposite direction.

 

Biding his time, Pat studied the crowd outside the theatre.  His stomach was in knots as he plotted to find the right mark, one that looked like he’d have enough money on him that afternoon. 

Despite the intense heat, he shivered and hunched his shoulders.  Pat closed his eyes, tormented with self-recrimination at what he planned to do.  He’d never stolen or robbed like this before; petty pilfering had been the extent of his sins.  Lifting apples from the fruit vendors’ wagons, stealing a beer or two from the saloon after his work was finished, that’s all.  Interfering with his concentration tonight was his conscience.  Nagging at him were his mother’s teachings of right and wrong, and honesty.  

Tom had sent him to find Ray, but the lawyer had been nowhere to be found.  Pat was unable to find any of his mother’s Brotherhood friends, either, angrily figuring they were all holed up in secret licking their wounds and trying to plan their retaliation, no doubt.  But Tom said without money he’d get no help for his mother.  Without the opportunity of a poker game, Pat desperately turned to the only thing left to him. He’d stolen a shirt off a clothesline to make himself less conspicuous and started hunting for an easy mark.

Ultimately, it was the memory of his mother, struck down in the street during the riot of that morning, that steeled his resolve and, setting his jaw in a stubborn line, Patrick scanned the crowd again.  By God, he’d get enough money to get her to a hospital or die trying himself.  

There!  His blue eyes narrowed and he glanced around him, then looked back.  That was the one, the older guy standing alone, with the pale blue waistcoat and gray suit, looking for a hack.  Quietly, Pat stalked the man following a few feet behind.  

Unsuccessful at finding a ride, the man sighed and begin to walk uptown.  Pat couldn’t believe his luck!  A rich fool on foot!  This was going to be easy…

He was so intent on his mark that Patrick made the fatal mistake of unsuccessful thieves… he forgot to watch his back.

Out of nowhere, he felt a huge, meaty hand clamp itself over his mouth and another land on the scruff of his neck, hauling him back into the alleyway he’d just passed.  Eyes wide and kicking violently, Patrick fought to free himself, but the strength in those hands were too much for the thirteen-year-old.  Terrified, Pat was wheeled around and damn near had a heart attack.

“Jesus Christ almighty, Ryan!” he panted, his eyes closed in relief.   “Ya scared the bejeesus out of me!”

“I ought to whip ye within an inch of yer miserable life!” growled the huge man, once again getting a solid grip on the boy’s collar, and dragging him back down the street

“Ryan, lemme go!”

“I sent you to find Ray, damn yer hide!” stormed Ryan, slamming Pat against the brick building hard enough to knock the wind out of him.  Pat wheezed, struggling to get his breath, and shook his head to clear the stars that danced in front of his eyes when the back of his head connected with the brick wall.  He tried to recoil as Ryan stuck his face within inches of Patrick’s, but he had nowhere to go.  “Yer ma is breathin’ her last up in yer flat, and you’re down here tryin’ your damnedest to get yourself a room at the lockup!  How could ye, Pat!  Why couldn’t ye do as I told ye!”

Pat shouted, “I couldn’t find him, Ryan!  I looked and I looked, but I couldn’t find him anywhere!”  His eyes were wild with fear and pain. “She’s gonna die if I don’t get some money!  I had to try, Ryan, I had to!”

Ryan saw the desperation in the boy’s eyes, and miserably, rested his head against his forearm, propped against the wall.  His forced himself to calm down and slow his breathing.  Swallowing hard, he gently gripped the boy’s shoulder.  “O’Hara’s with her, lad, and he’s called the doctor,” he said gruffly, “C’mon.  We’ve got to get you home, fast.”  And he gently pushed Pat back up the street, a hand on his shoulder.

 

Siobhan’s breathing was much worse, and Michael O’Hara gently tried to ease her up to help her haul in air.  The outer door to the flat slammed open and Patrick ran into the bedroom his eyes wild as he sought his mother.  Ryan stopped at the doorway, catching his breath as he looked down on Siobhan, struggling, but still alive.  Thanks be t’ God, he thought, sagging against the door frame.  I’m not too late, then.  I brought the lad in time…  

O’Hara swiftly rose and stopped Pat at the door, forcing the boy to look at him.

“Easy, lad,” soothed Michael, his strong hands holding his shoulders.  “Go easy, she’s in great pain.”

“But…she’s worse?” he whispered, staring wide-eyed at the suffering woman.

“Lad…she’s dyin’,” the older man said very gently.  Patrick frantically sought the truth in O’Hara’s gentle face and found it.  Pat moaned, shaking his head side to side in denial.  “The doctor’s on his way, but I’m fearin’ it’ll be too late.”  Michael released him, with a gentle squeeze.  Patrick turned back to the bed and slowly approached.  

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he knelt beside her and took his mother’s hand in his own.  It was so cold, and so still.  His heart felt like someone had wrapped it in ice, and the chill made him shake.   

“Mama?” he whispered.  She responded to his voice when she hadn’t to his touch, and turned her deathly white, pain-wracked face to her son.  Her eyes, burning hot blue, sought him out.  When she saw him, her boy, her reason for staying alive, she winced and tried to turn toward him.

“Patrick,” she breathed.

“Yeah, Ma, I’m here,” he said as evenly as he could, massaging her hand, trying to infuse his life into her.  His lips trembled, but he tried hard to be calm for her.

“Patrick, listen to me,” she panted.  “We don’t have much time…”

“Mama, no…” he whimpered, stroking her icy cheek.

“Patrick,” she whispered as silent tears spilled down his cheeks.  “Patrick, love, ye must listen!”  She let her hand fall to the side of the bed where she retrieved the photograph of her and his father.  “Patrick, yer da…I told ye…I want you to be a good boy and go to yer da.”

“No, Ma,” he sobbed, his hard-won adult veneer cracking and crumbling as he desperately hung on to her hand, willing her to live.  “Please, Ma, don’t go, don’t leave me…”

“Patrick!” she choked, her fury almost superseding her pain.  “Ye broke one promise to me today, don’t be doin’ it again!”

Pat groaned, hanging his head, his eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t!  I can’t leave you!”

“Oh, laddie…. ‘tis me who’s leavin’ you,” she said gently, tears in her eyes.  “And when I’m gone, you must go to him.”  Pa raised his head and shook it violently.

“I won’t go!  I hate him!” Pat cried.  Tom Ryan seethed with fury.  Why can’t the stubborn spalpeen just agree and give Siobhan some peace?!   He nearly stepped forward, but O’Hara’s arm stayed him.  He met the old Fenian’s eyes; O’Hara shook his head.  Tom nearly groaned in his frustration.  Right now, Siobhan’s son was the only one who could ease her passing, and he wasn’t at all sure the boy was willing to do it.

“Pat, I canna bear this,” she moaned.  “Promise me!”

“Ma – ” he breathed, tears streaming.

“Promise me!  Ray will… bring you to him… Ray will find him… and ye’ll have a father.  Remember this, Pat, ’twas I who left him. I left him.  He knew … nothing o’ ye or … he’d have taken care o’ ye.  I should have sent ye to him years ago … but I couldn’t bear to watch ye go.”  The effort to speak was costing her badly, but she was desperate to wrest the promise from him.  She knew exactly how obstinate her son could be.  He was, after all, just like his father, and she remembered how stubborn and difficult to convince of things he could be.  Siobhan had to have her son’s promise. Desperately, she gripped his hands, her efforts making him stare at her tearfully.  “Patrick, I mean it.  Swear to me, lad, here on me deathbed, that you’ll go with Ray to find your father, and that you’ll be a good boy to him for my sake.  Swear it!”

“Oh, Ma – ” Pat groaned.

“Patrick!” she begged desperately, coughing.

Catching his breath, he could see it meant everything to her.  He simply could not deny her.  “Okay, Ma,” he murmured dully, wiping away his tears with a grimy hand.  “I promise.”

“Say it, Patrick!”

Hauling in a shaky breath, Pat capitulated.  “I promise I’ll go with Ray and I’ll go to my father.”  In weary defeat, he laid his forehead on her breast.  

“Pat, he’s a good man,” she repeated gently, stroking her son’s black head.  “He has an understandin’ heart an’ he’ll raise ye to be a fine man, a man I could be proud to call me son.”

“I can take care of myself, Ma – ” Pat tried to protest.

“Ah, Patrick, ye could try the patience of a saint!” she scolded, weakly.  The effort cost her, bringing on another terrible coughing fit.  Michael and Tom hurried to her side; Tom eased her head up a little and Michael held a handkerchief to her mouth.  The blood speckling the handkerchief terrified Pat, and frightened, he reared around.  

“Where’s that doctor, damn his soul!” he howled in anguish.  Michael’s eyes were filled with pity and he couldn’t stand it.  Pat looked to Ryan, who couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Patrick—” his mother wheezed.  The boy whirled back around to her and dropped beside her once more.

“Yes, Ma.”

“Patrick, you promised me… to be a good boy … and behave yerself…”

“I will, Ma, I promise,” he sobbed.

“Let go o’ yer hate, lad.  He’ll love ye…just as much as I do…” whispered Siobhan.  She reached out a weak hand to his face, lifted his chin and met her son’s blue eyes, as blue as her own.  “Give him the chance to love ye, Pat.”  Her hand dropped back to the bed in exhaustion. 

And as he watched, the essence that made Siobhan Riordan his mother faded from her eyes.  

“Ma?”  he whispered.  His hand shook as he reached to touch her face.  “Ma?”  His eyes wide and panic-filled, he touched her mouth and felt no breath.  The chest no longer rose and fell.  The eyes were empty.   

She was gone.  

“Oh, Mama…” he breathed, closing his eyes.

He was all alone.

 

Ray Connelly wearily sat at the table in the flat, his head in his hands.  Tom straightened up from arranging Patrick on the settee and came over to sit beside him.

The doctor had arrived within moments after Siobhan died, to find a nearly comatose boy, and two silently weeping men.  He could do nothing for the woman but, with the help of the beefy cop, forced a spoonful of laudanum down the boy’s throat and got him to lie down to rest.  The youngster was in shock and needed sleep desperately.

Ray Connelly had pelted in the door, his clothing in tatters and a nasty gash untreated over his eye.  After he and Siobhan had been separated in the riot he was carried along until knocked unconscious in an alleyway and left there.  Despite feeling terribly ill and shaky, all Ray could think of was Siobhan and he hunted the streets desperately to find her.  It was finally one or two of the boys who ran with Patrick who informed him of Siobhan’s being shot, and he ran off to find her, but had been too late.  The doctor had patched him up as well, then left Pat in Tom and Ray’s hands, going with Michael to see what comfort he could offer elsewhere in the neighborhood.

Now, Tom and Ray sat together, each occasionally glancing at the woman now, finally, at peace in the other room.  Ray knew he would have to make the arrangements for her funeral and sighed.  He picked up his head and looked sadly at Ryan.

“So…” said Tom, dully.  “What do we do now?” he asked, nodding his head at Pat.

“She’s made what arrangements she could, Tom,” he answered, rubbing his hands over his face, trying desperately to rub the exhaustion out his very bones.

“Arrangements?”

“Aye.  She had me draft her will the other day.”  Ray looked over at the sleeping boy, dead to the world and out of pain for the moment.  “She wants him sent to his father.”

Tom’s eyes widened and he sat back in shock. So that’s what the lass had been wrenchin’ out of Patrick at the end.  “All the way out there?” he breathed.

Ray looked sharply at him.  “You know the story, too, then?”

“I do,” nodded Tom, uncomfortably.  “Twas his father that kept her from finding happiness with me, I think.  At least I hope that’s all it was,” he said, trying for a little levity, and grimacing as it fell flat.    “My God, I’ve never known a woman to love a man the way she loved him.”

Ray nodded and rose to his feet.  He walked into Siobhan’s bedroom, and trying not to look at her, went to the bedside table.  He frowned, surprised to see the photograph lying on the table, without its frame.  He quietly opened the drawer of the table and drew out a small bundle, wrapped in a man’s handkerchief and brought it out to the kitchen table, where Tom still sat, exhausted.

“What’s that?”

“Siobhan Riordan’s earthly possessions,” sighed the other man, as he unwrapped it.

There wasn’t much.  A signet ring, with the initials AC… a tattered program from a concert of the music of Beethoven held in Boston in 1857… a dried and nearly crushed rose…. Patrick’s birth record, with his parents’ names listed…and a yellowed, much-handled letter.  Frowning, Ray opened it and drew out the sheet of stationery.  It held the bold writing of a man; the ink, though faded a bit didn’t detract from the bold lines of that handwriting.

“What is it?” asked Tom, looking over his shoulder.

“A letter…from Himself,” answered Ray, glancing at the words.  He looked up at Tom.  “She couldn’t read…I wonder if she ever got anyone to read it to her, or if she just kept it because it was his?”

Tom shook his head, and shrugged.  “What’s it say?”

Ray swallowed hard, and, drawing in a deep breath, began to read aloud…

 

March, 1857

My Darling Siobhan,

   

I so very much hope you were able to find someone to read this to you.  Since you wouldn’t let me talk to you, I made Aileen promise to get this to you, and to have someone tell you what it says.  You’re a stubborn one, Siobhan Riordan!  It’s a very good thing I love you so much..

As I sit here, trying my best to concentrate on Professor Maitland’s mathematics assignment, all I can think of is you.  I’d much rather think about the angles of you than of these blasted mathematics problems!

Siobhan, the more I wrestle with this, the more I am sure that you’re wrong…I love you, you stubborn witch!  I really don’t know what it is you fear in coming back with me to Nevada….my father will adore you and my little brothers will fight over you!  With the love you and I share, there’s nothing we can’t overcome, not really.

Out there, maybe you can finally be free of the Ireland that torments you, and instead simply recall the Ireland you love.

Please Siobhan, change your mind and say you’ll marry me?  Consent to be my wife?  When I’m finished here at college, I’ll bring you home with me, proud of having on my arm the most beautiful, the strongest and most desirable woman any man could have.

Be my wife, Siobhan.  We’ll start a dynasty all our own.

   

   Love,

      Adam

Tom buried his face in his hands.  “Oh, God, Ray,” he groaned.  “Do ye think she ever knew he wanted her?”

“She knew, lad,” his friend answered.  “She knew, but she couldn’t go.”  He glanced back at the boy.  “Tom, I’m going to need some help in the next few days.  I’ve got a telegram to send to Nevada, and arrangements for Herself to make.  Will you…could you possibly keep an eye on the lad?”

Tom sighed, running his hand through his short cropped dark hair.  “Aye, I’ve screwed meself royally anyway…probably bounced off the force by now, having’ left me post.”

Ray studied him.  “Is it that bad, then?”

“It is.”

“Getting him out west isn’t going to be easy.”  Ray looked at Tom, and raised a blond eyebrow.  Ryan looked back up at Connelly and laughed, ruefully. 

“That it isn’t.  I’m thinkin’ ye’ll be needing some help, eh?”

“Want to hire on as a babysitter?”

Both men smiled wanly, then grew pensive as they each visited the past, reliving memories of a woman they both had loved… and who had loved without question the gangling, exhausted boy on the settee.

 

~-oo0oo-~

Author’s Note:  “screwed myself” is actually not an anachronism, believe it or not.  Its usage dates back to the mid-19th century

 

CHAPTER FIVE

July 15, 1871
Virginia City, Nevada 

Frank Preston lazily flapped a limp hand at the fly buzzing around his ears and yawned.  He was too slow, of course…the fly had been gone and back three times before his hand came close to making contact.  Frank stretched, got up from his station behind the telegraph and walked to the window, rubbing his lower back.  

What a boring day! the young man thought, shaking himself awake.  The heat was enough to knock you out cold…then he giggled at the mixed metaphor.  He gazed out over Virginia City that hot afternoon, wishing something exciting would happen, anything.  ‘Course, Frank was known to wish that thought, on average, three and four times a day, whether something happened or not.  

Outside on the street that hot afternoon most activity had pretty much come to a halt.  He had a clear view of the Mercantile, and the Silver Dollar saloon, lawyer Dodson’s office…nuthin’.  No, wait…there was Cochise. 

Frank grinned as he saw his buddy’s horse tied up in front of the Silver Dollar.  Joe Cartwright and he had been friends for years, ever since Frank’s family had moved into the territory.  In their younger days they’d had marvelous adventures together (the only one with an imagination more fertile than Frank was Joe!), gotten themselves into trouble together, had tried glorious schemes together and failed, gloriously, together.  Now that they were older, they vied good-naturedly for the same women, drank together and played poker together.   Hmm…if Joe was in town in the middle of the week (on an afternoon, too!) maybe it boded well for some excitement!

Frank had to stop his reveries however when the telegraph kicked up.  Hurrying back to his station, Frank started translating the bits of tapping code even before sitting down with pencil in hand. He started making notes then, startled, actually shook his head to clear it.  Had he heard that right?!  He stared at the telegraph machine as he finished catching what he could, then sent the signal to the telegrapher at the other end to repeat the message.  Licking his lips, Frank’s eyes widened. Jumpin’ Moses, he HAD heard right!  

“Oh, lordy….” he breathed, sitting back in his chair staring into space.  Suddenly he kicked into motion, rearing up and running around the telegraph counter and out the door, only to run back and flip the “CLOSED” sign on the door, before heading for the Silver Dollar. 

 

Little Joe Cartwright leaned over the bar, gratefully sipping his ice-cold beer.  Man, but it was hot out!  He had abandoned his green jacket outside, leaving it tied to his saddle, and now swiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt.  The worst heat couldn’t loosen the curls of his brown hair; if anything, they tightened as they clung damply to his forehead.  His bright green eyes closed in bliss as he allowed the cold draft to snake its way down his throat.   

“Hot, Little Joe?” 

Joe opened those eyes and smiled at Vera, one of the saloon girls with whom he visited on a regular basis.  All the saloon girls liked Joe; who wouldn’t?   He was a handsome youngster of twenty-three, youngest son of one of the wealthiest men in the territory, rich in land, mining and lumber interests.  The Cartwright’s spread, the Ponderosa, clung to 1000 square miles of the Nevada Territory, and as many phrased it, few people knew where “the Ponderosa stopped and the rest of the world began!”   

“Vera, you could fry an egg on the rocks out there,” he sighed.  She smiled and leaned in. 

“I ain’t seen you lately, sugar.  Where you been?”

“Workin’,” smiled Joe.  “We’ve had a lot of work to do getting the north field harvested and laid in for winter.  Brother Adam and I just finished it up today.”

At the mention of his oldest brother Adam’s name, the barmaid made a face.  Joe grinned, knowing that Vera and Adam had, at one time, been involved, though Vera had hoped for something a little more substantial than Adam had planned.  The way Joe saw it, his oldest brother was a bit of a rake with women, at least those like Vera.  He was always discreet about it and usually left the young lady feeling at least as good as when he arrived, but a rake none the less.

“It’s a wonder Mr. High and Mighty allows himself to sweat,” she scoffed, sipping her whiskey.  Joe laughed.

“Now, Vera,” he warned charmingly, “you know what they say about a woman scorned.”

Vera grinned despite herself.  She often had wondered how three men as different as Little Joe, Adam and their middle brother, Hoss, had ever managed to sprout from the same family.  Blood was a strange thing.

Joe looked up in surprise as Frank Preston pelted in the door, looking around nervously.  Joe caught his friend’s eye and waved him over.

“Joe!”  Frank grabbed his arm.  “Drink it and come on!” he insisted, pulling his buddy’s arm.

“Geez, Frank!  What ails you?” demanded Joe, as he shook spilled beer off his left hand.

“Will you just come on?!” hissed Frank, dragging him out the door.

Once outside, Joe shook himself free and dug in his boot heels, making Frank stop.  He stood staring at Frank with his hands on his hips.  “What the heck is going on?”

“Over at my office!” insisted Frank, hurrying ahead of him.  Joe tossed his hands up in resignation and followed his friend to the telegrapher’s.

Once inside, Joe noticed Frank didn’t turn the “CLOSED” sign back around and stared at his friend in consternation.

“What in hell is wrong with you?!”

“It ain’t what’s wrong with me,” insisted Frank.  He glanced around the empty office to be sure of their privacy, and sighed.  “I just got a telegram in for your brother, Adam.”

“Yeah? So?” sighed Joe, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“It’s…aw, Joe…” Frank ran his fingers through his tow hair in frustration.  Joe eyed him carefully.

“Frank,” he said seriously, leaning over the counter and studying his friend.  “C’mon, what’s wrong?”

“Well, you know I ain’t supposed to show anybody else the contents of a telegram, but…”  He hesitated, then he shook his head, walking to the desk and grabbing an envelope.  As he spoke, he folded a sheet of telegraph paper and slipped the message into the envelope, sealing it.  “I can’t, Joe.   But you gotta get this to Adam, fast as you can.  The sender is waiting for a response.”  And with that he handed the envelope to Joe.

Joe stared at him, then down at the envelope, and then back up at his friend.  “Are you nuts?” he demanded.  “You can’t leave me in suspense like this, Frank!  What’s happened?!”

Stubbornly Frank turned from his friend and sank into his chair, as if exhausted.  “I can’t Joe, I wish to God I could tell ya, but I can’t.  He’s gonna have to tell ya.”

Joe walked around the counter and eyed his buddy.  He considered calling in some old debts with Frank, playing on their friendship, but he could see Frank was really upset, and trying his best to do his job.  “It’s really bad, Frank?” he asked slowly, quietly.

Frank looked up at him helplessly.  “I ain’t sure, Joe.  Some men might be thrilled, but Adam…   Aw Joe, don’t push me.  I can’t say no more!  You know it’s against the rules.”

Joe gave up, and nodded.  “All right.” He toyed with the envelope, then stuck it into his pants pocket.  “Sender wants a response, huh?”

“Right away.”

Joe thought.  He and Adam had finished up in the north field just before midday.  Adam would likely be home by now, probably soaking in a hot bath.   He’d turned down Joe’s suggestion of them coming together into town in search of a cold beer, saying he wanted to clean up and get back to a new book he’d just started.  No accounting for some people, Joe thought.

“I’ll get it out to him right now.  He should be back by nightfall with an answer.”

Joe gave one more searching look at his friend, who refused to meet his eye, then left the telegrapher’s office.

 

Hoss Cartwright slipped off his leather apron and gently patted the muzzle of the horse he’d just shod.  “Good girl,” he soothed.  The mare responded to his gentleness and nuzzled him back, making him chuckle. 

Hoss was a huge man, six feet and four inches, close to two hundred and sixty pounds, but as gentle as a lamb with four-legged creatures, and two-legged ones that were smaller and helpless.  His size had often made him feel out of place and awkward around people, but the animals he loved accepted him without question, and there was no one on the Ponderosa better at tending them.   Many underestimated Hoss, figuring he was as slow as he was big.  Hoss’ gentle, easy-going demeanor hid a good mind, but one that leaned toward other knowledge than that found in books.  He was a true man of the territory, knowing it like the back of his hand, and cherishing the simpler gifts life in Nevada had to offer.

Hoss tossed the apron behind the smithy’s forge and led the mare out to the corral.  Hearing pounding hoof beats, he turned and saw his little brother galloping in from Virginia City way.  Hoss shook his head at the speed with which Joe was tearing into the yard. 

“Little Joe, how many times’s Pa told you not to ride that pony like that?!” he demanded, angry at his baby brother’s often breakneck speed with which he raced through life.  Normally, Joe would have had one of two responses to that kind of greeting: an irritated “Lay off!” or a scapegrace grin.  Today, however, Joe ignored the comment as he sprang off Cochise and tossed Hoss her reins. 

“Where’s Adam?” he demanded.  Hoss’ eyes narrowed.  Uh oh. 

“Why?  What’re you so wound up about?” 

“Just tell me where he is, Hoss!” snapped Joe in frustration.

Hoss shook his head.  There was no point arguing with Little Joe when he was in that kind of a mood.  “In the house.”

“Is Pa home?”

“Nope.  Joe, what’s wrong?”

Joe glanced toward the big ranch house and shifted his feet.  “Adam got a telegram,” he said quietly, pulling it out of his pants pocket.  “Frank was real upset about it, wouldn’t tell me what it was, but it sure sounded like somethin’ bad.”

Hoss’ eyes widened.  He saw one of the hands crossing from the bunkhouse to the barn, and called him over.  “Hey, Lou, take care of Joe’s horse, willya?”

“Sure thing, Hoss,” the hand smiled amiably.  

As the hand walked off, Joe started toward the house.  “Hey, Joe, wait a minute.”  Hoss caught up and they stopped at the porch.  “Frank didn’t give ya no idea at all?”

“Nope, ” sighed Joe, turning the envelope over.  “Just that the sender wants an immediate reply.”  Shrugging, he entered the house with the bigger man at his heels.

Inside, the main room was quiet and empty.  The main ranch house was a huge, beautiful piece of architecture that the boys tended to take for granted.   The main room housed a large living room, with a staircase leading to the bedrooms on the second floor, a large office area and the dining room, which could seat ten in a pinch.  It was beautifully appointed with art from both the east, where Pa had come from, and from local artists, and weavings and pottery from the local Indian tribes Pa’d got on trading trips.  Half of the large back wall was made up of a huge stone fireplace, with a large hearth.  

The brothers could hear their Chinese cook, Hop Sing, singing to himself in Chinese as he prepared the evening meal.  The table was set for supper and the house was neat as a pin.  The boys hung up their hats, set their gun belts on the side table near the door and looked at each other.  

Hop Sing came around the corner into the dining room at that point, still singing softly and smiled as he saw the two youngest members of the Cartwright clan.  Hop Sing had been with the family since the arrival of Joe’s mother, Marie, long ago.  

“Hey, Hop Sing,” called Hoss.

“Dinner no leady yet!” answered Hop Sing.  Joe giggled.

“Dadburn it, Hop Sing, I ain’t askin’ about dinner!” snapped Hoss, who stopped a minute in thought.  “What’re we havin’?”

“Loast pig!”

Hoss smacked his lips, forgetting temporarily the problem at hand.  Joe rolled his eyes, and glared at his older brother.

“Hey, where’s Adam?”

“In his loom…too interested in book!,” replied the little Chinese.  “Him no eat lunch!  Velly bad!”

“Thanks, Hop Sing.”  The brothers nodded at each other and headed up the stairs.  Of the eight bedrooms upstairs, Adam’s’ room was furthest down the hall; right at the top of the stairs was Hoss’ room, then Joe’s and next Pa’s big bedroom, across the hall.   All the bedrooms were good-sized and roomy and to peek into each one was to get a glimpse of the men that inhabited them.  All the doors were open, and the boys quietly walked down the hallway to Adam’s.

Their oldest brother was sprawled on his back on his bed, sound asleep with his book splayed open on his chest.  At thirty-four, Adam was what the women in town called a “fine figure of a man.”  He was tall, more than six feet, broad-shouldered and slim-hipped with a chest like a bull.  He was the darkest of the three brothers, with very dark brown-black hair, olive skin and dark eyes, like their father.  Now, asleep, he actually looked a little younger than usual since his normally serious expression was replaced with a slack-jawed, relaxed one.  He was even snoring softly.  Joe had guessed correctly; Adam had apparently bathed off the dirt and sweat of their job that morning and was now in clean clothes.

Joe looked at Hoss and came up toward the bed slowly.  It was never wise to jostle Adam awake quickly, unless you were ready to duck.  Usually, he slept as though on a coiled spring, and both boys could remember, when they were younger, durn near getting decked when sent up to awaken him by their father. 

“Adam,” Joe said softly.  Nothing.  Sighing, Joe went a little closer. “Hey, Adam.”

His brother stirred slightly in his sleep.  Joe glanced at Hoss, who called from the door. “Hey, Adam!”

Joe ducked as two hundred pounds of brother came heaving up out of sleep, fists cocked and wild-eyed, dark hair standing on end.  Joe couldn’t help it; he started guffawing, with Hoss not far behind.

“What’s the matter!” demanded Adam, wild-eyed.  He saw his brothers laughing and relaxed a little, scowling.

“We’re sorry, Adam,” laughed Hoss, sitting on the end of the bed.  

Adam ran a hand over his face and tried to shake the cobwebs out of his brain. “What in hell’s the matter with you two?” he demanded crossly, glaring at his younger brothers.

That brought Joe back to earth with a thump and he sobered quickly.  “Frank got a telegram for you.”

Adam eyed his youngest brother.  “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Joe gingerly handed it over, as though afraid it would explode in his hand.  “He looked kinda upset, Adam…like it’s bad news.”  Adam studied him and saw his little brother was serious.  He glanced up at Hoss who was watching him as well.  He opened the envelope with his finger, removed the sheet of paper and read.

Hoss and Joe watched his face grow very pale, and his brown eyes widen.  Worriedly, Joe leaned a little closer.

“What’s wrong, Adam?”

“Yeah, what is it?” chimed in Hoss.

Adam said nothing, but reread the message again, stunned, as though he couldn’t believe it the first time through.  He glanced at his brother, intensely.  “Joe, did you read this?”

“No, of course not!” protested Joe.

Adam slowly folded the message, slipped it back in the envelope and stared into space for a moment. Uneasily, Hoss and Joe looked at each other. 

“Adam…is there some kind of trouble?” asked Hoss quietly, concerned.

Adam, jolted out of his reverie, smiled without humor.  “Oh, yeah….”  Shaking himself like a wet dog, Adam swung his long legs off the bed and reached for his boots.

“Uh, Frank said the sender wants an immediate reply,” said Joe, tentatively. 

Adam said nothing as he jammed his feet into his boots and stood.  Still silent, he brushed past his younger brothers and out the door.  Hoss and Joe looked at each other worriedly and followed him out.  Adam was striding downstairs, heading for the front door by the time they got to the top of the stairs. 

“Adam, come on, what’s wrong!” protested Hoss.  He had seen this mood in his older brother a few times before, and it worried him.  Adam never had been one to show his feelings much, but when his black brows knit together and his jaw was stubbornly set like it was now, it was never good. 

Adam had buckled his gun belt on and smacked his black hat on his head by the time his brothers got to the door.

Impulsively, Hoss shot out a hand and grasped his brother’s strong arm. “Adam, wait a minute!” he insisted.  Adam glanced up at him, his eyes filled with …. Hoss couldn’t even identify it: shock, pain, worry, loss, terror?  That look unsettled Hoss more than any words his brother could have uttered.  Without a sound, Adam wheeled around and strode out the door.

 

Ben Cartwright always loved this last approach to the house.  He breathed in the fresh, clean smell of pine in the summertime and even the intense heat couldn’t shake his good mood.  His meeting with the Cattlemen’s Association had gone well and he was hungry for his supper.  He pulled up Buck for a moment and looked over his domain.  

Ben had arrived in this valley more than twenty-five years before, with nothing more than a covered wagon and two small sons.  From those inauspicious beginnings he had built an empire.  Cattle, timber, mines…and land.   The Ponderosa was one of the largest spreads in the country, and he was proud of what he and his sons had accomplished.  It had been difficult at times, with tragedy interspersed with glory.   Three wives he’d buried, two of them out here in the West.  Adam’s mother, Elizabeth, had always supported his dream to come west, but had died, shortly after Adam’s birth in Boston, unable to join him.  On the way out he met Inger, a warm, loving and caring Swedish woman, who married him, been a loving mother to five-year-old Adam and joyfully gave him his son Erik, or “Hoss”.  But she had died in an Indian attack in Utah, not long after their son’s birth.  Ben, Adam and little Hoss had continued on alone.  A business trip to New Orleans, to speak to Marie De Marigny, the widow of his partner and foreman, to inform of his death in an accident.  He had promptly fallen in love with her, prompting his third and final marriage. It was she whom he brought home to this country; she who helped design the beautiful ranch house, with Ben’s and Adam’s input and ideas. And it was she who gave birth to the Ponderosa’s youngest heir, Joseph.  She had died, too, in a riding accident when Joe was five, leaving the boys again without a mother and Ben, for a while, without a reason for living.

But together they had survived, and Ben was intensely proud of the accomplishments of his three sons.  Tragedy had brought them closer together and bound them in an intricate pattern of family that nothing to this point had been able to put asunder, not the threat of war, not hardship, not even Adam leaving for college.  He had come home after finishing his studies, something Ben had worried he might not do.  Adam was his right-hand man; Ben couldn’t imagine life on the ranch without the blessing of his oldest son.

Ben smiled and gently kicked Buck into advancing toward the house.  Surprised, Ben saw said oldest blessing galloping off from the yard toward the lake and saw Hoss and Joe standing in the yard watching him go.  Frowning, Ben urged Buck on faster.

Hoss and Joe turned toward him as they heard hoof beats approaching, and Ben was concerned to see the worried look that passed between them. They silently stood by as he dismounted and held Buck’s reins in his hand. 

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, looking again at the rapidly disappearing form of his oldest son. “Where’s Adam going?”

“We don’t know, Pa,” said Hoss quietly.  He glanced at Joe and nodded for him to tell his father the news.

“Adam got a telegram, Pa,” said Joe, uneasily.  “It… well, it looked like bad news.  He was pretty upset.”

“But what happened?” demanded Ben, again.

“We don’t know, Pa, that’s just it,” said Hoss unhappily.  “He was as close-mouthed as a clam, wouldn’t say nothin’!”

Ben studied his sons and saw that they were just as concerned as he was, and he looked again.  Adam was no more than a speck in the distance now. 

“He’s headed for the lake, I think,” said Joe softly.

Hoss nodded.  Whenever Adam was upset or depressed, he always rode up to the beautiful area of the Ponderosa just referred to between the four of them as “the lake.”  It was the first thing Ben had seen in this big, bold country and which had made him decide to stay.  It was the first place eight-year-old Adam and two-year-old Hoss had played when they arrived.  And it was where Marie was buried.

Joe set his mouth in a stubborn line and started toward the barn.

“Joseph.”

Joe stopped and looked down angrily at the dirt at his boots, hands on his hips, not responding 

“Just where do you think you’re going?” asked Ben evenly.

Angered, Joe turned. “He’s real upset, Pa!” Joe said irritably. “I’m gonna go talk to him!”

Ben shook his head.  “You know your brother as well as I do, young man.  He won’t talk until he’s ready, and if he took off without saying a word then I think he probably needs some time to himself.”

“But, Pa – ” protested Joe.

“Joe, Pa’s right,” nodded Hoss, looking off into the distance in the direction his older brother had disappeared.  “Adam’ll tell us what’s botherin’ him when he’s ready.  Not before.  You’ll just get him mad, and he’ll say things he won’t mean.”  Hoss turned back to his little brother and squared his shoulders. “Just let him be for a while.  He’ll be back and we can talk to him then.”

Joe sighed and walked over to his father.  Ben could see the concern on Joe’s face and gave the young man’s shoulder a firm squeeze.  “Patience, Joseph,” he said with a small smile.  “Hoss is right.  You know full well you won’t get anything out of your older brother until he’s ready to give it.  So, we’re just gonna have to wait until he’s ready to let us help.”  

The three men stood for a moment watching the distance, then moved off into the house.

 

Adam’s mind was a turmoil of thoughts, feelings, fears and memories.  He couldn’t concentrate and he couldn’t sort them out.  His chest felt tight and it seemed so hard to breathe.  He pressed Sport hard at a gallop, as if wishing the wind whipping around him would blow the confusion out of his mind.  Finally, tired, he slowed his horse down to a walk and let him rest easy.  Adam rubbed his eyes with his right hand, willing himself back under control.

He reached the lake nearly without realizing it, and when he noticed his surroundings, wearily slid down from Sport’s back and loosely tethered him on a bush.  He walked slowly over to the headstone that stood on a knoll overlooking the beautiful lake that had been part of his memories, good and bad, for twenty-five years, and sank down onto his haunches.

Marie’s resting place had been the anchor for all of them over these last years.  “Oh, Marie….” he breathed, shakily.  “Boy, am I in a mess this time…”  In the eighteen years since her death, he had come here many times, having mental conversations with his stepmother, seeking her advice, or just gaining peace.  

He searched for answers and peace now but couldn’t seem to find any.  Instead of comfort, disturbing images of a beautiful young girl, with hair black as night and eyes bluer than the sky, pounded at him.  Images of her laughing… weeping… playful… in ecstasy in his bed… teasing him… ranting at him… loving him…

In an effort to stop them from playing over and over again in his mind, he closed his eyes tightly and reached out to the headstone, gripping it hard.  Suddenly, unbidden and uncontrolled, he felt those emotions boil, bubble, and shoot to the surface threatening to choke him with the violence of their bursting free.  Sitting down hard, he drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, resting his head on his forearms.  

And for the first time in almost fifteen years, he began to cry, sobbing as though his heart was breaking itself in two.

 

CHAPTER SIX

July 16, 1871

The ranch house was quiet and dark, save the small lamp at the table beside Ben’s chair.  He’d given up reading about two hours ago, and that had been an hour after he’d finally chased Hoss and Joe to bed.  Hoss had been brooding since supper, and Joe was frankly comatose as they sat waiting stubbornly for their brother to come home.  

Ben glanced at his watch.  Three in the morning.  Ben sighed and got to his feet, telling himself over and over again that Adam was a big boy; he didn’t have to wait up for him as he had when he was first spreading his independent wings and trying his father’s patience to the limit.  Ben shook his head and smiled as he remembered the few times Adam had driven him to distraction…there hadn’t been many, making them easy to recall.  But the few that existed had been pretty spectacular…

Ben picked his head up as he heard hoof beats in the yard, and then the squeal of the barn door being opened.  He got to his feet and went to the kitchen, bringing out a tray of coffee and two cups.  As he set the tray down on the table before the fireplace, Adam opened the front door, his head down, and came in, looking tired to death.

Ben sat down in his leather chair and poured himself a cup of coffee, quietly studying his son.  

Adam saw his father—he still waits up for us!—and sighed as he hung up his hat, fumbling tiredly with his gun belt.  

Ben surreptitiously sniffed the air, and breathed a little easier when he noted he couldn’t smell alcohol.  He hadn’t admitted it to the boys, but Ben had worried that whatever it was that was bothering Adam would drive him to the saloons.  Adam slowly walked into the living room and wearily dropped into the blue velvet chair opposite his father, his legs stretched out straight.  Ben sipped his coffee and bided his time.

“Want some coffee?” Ben asked quietly.  Adam silently nodded, still studying the toes of his boots.  Ben poured it and handed him the cup.  Adam’s hand shook a little as he accepted it and as he leaned closer Ben could see his eyes and nose were red, as though he’d been crying.  Ben sighed; he couldn’t stand this. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asked gently.

“Up at the lake,” the younger man answered quietly.  “I had a lot of thinking to do.”

“Adam, what is it, son?”

Adam sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes wearily.  “There’s no easy way to break this to you, Pa,” he said, very quietly.  

Ben swallowed hard and set his cup down.  

“I suppose you heard I got a telegram today.”

Ben nodded.  “Hoss and Joe were very worried.”

Adam sighed and set down his own cup.  “I…I’m sorry about that.  I was just so… stunned…”  He raised his head finally and looked at his father. Ben was dismayed by the pain and … what? what else?… he saw in those dark eyes, but didn’t allow that to show on his face as he calmly waited.  

“The telegram was from a lawyer in New York City who claimed he was the executor of the estate of a Miss Siobhan Riordan.  It seems she’s left me…a bequest,” he said with a wry, sad smile.

The name was itching at the back of Ben’s memory from long ago, but tired as he was, he couldn’t place it.

“Someone you knew?”

Adam pursed his lips.  “When I was in college, my first year.”

Suddenly the memory came to Ben.  “Siobhan Riordan…the girl you—”

“The girl I proposed to,” nodded Adam, stroking his lip.  “I wanted to marry her, Pa.  She was… amazing… incredible…. she intrigued me more than anyone I’d ever met.  When she disappeared, I spent weeks looking for her, even to the point of risking my scholarship.”  He drew in a shuddering breath, and emitted a humorless laugh.  “But, brother, she did a good job.  I never saw her, never heard from her again.”  He winced again, making Ben want to reach over and gently touch his shoulder, but the older man remained still, letting the boy get this out in his own way.

“I loved her so much, and it hurt so bad, Pa….”  Adam’s voice broke, and he covered his mouth, closing his eyes.

This was so totally alien to the serious, calm, sardonically humorous and stubborn son he was used to that Ben feared even moving slightly might break the mood.  But he was determined that both he and Adam needed to see this through. So, risking everything, Ben rose to his feet and moved to seat himself on the oak table beside Adam’s chair, and leaned forward, gently squeezing his son’s knee.

“I’m so sorry, Adam,” he said gently.  “I knew you were hurt at the time, but you stopped referring to her in your letters and I thought you must have gotten over her.  I’m so sorry I didn’t see beyond—”

Adam waved his hand, shaking his head.  He forced himself back under control.  “Pa, I was three thousand miles away…there’s no way you could have known or done anything.  Actually, after a few months, I thought I had gotten over her.  Tonight, I don’t know any more.  But, whatever her reasons, the relationship ended.  As I said, despite my efforts, I never heard from her or about her again.  Until today.”  Adam swallowed a little hard.  “The bequest will be arriving in about three weeks.”

“But…what is it, son?” asked Ben, still bewildered and shaken.

Adam drew in a deep breath and looked at his father, with apology and a hundred other emotions shining from his eyes.  I’m sorry, Pa.  “A 13-year-old named Patrick Riordan Cartwright,” he said softly.

Ben was awfully glad he was sitting down.

 

Hours later, Ben wandered through the main room of the house, lost, confused.  He’d had a hell of a shock.  

He simply couldn’t believe it at first.  It had to be some kind of a mistake.  Of all people, the last person he’d have figured on something like this happening to was Adam!  So serious, so careful, so….

Then Ben realized he was thinking of Adam now, the man.  Closing his eyes, he remembered back fifteen years to the nineteen-year-old boy that had left Nevada for a whole new adventure in Boston.  He’d been passionate, feisty…and so young.  So very young and vulnerable, just recovering from the pain of an unhappy first love.

Ben closed his eyes, shaking his head.  This was so far afield from what he’d hoped for as he’d raised Adam, watched him grow into a bright, reserved, wry youngster.  He’d wanted the boy to fall in love, marry, and present him with grandchildren, according to plan, so to speak.  But as usual, Adam had surprised him; he’d done it his way, though even he hadn’t realized it until today.  

Ben fought down a feeling of disappointment; it would serve no purpose now.  His tired mind winced as he thought of the reaction their friends and neighbors would have.  Ben sank into his desk chair, lost in thought, imagining the embarrassment and harassment Adam, and this boy, would be subjected to.  In misery, Ben covered his eyes with a shaky hand; no one wished pain on their children, even when they’d made a mistake.  “Oh, Adam….” he sighed sadly.

Blinking back wetness in his eyes, Ben sighed and brought down his hand, sadly.  And his eye caught a portrait resting on his desk.  She was nestled there, centered between Inger and Marie, as she’d been on this desk for nearly eighteen years.  Elizabeth.

“Oh, Liz,” he groaned.  “How do I help him?  What do I tell him?  He’s a grown man, Liz, but he’s as lost and confused as a child.  I haven’t seen him hurting this badly in years.  And, what’s more, how do I help our grandchild?”

He gazed at the portrait, and reached out to pick it up, fingering the frame.  “What would you tell him, my love?” he asked softly.

Her placid, beautiful face shone back at him, and her beautiful eyes smiled at him.  Closing his eyes, he could hear her, all those years ago…

 

“Oh, Ben!  I can’t wait to hold our son!”

“How do you know it will be a boy?” he’d smiled.

“A man like you?  It would have to be a boy…”

 

“Promise me, Ben, that when he’s naughty you won’t be too hard on him?”

“Good Lord, Liz, he isn’t even born yet!” he’d laughed. “What makes you think he’s going to be difficult?”

“I don’t know, Ben…I believe he’s going to be a different sort of child…I think he’ll be very sensitive and be hurt so easily.  I have a feeling he’s going to need your love and patience and understanding very, very much.”

“Our love, sweetheart.”

“Yes…of course…”

 

Ben sighed.  She’d been right; Adam had always needed extra understanding and had occasionally tried his father’s patience to the limit.  He was a loner; he didn’t talk about his feelings much, all through his life.  Ben had always prayed he’d fall in love with someone who’d understand him and be able to give him enough support and caring to feel like he could share all those deep feelings he harbored in his sensitive heart.

From their discussion tonight, it appeared he had.  This young woman, this Irish girl Siobhan – the mother of his grandchild! –  had done just that.  She had loved Adam.  Despite all of the pain, despite her disappearance, everything Adam had described to him about their short but passionate time together seemed to show a girl in love with the bright, funny and intense boy Adam had been.

Ben sat back again in his chair, still holding the portrait.  He glanced down at Liz’s smiling face again and traced the outline of her face with a callused, work-worn  finger.  “All right, my love.  I won’t be too hard on him. I promise.”

 

Hoss stretched and yawned as he left his room the next morning.  Joe was trudging down the hallway, trying to rub the sleep out of his own eyes.  They met side by side in the hallway, and both stopped outside Adam’s door.  They looked at each other and leaned a little toward the door to listen.  Nothing.  Joe looked at Hoss, who shrugged.  Tentatively, Joe knocked on the door.  Still nothing.  Joe quietly opened the door, and they saw that the bed was rumpled, left just as it had been yesterday.  Hoss sighed.

“He ain’t been home,” he said sadly.

Joe nodded and they continued on downstairs.  Ben was seated at the table, sipping a cup of coffee and staring into space.

“Adam ain’t been home, has he, Pa?” asked Hoss morosely.

Ben slowly looked up and his younger sons were alarmed.  He looked terrible.  

“Boys, I want you to sit down,” said Ben seriously.  “I have something to tell you.”

“Is Adam all right?” asked Joe worriedly as he sat down.

“Adam’s fine.  Well, as fine as…never mind,” Ben frowned, waving his hand.  “He’s on his way into town to respond to that telegram.”

“But – ” began Joe.

“Joseph, please, it’s been a long night.  I just waited until you both woke so I could speak to you before I went to bed myself.  Now, please, be quiet and let me talk.”  He leaned toward the kitchen.  “Hop Sing!”

The major domo poked his head around the corner.  ‘Yes, Boss?”

“Come in here and sit down.  I have something important to tell all of you.”

Hoss and Joe were really worried now.  Hop Sing knew that Ben had been up all night and didn’t offer the expected argument but seated himself uncomfortably in Adam’s chair.

“As you know, Adam received a telegram yesterday,” said Ben, toying with his spoon.  “He’s gone into town this morning to reply, as I mentioned, and asked me if I’d share with you the contents.  To quote your brother’s words, there’s no easy way to break this to you, so I’ll just speak plain.  When your brother was a freshman in college, you might remember him mentioning a young lady named Siobhan Riordan.”

Joe’s face was blank, but Hoss’ eyes widened.  “Lordy, I ain’t heard that name in… must be fourteen years!”

“Who is she?” wondered Joe, looking between his father and brother.

“C’mon, Joe, don’t you remember all those letters he wrote from college telling us about that beautiful Irish girl he fell in love with?  The one he wanted to marry?” reminded Hoss.  “He was sure hurt when she took off on him.  This have something to do with her, Pa?”

Ben nodded.  “She died a few days back.”

“Oh, lordy…” sighed Hoss.  “No wonder he was upset.”

“Well, that isn’t all,” sighed Ben.  He drew in a deep breath and looked at his younger sons, and then at Hop Sing.  “We’re going to have to get the best spare bedroom set up.  We’re going to be having a … a….”

“A guest, Boss?”

“No, Hop Sing, not a guest,” said Ben definitely, getting to his feet and staring out the window.  Hoss and Joe looked at each other, confused.  Ben ran a hand through his hair and turned back.  Steeling himself, he drew in a deep breath and took the plunge.   “Hoss, Joseph…your nephew, Patrick, will be joining us in about three weeks.”

Hoss’ mouth dropped open and Joe simply stared.  Hop Sing’s eyes widened, then a huge grin split his face.   The family would continue!  Hop Sing had begun to worry about Adam and Hoss ever marrying and having sons.  He assumed that eventually Joe would settle down, but he was reluctant to leave the responsibility of continuing the dynasty to just one of the three Cartwright boys.  “Numbah one son have numbah one son, Boss?”

“Yes, Hop Sing,” smiled Ben wanly.  “It appears to be so.”

Both Joe and Hoss smiled in wonder.  “But…how…” Hoss sputtered.

“Well, Hoss, if you don’t know – ” chortled Joe.

“That’s enough, Joseph!” snapped Ben. “There’s no need to be vulgar. Your brother is upset enough about this.”  Joe had the grace to look abashed and sat back, shutting up.

“Now, wait a minute.  Pa…You mean, there’s been a …well, I mean….uh….well, dadburn it, Adam’s been a father all these years and didn’t even know about it?!” asked Hoss, confused and stricken.

“Apparently,” sighed Ben, leaning back in his chair.  “He was pretty shaken by the whole thing.  Frankly, I didn’t realize… well, I’m ashamed to say I didn’t realize how badly hurt he’d been when she ran off on him all those years ago.  I knew he cared about her, but young as he was he apparently cared very, very deeply.  He told me last night that losing her and then his efforts to track her … well, he’d practically risked his scholarship trying to find her.”  Ben frowned, realizing now how much of an effect losing Siobhan had had on Adam, likely part of his having remained single for so long.  

Joe looked thoughtfully at his father.  “Boy…Adam, a father.  This is a little hard to take in,” said Joe, ruefully.

Ben frowned and nodded.  “I know what you mean.  It’ll be hard to imagine in town, too,” he said seriously, eyeing his sons.

The reality and complexity of situation hit Adam’s younger brothers and they glanced at each other uncomfortably.

“I didn’t think about that, Pa,” said Hoss, worriedly.  “You think the folks in town’ll give Adam a hard time?”

“Some will,” admitted Ben, frowning.  “I also think they’ll give the boy a hard time.  We’re going to have to be ready for this, as a family, united and ready to defend both your brother and your nephew.”   

Hop Sing said nothing but fully understood the concern.

“Well, what if people ask?  What do we tell ’em?” asked Hoss with discomfort.  

Ben drew in a deep breath and raised his eyebrows. 

“The truth, Hoss,” answered Ben, with a sad smile.  “That Patrick is Adam’s son…a son he never knew he had.  Some will believe it; some won’t.  Some will choose to use this as a way to take your brother to task, or ‘down a peg or two.’ ”  

The big man frowned at that; he knew well enough that Adam’s aloof, stubborn demeanor had caused him some friction in town, and that many viewed him as the “High and Mighty Cartwright;” Hoss’ sensitive heart ached to think about the nastiness that his brother would likely have to face from certain stupid, ignorant and cruel people.  He set his own jaw in a stubborn line and was determined that he was going to greet his nephew with every semblance of delight and help him in any way he could.  As he imagined his taciturn older brother trying to deal with a child, his face formed a silly, happy grin.  Maybe having a child around would be good for Adam, let him be young again, too.

Joe was lost in his own thoughts and idly drew an invisible circle on the table with his finger.  Trying to imagine what his own reaction to news like this would be was beyond his comprehension. “Pa… How does Adam feel about all this?” he asked, quietly, a troubled look on his face.

Ben sighed and shook his head.  He spread his hands in bemusement as he said, “Shaken…worried…a bit scared, I think.  It’s too new a concept for him to take in yet.  He was embarrassed and upset to talk about it with me.”

“Upset!” crowed Hoss. “But, Pa, this is gonna be great!  Ain’t been a young’un in this house in way too long!”

Ben sighed. “Hoss, this isn’t going to be that easy.  It isn’t as though this boy is a new baby, without any previous life.  He’s thirteen, after all.”

“Thirteen!” Hoss stared, surprised.

Joe made a face.  “Think about it, Hoss,” he said dryly.  Ben glared at him. 

Hoss sheepishly reddened…of course, the boy would have to be about that age.

“The point is, we’ve got some changes to make around here, and your brother is going to need your support…not your stupid jokes.”

“Yes, sir,” Joe nodded, blushing.

Hoss still had a silly grin on his face. “Adam, a father…. Lordy!”

 

Adam finished writing his message and pushed it across the desk.  Uncomfortably, Frank took the message and started over to the telegraph.  “How much do I owe you, Frank?” he asked softly.

“Uh…four bits, Adam,” answered Frank, still unable to look at him.   He heard the coins hit the counter, and the door shut.  Letting his breath out, Frank turned around toward the window to watch him go…and blushed furiously when he saw Adam standing at the door with a sardonic grin on his face.

“Now, Frank,” he said gently.  “Here you were the first to know, and I haven’t even had a new father’s congratulations from you yet.”

Frank swallowed, stared at Adam’s sad but warm smile, and returned it, giggling nervously as he shook his head.  Leaning against the counter he relaxed, feeling a lot better than he had all day. He’d always thought a lot of Joe’s oldest brother.  The man had pulled their bacon out of a lot of fires in their younger days.  Sometimes, he hadn’t even told their pas about some of the stupid scrapes they’d gotten into, for which Frank had been both surprised and grateful.  Frank studied Adam now, noting the dark circles under his eyes; the man looked totally exhausted.   “You okay about all this, Adam?” he asked seriously, his compassion plain.

Adam drew in a deep breath, and then blew it out, shrugging.  “I’ll let you know when he gets here… but for the moment, yeah, I guess I am,” he smiled.  “Thanks for letting Joe know how important that telegram was.”

“I’m sorry about your…your…” Frank started, and stopped, uneasily.   Adam just dropped his eyes and nodded. 

“Thanks, Frank.  I’ll be in town for a while, just let me know if there’s a response, all right?”

“Sure, thing, Adam.”

Adam nodded, put on his hat, and walked out into the sunshine.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

August, 1871

Ben sipped his after-supper coffee, studying his three sons.  Hoss and Joe were playing checkers; it appeared Hoss was getting the better of Joe for a change and enjoying every minute of it, while Joe was frustrated and trying to find a way to wiggle out of the situation.  Ben looked over at Adam and sighed.  He was, as usual these days, staring into the fire.

After that wild night two weeks ago, Adam had been a lot quieter, more introspective and preoccupied.  He’d gotten all the wheels into motion for his son’s arrival; supervised setting up the boy’s room and set up a savings account for him at the bank.  And had shut up like a clam.  Ben was beginning to truly be concerned.  

Hoss and Joe had found it difficult to talk to him, since his usual reply was a snap or a disinterested sigh.  He hadn’t opened up to any of Ben’s offers to talk, either.  Ben knew he was going to have to sit him down and have a serious talk with him, or there’d be real trouble once young Patrick arrived.

Ben had been surprised to find himself more than a little tickled about having a grandson, once the initial shock of the situation wore off.  To say the least, he’d been disturbed and upset the first night, mostly worrying about Adam and how he was reacting to the whole thing, as well as concerned about reactions of their friends and neighbors.  It had been hard to accept that instead of becoming a grandfather in the usual way, Ben was presented with an illegitimate grandson.  But as the days went by, Ben found himself trying to imagine what his young grandson might look like. He wondered what kinds of the things the boy liked to do.  Coming from the big city, the Ponderosa was going to be a huge adjustment for him.  Ben was now thrilled to be thinking about being a grandfather.

Ben noticed Hoss and Joe glancing back at Adam, uneasily, while looking at each other helplessly. Ben set his lips in a firm expression.  This had gone on long enough.  It was time to take a firm line with his often-difficult oldest son.

“Adam,” he said, leaning over to refill his coffee, “I think I can speak for your brothers in this instance.”   This opening gambit brought a start of surprise from Hoss and Little Joe.  Adam merely turned his head away from the fire and toward his father.

“What instance?”

“I think it’s time you opened up a little and gave us an idea how you feel about all this.  After all, a thirteen-year-old boy is going to be arriving on this ranch in a week or two, ostensibly to become a part of this family.  The rest of us would like to have some idea on how you feel.  We none of us have felt as though we were even permitted to talk about him.”

Adam reddened a little and glanced at his younger brothers, who were shifting a little uncomfortably in their seats.  Pa was exactly right, but they’d been trying to spare Adam’s feelings.  Ben had no recourse; if Adam didn’t get his head on straight and figure out how to communicate about this issue, and soon, how on earth would he ever be able to cope with the frustrations and responsibilities of fatherhood?  

Adam leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.  “I guess I have been keeping to myself.”

“I’ll say,” grinned Joe, trying to lighten the mood.  

“It’s all just so confusing!” Adam stated irritably, getting to his feet and walking to the fire.  “I mean, it isn’t as though I’ve just been presented with a small child to raise. There’s a kid less than five years away from adulthood who’s going to be part of my life!  It’s… well, it’s disconcerting, to say the least.” His brothers and father noted more than a little bit of disconcertion in that deep voice…

“But what’s botherin’ you, big brother?” asked Hoss, innocently.  “He’s just a kid, that’s all.”

“Hoss, how many thirteen-year-olds do you know?” demanded Adam.  

Hoss squirmed a little.  

“I don’t know anything about him, what he likes, what he doesn’t like, how he’s been raised, other than to know it was in Hell’s Kitchen, which isn’t exactly the garden spot of New York, believe me!”  Adam began to pace in his frustration.  “I’ve seen that part of town, and it’s a rotten, filthy, nasty den of poverty and corruption.  What on earth will he be like, after being dragged up in a place like that?  There’s no telling what kind of mischief he can get into here!  And can you imagine what he must be feeling?”

Adam turned to his two brothers and his father, his pent-up emotions churning and bubbling.  “This boy’s mother has just died, in a terrible way.  You saw that last telegram from Connelly, the lawyer, all about how Siobhan…” Adam’s voice caught in his throat, and he closed his eyes for a moment, getting himself under control.  “…How his mother died.  The kid was in the middle of that godawful riot in New York and literally held his mother in his arms as she died as the result of gunshot wounds!  I don’t even want to think about what’s going through his mind!  I don’t even know what kind of a kid he is!  What’s he done in these last thirteen years?  What has he had to do to survive in that place?  Hell, he could be …. anything!  And here he is, being dragged out here, doesn’t know me from…”

“From Adam?”  Joe couldn’t help it, he giggled, earning him a glare from his father and frustrated sigh from his eldest brother.

“I mean, I can’t imagine Siobhan would have spoken badly of me…she wasn’t that kind of woman, but even so, I can imagine the resentment and frustration he must have felt being raised without a father.  And Siobhan never married, so his…status… must have been pretty clear to everybody he knew.”  Adam sank back into his chair.

“Yeah, but, Adam, that ain’t the boy’s fault,” offered Hoss tentatively.

“Of course it isn’t, Hoss, but when has that ever stopped people from saying things that are cruel and hurtful?” demanded Adam.  “I’m already starting to hear some buzzing in town about Adam Cartwright’s bastard son!” 

Joe and Hoss shifted their feet uncomfortably; they too had been hearing the rumblings.

Ben nodded, glad that his son was seeing some of the difficulties that lay ahead. But he was more than a little disturbed that he couldn’t see any of the potential joys coming.

“Adam, I grant you, things will likely be a little hard to get used to, for all of us,” he said gently.  Adam snorted and leaned back.  “At least he’ll have a strong family here to support him and help him.”

“If he’ll accept it, Pa,” said Adam apprehensively.  “Think about it,” he said to his two brothers.  “If you’d been thrown into this situation, out of your control and with no say in the matter, dragged away from everything you’d ever known and thrust into a strange environment, how quickly would you respond to the authority of a man you didn’t know?”

“Why are you starting right off with whether or not you’ll be able to control him?” demanded Joe, getting irritated.  “I mean, the kid ain’t even here yet and you’re already figuring out how to make him take orders!”

“Look, Joe,” started his brother angrily, eyebrows knitting together in a scowl, trying to keep his temper.

“Well, I guess the kid does have something to worry about!” Joe snapped back, hands on his hips.  Adam rose, a hot retort on his lips.

“Boys, that’s enough,” said Ben, before war broke out.  Adam and Joe glared at each other and then turned away.

Hoss squirmed uncomfortably.  He felt very concerned; was he the only one looking forward to Patrick’s arrival?  “Adam, you’re just gonna have to give him a lot of love and some time, that’s all.  He’s got a lot to get used to.”

“We all do,” retorted his older brother, over his shoulder.

Hoss scowled. “Adam, you been meaner’n a coiled snake these last few weeks, ever since you found out about him, and Joe’s right.  If you ain’t gonna change your attitude a little we’re bound to have some major problems comin’!”  Hoss rose to his feet and walked to his brother.  “Ain’t you excited at all?  You’ve got a son, boy!  Your own flesh and blood, from a woman you told me you loved more than anything or anybody in the world!”  Hoss’ gentle blue eyes held his older brother’s troubled brown ones. “There was somethin’ special between you and Siobhan, and that somethin’ produced a son, a young’un to live on as proof that you two loved each other.  I don’t know about you, but I’m more tickled’n a hog in springtime and I can’t wait to meet him!”

Adam, confused and bewildered, sank down into his chair again.  “I…I am excited, Hoss, but I’m scared, too.  This is an awful responsibility.  I just…I just don’t know if I’m going to be any good as a father,” he finished softly, worried, finally voicing the fear Ben had suspected was there all along.  Ben had figured his serious, hard-headed son was worried about being a good parent to this troubled child and had figured that this worry would be shoving aside all his potential gladness at being a father.  Ben rose and came around behind his oldest son, placing his hands on his son’s shoulders and massaging them gently. 

“Son, you’ll learn the way all fathers do…one day at a time” he reassured him.

“Yeah, but he’s got quite a few days’ head start on me,” replied Adam, ruefully.

“I’ll grant you, fatherhood can be frustrating at times,” Ben smiled at his three sons, “but there are so many wonderful aspects of being a father, things balance out.”

“But, Pa,” protested Adam, “I’ve got to learn how to do this right and learn it awfully fast!”

“Aw, come on, Adam,” protested Joe, perching on the side of the settee, “you helped to raise Hoss and me.  And we turned out okay!” he said with a cocky grin.

“Helped to raise you, that’s just it,” reminded Adam running his fingers through his black hair in frustration.  “Pa was always there, it was never just me.”  He got to his feet and walked slowly to the fireplace, hands jammed in his pockets.  “Patrick is my son…and that makes me responsible for him, me!”  

“That’s true,” said Ben gently.  “But you’re not completely alone, any more than I was.  You were a tremendous help to me with your brothers.  Patrick will have his uncles, and his grandfather, and he’ll have Hop Sing.  You’re not alone, son.”

Adam tried to smile, tried to accept it, but his worries were awfully strong.  He’d been a big brother for a long time…a father, never. 

Hop Sing had been silently gathering cups and observing his family as they worked their way through this problem.  He decided that Mister Adam needed to be reassured and reminded of his value to the family.  Slowly, he walked into the main room and stood before Numbah One Son, very serious.  Surprised, Adam looked up at him; the others did so as well.

“Mistah Adam, I remembah time when was just you be fatha to Little Joe…be fatha to Missa Hoss.  Dat time, Mistah Adam run ranch, too, and run timber camp, be Bull o’ Woods.  He make hands obey like big boss, all by self.  Missa Ben, no can be big boss, then, no can be fatha…too full of grief… when Missy Cahtlight die, only Mistah Adam keep family togetha,” said Hop Sing with great tenderness, his sincerity reaching the worried man.  Hop Sing looked at him fondly.  “Family make it then because of seventeen-yeah-old boy name Adam Cahtlight.  Family, with new numbah one son, make it again for same reason, only that boy now man.”

Hoss sniffled and grinned with damp eyes.  “Who was it taught me how to swim in that there lake?” reminded Hoss gently, leaning over and tapping his older brother on the knee.  “And how to skip stones?  Who helped me with my homework when I was fit to chuck my books into the nearest duck pond?  Who taught me ‘most everthin’ I know about camping and huntin’?”  He smiled.  “I seem to remember you were the one who taught me how to use a gun the first time too, Adam.”

Joe was more somber, remembering that awful time when his mother had died.  Hop Sing was right.  What Joe remembered from that time was Adam reading him stories at night, Adam tucking him into bed.  Adam making sure he ate his supper and washed behind his ears.  Adam scolding him when he was naughty and cuddling him and protecting him when he was frightened or forlorn. And comforting him when he wept for his mother.  It reminded Joe of just how much he owed his oldest brother.  “You’re not gonna be alone in this, big brother,” Joe chimed in softly.  “You and Patrick will always have us here to help you.” 

Ben’s heart swelled with pride and love as he watched his younger sons bolster and strengthen their worried older brother, and felt that with this kind of family, no matter what, they’d make it.  He’d been upset and worried; frankly, being presented with a grandson without any hope of a wedding hadn’t thrilled him at first.  But families were all about getting through the good times and the bad times together.  That’s just what this family would do, too.  

Adam had trouble keeping his lips from trembling and he looked away, blinking hard to keep the tears welling in his eyes from spilling.  He sank back into the blue velvet chair with a sigh, and smiling, Ben squeezed his shoulder.

“Okay, knock it off, all of you,” Adam said gruffly, with a small smile.  “You’re gonna have me bawling in a minute.”  He gave Hop Sing a special smile of gratitude.  With a quiet smile of his own, the Chinese man nodded, bowed in respect to Adam and returned to the kitchen with the dirty cups and saucers. 

Joe, ever irrepressible, was the one to break the mood by coming over and perching on the table across from his oldest brother with a big grin, making Adam look at him.  “Look, older brother, why don’t you try to stop worrying so much and just relax!”

“Yeah, let’s just enjoy him!” grinned Hoss.  “We’ll get through the rough times like we always do, as a family.”

Adam looked up at his brothers and father with a wry smile.  “Well, I suppose it’s true that even if I do screw up with him, he’ll have you three to turn to…and Hop Sing.”

“Well, that is something we need to talk about,” said Ben seriously, looking at his younger sons.  “Adam is Patrick’s father, not you two.  And when Adam makes a decision on how to raise the boy, we’re all going to have to back off and let them handle it.”

“But, Pa, young Patrick’s gonna need to have two uncles around to protect him against his mean, miserable father, to be a …. a neutral nation,” grinned Joe.  Adam groaned and cover his face with a hand.

“Let’s just hope he ain’t as stubborn as his pa!” grinned Hoss. 

 

August, 1871

Rail line between Buffalo, NY and Chicago, IL

 

Tom Ryan sank into the train seat beside Ray, who was trying to do some paperwork as the train jounced along.

“Is he settled for the night?”

“Aye,” sighed Tom.  “I’m worried about him, Ray. He ain’t said a word all day.”

“Nor yesterday, nor the day before that,” nodded Ray, setting his work aside. 

Tom rubbed his hands over his eyes.  “He ain’t said nothin’ since the funeral.  He eats when I put grub in front of him, he sleeps when I tell him to go to bed, but he won’t talk to me.  It ain’t like him, Ray.  I thought he’d be a bit brighter by now.”

Connelly nodded.  “I know.  I really think he’s still kind of in a state of shock,” Ray mused, and got to his feet.  “Is he asleep yet, do you think?”

“I doubt it, he just got wound down.”

“I’m going to go talk to him.”

“Good luck to ye, lad.  I’ll give ye an hour.  Then I’ll come back and pick up the pieces,” said Tom dryly.

 

Ray had commissioned a full railroad car for the three of them, complete with a sitting area and sleeping compartments.  He walked back to Pat’s area and peeped in the curtains.

Patrick was staring at the ceiling of the compartment, not moving, pale.    It was a lower berth, and Ray gingerly sat on the edge of the bunk.

“Pat, I’d like to talk with ye,” he said gently.

There was no response.  The boy continued to stare up at the ceiling, not moving a muscle.

“Pat, lad,” he said gently, “ye canna go on like this.  Ye’ll be making yerself ill.”

Patrick’s eyes blinked once, but he didn’t move or make a sound.  Ray sighed.  “Siobhan would not be pleased wi’ye, lad.”

At the sound of his mother’s name, Pat winced as though he’d been slapped.  Ray bit his lip, not wanting to hurt the boy, but figuring he’d have to take some drastic measures to get through to him.  “The last thing in the world she wanted was for ye to carry on so.  Tell me now, lad, what would she be sayin’ if she knew you were behavin’ like this?”

Pat stubbornly refused to answer, refused to move.

“All right, lad, I’ll tell ye,” he said inexorably.  “She’d say you were a stubborn spalpeen, who needed a taste o’ the stick to wake ye up.  She’d be rantin’ and ravin’ and sayin’ you were an inconsiderate whelp puttin’ Tom and meself through so much worry.  She’d say she was ashamed o’ ye, and wonder how ye could be sullyin’ the good name o’ the Riordans with your carryin’ on.”  Ray felt awful, but he saw a glimmer of life coming to the boy at last and risked continuing.  “She’d say it was a good thing your grandda Riordan never met ye, it’s that disappointed he’d be.”

The boy’s face became awfully pale.  His voice dry and raspy from lack of use, Pat continued to stare at the ceiling, but whispered, “Lemme alone.”

Ray pressed on. “She’d say ”twas a good thing she was dead so she wouldn’t have to be seein’ it.”  This brought another flinch of pain, and Pat’s face worked, his lips trembling.

Ray gently put a hand on the boy’s shoulder.  “And she’d say she loved ye too much to watch you kill yerself this way,” the man said softly.

Tears welled in the boy’s eyes, and slid down his cheek.  

“Ray, please…just let me be,” he whispered, the salt tears sliding into his mouth, around his snubbed nose, dampening the pillow beneath him.

“I can’t, lad,” he said fiercely.  “Your mother, she saw the sun rise and moon set in you, and I can’t watch you destroy yourself.  She’s gone, Pat.  She’s dead an’ buried but the spirit that made her Siobhan, it’s not.”  Pat was crying now, small shuddering sobs erupting in his chest.  Ray gathered the boy’s hands and squeezed.  “Don’t ye ever think she’s gone entirely from ye, lad.”  He placed Pat’s cold hands on his chest and pressed. “She’s there, boy,” he said gently.  “She’s there in yer heart, where she always was, and where she’ll always be.”

The dam broke then, and the tears that Pat had kept locked inside for weeks finally burst through.  With a soft wail of insurmountable pain, Pat sobbed his heart out, and Ray gathered him in his arms, rocking him gently.

“It hurts, Ray,” he moaned, his face buried in his friend’s vest.  “It hurts so bad, I can’t stand it!”

“I know, lad,” Ray crooned, stroking the boy’s black hair.  “Ye can’t keep that much pain bottled up inside, it’ll kill ye, son.  Let it go.”

“I just… I just wanna go home,” the boy sobbed.

Ray held him closely and let him cry.  It took a long time for the storm to pass, but there is a limit to just how much a human being can weep.  When Ray felt the tears were slowing down, and Pat was starting to calm a little, he gently patted the boy’s shoulder, and hugged him again.  “Ah, Paddy…  yer ma, she’ll always be with ye, no matter where ye are, no matter how old ye get. Don’t ye be worryin’ about that, lad,” he said softly. “An’ as fer home…well, ye’re goin’ home.”

Pat shook his head, the awful wracking sobs reduced to shuddering after-sobs. “Ray, that ain’t home…that’s the middle of nowhere!  Home is Hester Street, an’ the ‘Broth’, and my pals, an’ … an’ …..” he shook his head, miserably.

“Pat, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, an’ chances are ye’d be goin’ anywhere yer feet wanted ye to be headin’ as ye grew older,” said Ray gently.  “Your mother worked like a navvy to raise you right, and I know she did a fine job.  Now, ye’ve got a chance t’meet the man yer ma loved, yer own flesh and blood, and have an adventure out in the wild west!”

Pat’s doubtful look told him his efforts to appeal to a sense of adventure were either too soon after the loss of his mother or were entirely misplaced for a boy having his whole life ripped apart.  The man sighed, and leaned against the sleeping compartment wall, patting the boy’s shoulder. “Don’t be fearin’ the man, Pat.  He loved yer ma, and she him.  D’ye think she’d send ye, the person she loved most in all the earth, to a man who’d treat ye ill?  You’re a son any man would be proud to call his own.  God knows I tried to,” he said gently.

“Why can’t I just go back home with you?” the boy begged.

“Because ye can’t, lad.  You do have a father, and now that he knows you exist, he’s waiting anxiously to meet ye.  I’ve read ye his telegrams; there was nothin’ but, ‘when will me son be here?’  He’s looking forward to it!  And besides your own father, you’ve got a grandfather and two uncles to care about ye.  Siobhan told me many times about how yer father would talk about his family.  It sounds like they’re a very close and carin’ lot.”

Pat swallowed hard, pulling back and wiping his tears away with the sleeve of his nightshirt.  He looked down, and drew in a deep breath. “I’m scared, Ray,” he said softly.  “I ain’t never been scared o’nothin’ worse’n I’m scared o’this.  Hell, I been in knife fights that ain’t scared me this bad.”  He looked up at the kind man sitting beside him, and Ray smiled down at the young face.  He was a handsome kid, there was no doubt about it, even with his eyes and nose red and his face blotchy from crying.  “How could she do this t’me, Ray?  I don’t know nothin’ about the place I’m goin’.  I ain’t never sat on a horse in my whole damn life.  I ain’t never been rich nor had no schoolin’…aw, Ray, I ain’t never gonna fit in there. I wanna go home!”  Miserably, he hung his head.

“Jaysus, give yourself a bit o’ time, lad.  Yer father’ll be teachin’ ye all ye need to know…that’s what bein’ a da is all about, is it not? Teachin’ yer sons the lessons they need to get on in life.”

“I don’t need no stinkin’ Orangeman to teach me nothin’!” flared Pat, more like his old self than Ray had seen in weeks.  While he was grateful to see some spirit in him again, his words worried the lawyer.

“Now, Patrick, simmer down,” he warned.  “You don’t even know the man, don’t be paintin’ him with an Orange brush.”

“He’s an Orangeman, ain’t he?  Let’s call a spade a spade!” retorted the boy, obstinately crossing his arms over his chest, head down in anger.

“He was the man yer mother loved more than her life, and he’s the man that made it possible for you to draw yer breath!” declared Ray, nose to nose with this stubborn wee amadán.  “An’ I’ll be remindin’ ye, you promised yer mother ye’d obey her and go to him.  And go to him ye shall, hog-tied and gagged if necessary!”

Stubbornly, Pat shut his mouth and sulked.  Frustrated, Ray didn’t know which way he’d rather have him, damn near comatose with grief or spitting mad.  Closing his eyes, he sighed.  Siobhan, he thought, however did I let you talk me into this?!

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

August 19, 1871

Adam paced in front of the stage office, trying desperately to contain his apprehension.  Back near the buckboard, Ben, Hoss and Joe did their own fidgeting and nervous waiting.  

Patrick Riordan Cartwright, thirteen years old, late of Hell’s Kitchen, New York City was due to arrive on the two o’clock stage, and it was now 2:10 p.m.  Word had flown through town that the boy was arriving and it seemed that half of Virginia City suddenly had some kind of business in the general vicinity of the stage office that afternoon.  

Never had Ben seen a crowd this size surround the office, not since they had waved off Sam Clemens…er, “Mark Twain”… after his, years ago, stint of journalistic endeavors in the town.  Ben glanced around, trying to keep his temper, but making it very clear that he resented the ogling being done by people that had been his neighbors for years.  In order to distract himself, he looked over at Hoss and Little Joe standing by the buckboard with their horses, eyeing the crowd in a similar state of mind.  He could see that Joe was a simmering powder keg, ready to fly at the first person who opened his mouth.  Hoss glanced at his father, glanced at Joe, and sent him a silent signal, reassuring him that he’d keep an eye on his younger brother.  Ben sighed, nodded, and turned his attention back to the expectant father. 

Despite their talk last week, Adam had been increasingly introspective, and now was clearly a mass of nerves.  Ben had never known him to pace like this; it made him chuckle, remembering his own pacing while waiting for the arrival of his own sons…in a slightly different fashion than via stage coach!  He wondered what was going through his son’s mind as he waited.

He couldn’t possibly have imagined; Adam was remembering a disagreeable chat he’d overheard in the saloon two days earlier.  Adam had come into town to check the mail, determined to stand tall in the face of any rumors flying around.  While sipping a beer, a sotto voce discussion behind him easily drifted toward him…

“That’s right, girls,” he overheard Vera say in a decidedly nasty tone of voice, loud enough for him to hear, “there’s going to be a bouncing baby boy arriving in Virginia City on Wednesday.  Mr. Genius, Adam Cartwright, has figured out how to have a child without the benefit of a wife!”

The tittering behind him made him sigh, but he forced himself to continue sipping his beer.  Charlie, behind the bar, uncomfortably came around the side of the bar and stalked over to the table of saloon girls.

“Vera, that’s enough.  Either you straighten up or find another place to work!” he hissed. 

“Why, Charlie, what do you mean?” she asked with exaggerated innocence.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he warned.  “Now if you ain’t got enough work to do, maybe I need one less girl workin’ here!”

Vera flounced off her chair and sauntered over to a table of drinkers who’d been grinning and watching the show.  She whispered something to one of the men, causing the table to erupt in laughter as she walked on by and up the stairs to the second floor of the saloon.  The other girls dispersed also talking quietly among themselves and giggling.

Exasperated, Charlie shook his head and slowly walked back to the bar, carefully trying to judge Adam’s reaction.

“Adam, I’m real sorry about this,” he apologized gruffly.  “I don’t -“

“Charlie,” said Adam, holding up a hand as he straightened up, “don’t worry about it.”

“It ain’t right, Adam.  It’ll stop soon, I swear to ya,” said Charlie earnestly.  “Lemme get you another beer, on the house.”

Adam shook his head and tossed a coin on the bar.  “Thanks, but no thanks, Charlie. I gotta get going.  I’ll see ya.”  

He walked out, careful to carry himself tall, his temper simmering as he passed the table of gawkers who stared at him as he walked by, then started laughing after he passed.  He felt rage building up and he stopped, just two feet away from the nearest seated heckler.  The table abruptly stopped laughing, knowing just how hot-headed Adam Cartwright could be when riled.  But somehow, Adam had managed to keep his temper and after slowly turning and casting a very cold eye on the table of men he’d drunk with and played poker with, he spun on his heel and walked out.

Adam sighed as he remembered the incident, just one of many since word about his son had spread.  He glanced again at his watch and fumed.  It figured that on a day like today the damned stage would be late.  Roy Coffee sauntered over, in his quiet way assessing the situation, and approaching Adam, shook his head.

“Afternoon, Adam,” he smiled.

“Roy,” greeted Adam, his voice taut, as taut at the set of his shoulders.

“Quite a welcome committee turnin’ out to greet your boy,” he smiled, offering the dry remark.

Adam harrumphed and glanced at the crowd.  “Yes, isn’t there,” he answered just as dryly.

“Would you like me to scatter ’em a little?” asked Ray mildly, watching his young friend closely for a reaction.

Adam glanced at Roy and smiled sadly.  “No, Roy, don’t bother.  We’re just going to have to ride this out for a bit.  Causing a problem now won’t help the boy later.”

Roy smiled and nodded.  “Glad to hear you being so sensible about it.  Things’ll work out, you’ll see.”

Adam nodded and glanced again at his watch.  2:20. Snapping it shut angrily, he shoved it into his pocket.  “Where in tarnation is that stage?” he fumed.  As if in answer, he heard the approach of a team, and as if their heads were attached to a large, connected string, the crowd all turned their heads toward the approaching stage.

Swallowing hard, Adam drew in a deep breath and stood straight, not realizing that his hard, serious expression would scare the bejeesus out of any kid who contemplated it.  The stage pulled up, stopped and the driver, Tom Wilkins, swung down.  He glanced around, a little bewildered, and walked up to Roy and Adam.

“What’s goin’ on?” he asked the Sheriff, confused.

“We’re just waiting for one of your passengers,” replied Coffee, as Adam peered into the stage.  He saw Mrs. Lockhart and her daughter, Mr. Robbins, the jeweler…and no one else.  Concerned, Adam opened the stage door and helped Mrs. Lockhart disembark and lifted little Amy out.  Except for Robbins, there was no one else in the stage.  He turned to the driver.

“Where are your other passengers?” he demanded.

“There ain’t no other passengers, Mr. Cartwright,” said Tom, bewildered.  As if prodded he suddenly smacked his forehead.  “Judas Priest, I ‘most forgot.”  He dug around in his pockets and came up with an envelope.  “Stage office at Ludgrove Springs passed this on for ya, Mr. Cartwright.”  He handed over the envelope with Adam’s name on it.  Staring at Tom, Adam slit the envelope then dropped his eyes to the letter he removed from it.  His eyes widened and he glanced at the driver again.  Heaving a sigh, setting his jaw angrily, he nodded and stalked off toward his father and brothers.

Hoss and Joe climbed down from the buckboard and waited, concerned.  Ben stood by the team watching his son.

“It would seem they’re going to be delayed,” said Adam tightly, climbing nto the wagon seat.

“What happened?” asked Hoss.

“I’ll tell you on the way home.”

“But—”

“I’ll tell you on the way home!” snapped Adam, his face pale but his eyes glittering.

Hoss and Joe exchanged surprised glances, and Ben slowly walked to his son’s side, looking up at him.  Adam looked fit to be tied.

“Adam?” he prompted sternly, clearly not willing to wait.  Adam’s mouth was set tighter, and he stared straight ahead.  Ben felt his own temper simmering, but knew Adam wouldn’t say a word until they were out of the glare of the crowd.  

Annoyed, Ben swung himself up into the wagon seat and after Joe and Hoss were mounted, flicked the reins and got the team going.

He waited a grand total of five minutes after clearing the town, then stopped the horses, wound the reins around the brake very deliberately, then turned  expectantly to his oldest son without a word, arms crossed over his chest.  Hoss and Joe tentatively pulled up beside them.

Adam hadn’t taken his eyes off the floorboard since they’d left town, but he had stopped being pale and was now red-faced and spitting mad.  He raised up his head and looked directly into his father’s eyes.

“It seems my son has evaded his escorts,” he said tightly, handing the letter to his father.

“What?!” demanded Joe, shocked, exchanging glances with Hoss.

Ben read the letter and sighed.  He glanced up at his  younger sons.   “According to Mr. Connelly, Patrick got himself …uh….lost in Budrow’s Wells for two days, and they’re going to be a little late.”

Hoss stared at his father and back at his older brother.  “You mean…you mean he ran off?” he said incredulously.

“That’s precisely what he means!” snapped Adam.  

“Two days?!”  asked Joe, incredulous.  “I mean, Budrow’s Wells isn’t big enough to get lost in, for pity’s sake!”

It went without saying that all of them realized young Patrick had been specifically trying to outsmart his escorts.

“This Mr. Connelly says they’ve gotten their hands on him, but…” and Ben sighed, frowning as he handed the letter back to Adam, ” but the stage company refuses to allow them to travel on the line and they’ve got to come on their own.”

Adam closed his eyes, shaking his head.  Hoss and Joe looked at each other helplessly for a moment, then Joe couldn’t help it; he started giggling.

“Just what is so funny, young man?” yelled his father.

“Well, c’mon Pa,” grinned Joe.  “I know it’s a little surprising, but you gotta give the kid credit.  He’s got guts.”

Adam set his mouth and stared straight ahead.  “We might as well get on home.”

Helplessly, Ben picked up the reins and got the horses moving again.

 

Twelve miles outside
of Virginia City

 

“Lemme go!”

“Sit in that seat and shut yer gob!” roared Tom Ryan, angry enough to make even Patrick Riordan Cartwright shrink a little.  “I’ve had all I’m gonna be takin’ from you!”  

Pat tried to stare him down, but lost, and glared at the toes of his hated shoes.  Ryan roughly released his arm, and Pat, sitting down on the wagon seat, rubbed his bicep where Ryan had gripped him.  Pat crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at the baseboard of the wagon.  Ray slowly turned and swung a finger under the boy’s nose. 

“Patrick, I’m gonna say this once, and that’s all,” he said furiously.  “If ye give me one more moment of trouble, one more word of yer smart-ass mouth, I’ll tie ye, gag ye and dump ye in the back of this wagon.  Your behavior has been atrocious!”

“Oh, I’m shakin’,” muttered Pat rudely.  Tom closed his eyes and shook his head, facing front.

“Ah, Christ, I’m gonna kill him,” grated Ryan, flicking the reins and getting the horses going.

They traveled in silence.  The last week had been hell for Ray Connelly and Tom Ryan.  After his total withdrawal, Pat had finally come alive, acting out with every bit of venom,  cussedness and frustration in his system.  It had taken thirty-six hours to find him again in Budrow’s Wells; they had finally tracked him down as he was trying to con some food out of woman on the outskirts of town.  Ray had to calm Tom down enough not to wallop the kid, right there in the middle of the road; when they got him back to the hotel, Ray read the boy the riot act.  He’d behaved himself for a few hours.  But once on the stage Pat made such a nuisance of himself with the other passengers that at the next stage stop they’d been put off.  This time, Ray didn’t even bother to calm down Tom.

Luckily the paths to follow to Virginia City were clear and there was no problem in them hiring a rig and making the rest of the trip on their own, making excellent time.  They’d just be a few hours late.  They got directions and suggestions from the stage stop conductor and timed out their trip so that they had a town to stop in each night.  It had been a hard trip, and all three were dog-tired, irritable and wishing they’d never embarked on this odyssey.

After the hiding he’d gotten, Pat was a little more subdued and didn’t try to elude them again, but he was hardly cooperative.  

“Look, we’ll be in Virginia City in just a few hours,” said Ray, trying to be calm. “Can’t we please make the rest of this trip a little pleasant?”

Nothing but stubborn silence from the boy beside him.

“Tom, stop the damn horses!”

Surprised, Tom glanced over at Ray but did as he was bid.

“Patrick, we’re gonna be talkin’ about this, and we’re gonna be talkin’ right now,” declared Ray grimly, climbing down off the wagon and literally yanking the boy down off the seat, his fist full of the boy’s shirt collar.  Flailing his arms for balance, wild-eyed, Pat had no choice but to follow.  Ray marched him to the side of the road and stood over him.

“Pat, spit it out! I want to know what’s botherin’ you,” he said sternly.

Pat scowled at the ground.

“Answer me!”  Startled, Pat snapped his head up and looked at Connelly.  Ray fought not to wilt at the anger, sadness and God knew what else shining out of Patrick’s blue eyes.

“I don’t wanna be here,” snapped Pat.  “I never wanted to come here!”

“Pat, we’ve been through this over and over again!” cried Ray in exasperation.

“I promised my mother I’d go.  I didn’t say I’d go along like a damn sheep!” shouted Patrick angrily.

“You promised her you’d behave!” shouted back Ray.

“I said I’d behave for him, not you!” Pat hollered, losing his temper.  

Throwing his hands in the air in abject frustration, Ray stomped back to the wagon and got on.  He reached back into the wagon bed, picked up the single carpet bag that belonged to Pat and hurled it out onto the ground.  He stood on the foot board, feet planted apart, with Tom staring at him and Pat gaping.

“There y’are, lad,” he said, his color rising, his blond hair spiked from running his hands through it.  “You want to be on your own?  Right, then!  You’re on your own!”

Breathing hard and staring in shock, Pat wildly looked from the carpet bag dumped on the ground and then up at the two men.

“Here’s yer choice, lad,” said Ray.  “Do we leave ye here, or do ye come along?  God save me, yer mother’ll be hauntin’ me for the rest of me days, but I’ve had enough!”

Licking his lips, Pat swallowed hard and looked again at Ray.  A lump formed in his throat and he fought back his tears.  Looking down, his black hair disheveled, his face pale, his new clothes mussed up, Pat silently, slowly walked to the bag.  

Ray prayed to God he wouldn’t have to act, prayed that for once Pat’s sharpness at spotting a bluff would be momentarily sidetracked by his fear of being left stranded alone in this wild country.  Pat picked up the bag, stood for a moment staring at the ground, and then sighing, tossed it up into the wagon.  He walked slowly to the front of the rig and stood in front of Ray.  

“Sorry,” he muttered, a catch in his voice.  Ray relaxed, and Tom let out the breath he’d been holding for the last few moments.  Ray nodded, and adjusted his position to allow Pat to climb up into the wagon seat.  Ray settled himself down on the seat, glanced at Pat, sitting stiffly and staring at the floorboard of the wagon, then nodded to Tom, gesturing him to have the horses walk on.  

They’d been on their way about five minutes when Ray silently put an arm around Pat’s shoulders.  Another moment or two went by, and Pat’s shoulders sagged totally in defeat..  In silence, the three rode into Virginia City.

 

10:30 p.m. that night
The Ponderosa

 

Ben wearily got to his feet and decided that it was time to get to bed.  It had been an awful day; Adam had spent the afternoon out riding, God only knew where, while Joe and Hoss had done all the chores and ranch work themselves.  Hop Sing had prepared a beautiful dinner that went uneaten, except by Hoss and Joe.  Neither Adam nor Ben had felt hungry enough to eat supper.

Hoss and Joe had just gone up, and Adam was in the kitchen fixing a pot of coffee.  Obviously, he wasn’t ready for bed yet.  Ben didn’t know whether it was best to stay up and give Adam company or leave him to himself.  Ben understood Adam’s embarrassment and discomfort at the news they’d gotten today; he just hoped that this wasn’t going to seriously taint his grandson’s and his son’s future relationship.  He hoped Adam would try to understand how difficult this all must be for the youngster.

Adam came out with one cup of coffee, surprised to see his father.  “I thought you’d gone up to bed,” he said apologetically raising the cup.  “Want some?”

“No, I think I will head up,” said Ben, shaking his head.  “You all right?”

Adam actually smiled and nodded.  “Yeah, I’m all right.”  He chuckled.  “What a day,” he sighed, seemingly a little more resigned to the situation and actually beginning to see a little of the humor in it.  Suddenly both picked up their heads as they heard hoof beats in the yard. It was clear there were several horses and a wagon pulling up outside. 

Looking at each in surprise, Ben glanced at the clock.  “Who in the world—?” he muttered heading for the front door.  Adam set down his cup and followed him out to the porch.

A gorgeous full moon’s light made the single horse and the wagon and team clearly visible.  Ben and Adam stepped forward as they saw Roy Coffee sitting his horse with a dark-haired boy in the saddle in front of him… hands tied to the saddle horn.

Ben’s heart skipped a beat.  Dear God….he breathed.  Was this his grandson?  Bewildered, Ben looked from the wagon, which contained two very tired looking men— one very large and burly, and the other tall but slim, both looking as though they’d been through the war— back to Roy, looking both smug and a bit peeved. And finally, back to the boy, his face shadowed by Roy’s body, but his physical demeanor sullen and downcast.

“Evenin’, Ben, Adam,” said Roy easily, still astride his horse.  

Slowly Adam walked toward the Sheriff ,staring at the boy.  “Evening, Roy,” he said calmly.

Ben heard footsteps behind him and glanced back to see Hoss and Joe coming out, gun belts on and wary, until they saw who the lead rider was.  And his passenger.  Both Hoss and Joe stared wide-eyed, then Hoss’ face split into a happy grin.  Until he noticed the ropes.

“Mr. Cartwright?  Mr. Adam Cartwright?” came a weary Irish voice from the tall, slim man as he got down off the wagon.  Adam turned to him. 

“Yes, I’m Adam Cartwright,” he said.  The man held out a hand, and Adam clasped it, surprised at the firm grip considering the exhaustion present on the man’s face.

“Raymond Connelly,” he said.  Sighing, he glanced up at the boy, and tiredly waved a hand toward him.  “May I be presentin’ your son, Patrick.”

Pat’s heart was hammering so hard, he was sure everyone could hear it, and he swallowed hard, his mouth utterly dry.

The youngster didn’t budge; Adam walked to the front of Ray’s chestnut mare, and holding her bridle, turned the horse into the moonlight.

The boy still refused to meet his gaze, but still, Adam drew in a shocked breath as he saw his own face—younger, to be sure, but his own—above him.  

“Roy, what in tarnation you got him tied to your saddle for?” demanded Hoss, striding forward.  Startled, Pat flinched a little as the huge man, even bigger than Ryan, started to pick at the knots at his wrist.  He was surprised when the big man looked up at him with a gentle smile of wonder.

“Who’re you?” he asked, warily.  

Ben winced again, his mind violently shoved back twenty years in time…Adam’s deep, rich adolescent voice, though strained, to be sure, and with a thick New York City accent.

“Well, Patrick,” said Hoss as he untied him, “I’m your Uncle Hoss. I’m your father’s next younger brother.”

Pat studied him in silence as he rubbed his newly-freed wrists.

“You ain’t answered my question, Roy,” said Hoss, scowling at the Sheriff.  “What you got him tied up for?”

“Because I didn’t want to lose him between Virginia City and here,” replied Coffee dryly.  “And because I didn’t want the rest of the town dismantled in another brawl.”

“What?!” Joe’s eyes widened in shock, coming down off the porch to join the others surrounding Roy Coffee’s mount.

Ben stared at the sheriff in consternation. “Roy, I—”

“Now, Ben,” said Coffee, holding up a hand to waylay the sputtering and remonstrating he knew were coming as he dismounted, “I sure hope you ain’t gonna try to tell me how to do my job.  This youngster here caused a riot in the town the like o’which I ain’t seen since last Independence Day, and I was gonna be goldurned if I’d let him do it again.”

“But what happened?” demanded Ben in a roar.  Pat flinched again at the angry sound of the older man’s voice and then glanced warily again at the man who was his father.

His father.  

It was so strange seeing a living, breathing human being wearing the face in the picture that had sat by his mother’s bed for all these years.  It was an older face, of course, but there was no mistaking him.  He was a lot bigger than Pat had expected; uncomfortably bigger, in fact.   Pat’s stomach fought nervous butterflies.  He instinctively clutched his knees to the horse’s flanks, feeling a little bit better in his elevated position, but was bitterly aware of the fact that this man held the head of the horse he’d hung onto for dear life all the way out here from town.  

“Wal,” drawled Roy, “these fellers arrived in Virginia City about three hours ago, proceeded to lose the young’un, and when we found him another hour later, he’d been playin’ poker at the Bucket O’ Blood and accused Jeff Bonner of cheatin’ him.”

Adam closed his eyes and shook his head.  Oh, my God….Jeff, of all people…

Joe giggled in disbelief, earning him a furious glare from his father.

“I don’t know where he learned to fight, but I’ll tell you, he cleaned Jeff’s clock for him,” chuckled Roy.  “After he decked Jeff with a sucker punch, Jeff’s brother Rick joined in and in a few minutes the whole bar was wrecked and the fight spread out to “C” Street.”  Roy wore a knowing look, a little bit of a smile, but also a clearly warning glance: don’t be givin’ me a hard time, it said, as plainly as if the words had been spoken.  “Adam, I sure do apologize for havin’ to deliver him to you this way, but I really didn’t want to go chasin’ him half the night.  You understand.”

Adam nodded and looked up again at his son.  Pat was pale, now, and worried at what this father of his would do or say but tried to hide it with a scowl.  Adam almost laughed; the kid looked so much like him it was scary.

“You look pretty worn out,” he said calmly.  “Need some help getting down off that horse?”

Pat was more than a little daunted by the distance down to the ground but saw in his peripheral vision his father’s hand go out to help him down.  Setting his mouth in a stubborn scowl, he swung his long right leg up and over the horse’s neck, making Adam have to duck, very quickly, to avoid getting smacked in the head.  In a smooth motion, Pat slid to the ground, and for the first time, stared up defiantly at this man who was his father.

Adam’s breath caught painfully in his chest.   Those eyes… those startling, incredibly light, bright blue eyes… Siobhan’s eyes!  

Fourteen years ago, those eyes had laughed… spit fire… gazed at him longingly.  God, he’d drowned himself in them long enough to recognize them, even after fourteen years.  Any question he might have had was gone; this defiant, stubborn little pain in the ass was, without a doubt, his and Siobhan’s son.

“I don’t need yer help,” growled the boy, his deep voice filled with scorn.

It was a face off, the tall, dark man with his hands on his hips, glaring at the adolescent mirror of himself, matching his stance and expression.

Ben gazed from father to son, marveling.  

Hoss and Joe exchanged worried glances.  

Roy Coffee grinned, liking the boy’s sand.  

And Ray Connelly just looked up at the stars, seeming to be cursing them somehow.

As for Tom Ryan, still seated in the wagon, he just groaned and put his head in his hands.  It was gonna be a long night.

 

CHAPTER NINE

August 20, 1871

“What the—?”

Pat bolted upright in bed, momentarily bewildered and frightened by his unfamiliar surroundings.  His heart pounding, Pat closed his eyes and sank back on the pillows, breathing deeply.  

And remembered.

He gave himself a few moments to get his breathing back under control, then glanced at the window.  It wasn’t quite dawn, it couldn’t be more than about 4:30.  Yawning, the boy stretched; the bed had been comfortable, more than those beds all along the way on this trip…and far more so than the settee at home.

Home.

Pat closed his eyes sadly for a moment, then set his jaw in a scowl and shook himself.  He swung his long legs out of bed and nearly tripped over the nightshirt.  His scowl deepened as he stripped the bulky thing off, pitching it angrily into a corner of the room.  He swore he would never wear one of those stupid things again!  He quietly hauled his carpet bag out from under the bed and pulled out a pair of pants and a shirt.  He couldn’t deny that these here other new clothes Ray had bought him felt good; hell, they fit!  That was a distinct improvement over his previous attire.  

But this morning he refused to stick his feet into those awful shoes again.  Pat had been used to going barefoot for nearly eight months of the year; he figured he could return to his comfortable ways now that they had arrived.

He sat on the bed as he buttoned his shirt and thought back over the events of last night.  What a strange feeling, looking at a face that he was used to seeing in a photograph; even worse was the sensation that he was looking at an older version of himself.  It was terribly unsettling, like lookin’ in one of those weird mirrors at Coney Island. *  

Looking around the room, he was awestruck by the splendor and comfort.  This one room was nearly the size of the whole flat back on Hester Street.  The fireplace had wood stacked by it, though in this summer heat he couldn’t imagine using it.  The bed was big and comfortable; he could stretch out his full length and relax.  He got up off the bed and walked over toward the bookshelf.  He ran his hands over the bindings, feeling the texture of the rich leather and smooth canvas and sighed.  Wonder what my college boy father’d say if he knew he’s got a son who couldn’t read or write his name? he thought dully. Another reason to be considered “less than”…

Pat shook himself again and moved back to the bureau.  He watched himself in the mirror as he rolled up his shirtsleeves and stuck his shirt tail into his pants.  The blue eyes that looked back at him made a lump come to his throat.  He slowly turned toward the carpet bag peeping out from under the bed, and pulled out the bundle of his mother’s personal items.  Ray had given it to him after the funeral, saying that she had willed everything she had to him.  He remembered thinking how sad it was that someone like his mother had nothing more than this lot to show for her life.  A letter, a ring, other personal items.  And the daguerreotype.

He studied this younger version of his mother, not many years older than he was now.

Sighing sadly, he propped the portrait of his parents  up against the lamp and contemplated her. 

“Well… I’m here,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. “We’ll just haveta see what happens next.”

 He shook his head and padded quietly to the door.  Listening carefully, he heard nothing, not a sound.  Very softly, he opened the door and peered up and down the hallway.  No one.  Nodding in satisfaction, he silently crept down the hallway to the stairs.

Stepping close to the sides of the staircase to avoid any potentially squeaky runners, Pat quietly went down the steps.  The main room of the house was incredibly large.  Pat stared high above his head at the rafters, and took in the solid construction, the beauty of the design.  He ran his hand over the smooth wood of the stair railing, marveling at its beauty and simplicity.  

Once down the stairs, Pat padded quietly around the huge great room, taking everything in.  The huge gun cabinet… the impressive mahogany desk across the room… the slightly worn chair, covered in some soft blue fabric, by the massive stone hearth and fireplace, and the reddish leather one across from it.  The woven blanet with a pattern Pat had never seen before hanging over the rail at the half-landing of the staircase.  The art on the walls.  Patrick’s eyes stopped short and, admiringly, took in the beautiful oil painting above the sideboard near the door, and walked closer to it.  The sunlight was just creeping into the room, casting a warm glow over the painting, giving it an aura that made Pat lose himself in it.  But not so much that he lost his street smarts.  He heard the footsteps behind him, and whirled, fists ready.

Hop Sing started in shock.  He hadn’t seen the boy from around the corner from the dining room alcove, and had been startled as much as Pat had been.  Eyes wide, Hop Sing stayed stock still.  

They had met very briefly the night before, when Hop Sing had prepared some food for the boy and his two companions, but beyond a nod of greeting had said nothing more.  Hop Sing had tried to take his measure of the boy, but beyond his incredible likeness to Mister Adam especially when he’d first met the family when Missy Cahtlight still alive, Hop Sing had not been able to judge.

Patrick had been too tired and overwhelmed last night to put much effort into making his acquaintance.  Trying to assess the situation with his father, his grandfather and uncles had taken too much of his depleted energy.  This morning however, was a different story.

Warily, Pat tried to remember everything about Chinese manners taught him by Su Chang and his family.  Slowly, he bowed deeply to Hop Sing and brought himself back upright.  Surprised, and pleased, Hop Sing smiled and returned the honorable gesture.  The surprise widened his eyes further when Pat spoke to him in Chinese.

“I hope you can understand me,” he said softly in halting, but accurate Cantonese. “You are …. maybe you are from Canton?”

“I am,” affirmed Hop Sing in delight.  “How come you to speak my language so well?”

“It was my …”  Pat’s brow wrinkled as he searched his memory for the right word, “my honor to have a Chinese good… no, best friend,” replied Patrick, carefully.  As he heard the Chinese words again, his eyes shone; it felt like a little bit of home.  Then Pat remembered again…

Home.

His smile faded and was replaced with a scowl, his black brows knitting together.  Hop Sing was startled; how many times he had seen that same expression flit across Mister Adam’s face as a youngster!  Even now, that same look occasionally found itself on Mister Adam’s countenance when he was frustrated or angry.

“Something troubles you,” said Hop Sing quietly.  “It is very early, could you not rest?”

“No,” said Pat shortly.  He turned away from Hop Sing and walked toward the front door.

“Where are you going?” demanded Hop Sing.

“Out!” snapped Patrick over his shoulder, in English this time, as he strode out the door.  Hop Sing sighed and shook his head.  Trouble ahead, for sure!

 

Adam stirred in his sleep, and he bolted up as he heard the front door slam.  Shaking the sleep from his brain, he swung his long legs out of bed and grabbed his clothes.

Downstairs, Hop Sing was setting the table for breakfast, and he looked up in surprise to see Adam hurrying down the stairs, his boots in his hand.

“Who was that going out?” he demanded, tottering on one leg as he jammed his foot into a boot.

“Missa Patlick,” answered Hop Sing, carefully placing plates on the table.

“Well, where’d he go?” demanded Adam, struggling now with the other boot.

“Him say…’out!’ ” replied Hop Sing.

“Why didn’t you stop him?” complained Adam as he headed for the door.

Hop Sign stopped a moment, and turned to look at the oldest of the Cartwright sons. “Not know Ponderosa was prison,” replied the Oriental quietly.  Adam stopped short and turned back, surprised.

“Now, what’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded, hands on his hips.

Hop Sing shrugged and headed back to his kitchen.  Muttering under his breath, Adam opened the door and stepped outside, scanning the yard.  It didn’t take long to find him.

Pat was sitting up on the corral fence, staring out at the mountains in the distance, and chewing a piece of long grass.

Quietly, Adam composed himself; Hop Sing was right.  What on earth had he been afraid of?  Then he grunted a laugh to himself.  One talk with Roy Coffee could have answered that question.  Sighing, Adam strolled out to the corral.

As with Hop Sing, Pat heard him coming, but this time he didn’t jump.  He sat on the corral fence, continuing to stare out at the beautiful sunrise, something he’d never seen like this before.  His bare feet were resting on the fence post below him.

“You’re up early,” Adam said carefully, his voice neutral.  After the face off last night, Adam had decided to tread warily with this son of his…

Luckily, it was Pa who had intervened at that point, suggesting that Pat must be tired and hungry after the long ride and had gently but firmly herded him into the house.  Adam saw the slight look of relief on the boy’s face as Pa had offered a way for them both to keep their pride without incident.  Without another word, the boy had turned and walked off to the house with Ben.

All of the travelers had been very tired, and the Cartwrights had initiated very little conversation, knowing everything could wait until morning.  They got Patrick settled up in his new room, which awed him, and his companions into guest rooms, where they fell into their beds almost asleep before they hit the pillows.

Pat slowly turned his head back and looked at his father: a stubble of beard covered his chin and he looked like he hadn’t rested enough. “Couldn’t sleep,” the youngster replied, looking back toward the sunrise.

“Hm…”  Adam rested his forearms on the fence, not too close to Patrick, and contemplated the same sight.  “I can remember having a hard time sleeping when I came home from Boston.  It was too quiet.”

Pat sighed; it was obvious he wasn’t going to be allowed to enjoy the sunrise in peace so he might as well go back into the house.  Careful this time to swing his long legs away from his father’s head, Pat did a neat pivot on the fence and slid down to his feet.  He said nothing as he walked away.  Adam watched him go, irritated.  Boy, you sure aren’t going to make this easy.  Shaking his head, Adam followed the youngster into the house.

 

At the breakfast table, Tom and Ray were invited to stay a few days at the Ponderosa both to rest and prepare for the trip home, and also to provide a certain amount of transition for Pat.  While there was companionable chatter during the meal, all at the table were thinking their own thoughts, worrying the situation as a dog does a bone, trying to come up with a solution.

For his part, Pat ate silently, spoke only when spoken to and was fulfilling his promise to himself to be here, behave, and be hateful.  Everything was alien to him, except, he thought with a snort of irony, Hop Sing.  Don’t it just make sense I gotta find the only familiar thing about this damn place is a Cantonese cook?!  But even that thought he thrust from his mind as his melancholy became deeper. It hurt too much to remember Su Chang and realize he’d probably never see him again, or anything or anyone else from his life in Hell’s Kitchen.

Ben could see the nervous, scared kid underneath the bravado; again, Ben marveled at the way blood worked.  It didn’t take him long to note that Patrick reacted to strangeness and being overwhelmed in exactly the same way his father had; in fact, as he still did.  He withdrew and studied the situation.  Ben hoped the boy would relax and open up soon, or he’d be miserable.

Hoss’ heart went out to the troubled boy. He, too, could recognize the concern and worry running through the youngster, and wished he could figure out a way to help him settle down and trust them.  It was a hard thing to lose your ma, and Pat had lost his in a far more traumatic way than most.  Hoss was determined to help the boy, and to be a friend.

Little Joe, on the other hand, was getting a little irritated at Pat’s stubbornness and rude coldness.  He understood that the kid had been through some hard times, but Joe was growing more and more concerned about the withdrawal, the rudeness to Adam, and the general tension filling the room whenever Pat was in it.   He had to keep reminding himself of his own feelings when his mother had died, and how this boy, though much older, was having more than just the loss of a parent to deal with… the loss of a home, friends, and everything he’d ever known.  Even so, Joe knew there was gonna come a time we he and Pat were gonna lock horns…

Adam sipped his coffee and studied his son as unobtrusively as possible.  How do I reach him? What is it that’s troubling him the most, and how in God’s name do I get it out of him if he won’t talk to me?  And his thoughts were also filled with Siobhan.  Apparently, he was wrong; he hadn’t gotten her out of his system all those years ago.  And every time Pat looked up, he saw her eyes; he wondered what Siobhan had become, what she’d been like. 

Ray chatted easily with these four men, calling on his charm and social skills as a successful lawyer.  It was important to him that he get to know these men, because he wasn’t about to leave Pat with anyone he didn’t trust.  As much trouble as the boy had been all the way out here, Ray cared deeply for him, had helped to raise him, and he wasn’t about to leave Siobhan’s son to a man who didn’t see through that shell to the good, caring kid underneath.

Tom was more reserved.  Except with the big one, the one called Hoss, he found it often difficult to chat.  Small talk wasn’t his nature.  That’s what he’d always liked about Siobhan, and why they’d been friends for the many long years after their affair.  Siobhan spoke with her eyes and her heart.  Oh, to be sure, she could waggle a tongue with the best of them when angry or roused, but she wasn’t one to bend a man’s ear with silly woman’s chatter.  It was with Hoss that Tom figured he could determine if this family was good enough to leave Patrick with.  He had absolutely no intention of abandoning the boy here to people that wouldn’t love him, even if the boy was doing his best to make sure that was exactly what happened…

“So, Mr. Cartwright,” said Ray, leaning back with his coffee cup in his hand.  “How large is this Ponderosa of yours?  It’s certainly beautiful.”

“Thank you,” smiled Ben.  “We have roughly 1,000 square miles.  We have cattle, mining interests and a logging camp up in the mountains.”

Tom’s eyes widened. “A thousand square miles!” he breathed.  “And me da and I worked 50 acres in Ireland, believin’ ourselves rich as kings!”

Adam leaned back as well, trying to relax. “Well, when my father, Hoss and I came out here, there was nothing but Indians, so we built it up ourselves, slowly.  Believe me, it wasn’t easy,” he smiled thoughtfully.  

“And you, Joe?” asked Ray with a smile.

Joe grinned back.  “I was the only one born here on the Ponderosa.”

“Joseph’s mother was from New Orleans, I met her there on a business trip.  I brought her back here, and it was she who helped to design this house.  Our cabin, the first house I built here for the boys and me, was hardly this big,” smiled Ben as he rested his elbows on the table thoughtfully.  “No, the boys and I put in an awful lot of hard work to get the Ponderosa to where it is today.  I couldn’t have done it without them.”

“Speaking of doing without,” said Hoss, rising to his feet, “I better get them chores started or Hop Sing’ll see I do without lunch, and I ain’t gonna risk that!”

The men all laughed, and Tom saw a chance to escape.  “Need any help, lad?” he asked hopefully.  Hoss recognized a kindred spirit in the big, burly Irishman and grinned.

“How’re you with a hammer?  I got me some repairs to do on the corral fence today.”

“I can drive a nail straight as an arrow with a single strike,” laughed Tom, getting to his feet.

“Pa, we got us a new hand!” grinned Hoss, and the two men walked out, talking.  

“Yeah, I’d better get out to those broncs,” sighed Joe.  “They aren’t’ going to break themselves.”  

Pat was eating, eyes down, but gathering in every word.  This last statement intrigued him.  Break themselves? What the devil was the fella goin’ on about?  He raised his head and eyed Joe questioningly.

Break?” he asked.  His deep voice was heard for the first time that meal, and all at the table glanced at him, making him the center of attention.  He didn’t like it.  He flushed, scowled and sent his eyes back down to his plate.

“Breaking horses,” explained Joe, as he rested his napkin beside his plate.  “Wild mustangs have to be broken, or gentled, to ready them for a saddle and bridle.  Want to watch?”

Pat struggled; he really did want to, this sounded fascinating, but he was reluctant to show it.

“Why don’t you go ahead, Patrick?” encouraged Adam.  “It’ll give you a chance to look the horses over and see which one you might like to have.”

Despite himself, Pat picked his head up in shocked surprise.  “A horse?  For me?” he asked, incredulous.

“Everyone’s gotta have a horse here, Patrick,” grinned Joe.  “There’s not much of any other way to get around.  You ever been on a horse?”

Pat swallowed, hating to admit he was less than adequate.  Flushing, he shook his head no, not meeting his uncle’s eyes.

“No problem.  We’ll have you up in a saddle in no time, feelin’ like you were born on a horse,” grinned Joe.

“I wasn’t born on a horse,” muttered Pat.  “I was born in Hell’s Kitchen.”  He regretted the sullen words as soon as they were out of his mouth but was too proud to try to take them back.  An uncomfortable silence fell over the table for a moment, then Joe sighed and got to his feet.  

“Well, I’ll be out at the corral if and when you want to come out,” said Joe quietly, as he left the table.

Ray shook his head silently.  “There wasn’t any need for that, lad,” he said gently to the boy.

Stubbornly, Pat continued to stare at his plate, pushing the food around with his fork, but Ben and Adam could see he’d accepted the rebuke and was sorry, even if he’d never admit it.

Ben rose to his feet.  “Well, gentlemen, I’m going to leave you to it,” he said, setting his napkin beside his plate.  “Adam, I’m going to go up to the timber camp; Jake said he wanted some clearance on which trees to mark for cutting.  I should be back by lunch time.”

“All right, Pa,” nodded Adam, also rising. “You’ll find I put my notes on the cutting plan in your saddlebags for you.”

“Thank you, son,” Ben nodded, wishing the rest of the table a good morning and heading out himself… praying that things would be less tense by the time he returned.

“Are you finished with your breakfasts?” Adam asked, careful not to single out Pat.

“Oh, aye,” nodded Ray, rising too.  “From the way you’re pushing your food around there I’d say you’re finished too, eh, lad?”

Pat nodded and got to his feet.  “I guess I’ll go out to the… the corral,” he said to no one in particular, hoping the corral was that fence he was sitting on earlier.

He stopped short at his father’s voice.  “Pat, wait a minute.”  The boy turned back and looked at Adam.  “You’d better get something on your feet.  The brambles and rocks out there will cut ’em to ribbons.”

Pat pulled himself up to all of his five feet and seven inches and stared coldly at Adam. “I been barefoot all my life.  If the cobblestones and filth linin’ Hell’s Kitchen ain’t hurt me, I don’t figure nuthin’ here will,” he stated tightly.

Adam studied him.  “Suit yourself,” he nodded, “but when you’ve got cuts all over your feet and I’ve got to clean them out, it’s going to sting.”

Reddening, Pat turned on his heel and strode out the door, with Ray and Adam watching him go.  Ray sighed, shaking his head, and walked to the fireplace.  There was no fire; the hot August sun was warming the air plenty without it, but it offered a focal point for the lawyer’s troubled mind.

“He’s certainly independent, isn’t he?” said Adam wryly, following Ray into the sitting area.

“Try not to think too badly of him, Mr. Cartwright,” said Ray softly.  “He’s been through a terrible time.”

“I don’t, Ray, and please call me Adam,” he smiled.  “I just wish he could relax a little.  He’s making this a lot harder on himself than he has to.”

“Depends on your point of view,” said Ray seriously.  “He’s scared, he’s homesick and he’s lonesome.  He also misses his mother terribly.”

Adam nodded.  “I can understand that feeling,” he said softly.

“Can ye, now?”

Adam drew in a deep breath as he sat in the leather chair across from the hearth.  “I never knew my own mother, she died when I was born.  But when my father married Inger, Hoss’ mother, I was five, and I loved her very much.  She was killed in an Indian attack before we got this far west, when Hoss was less than a year old.  And Marie, Joe’s mother, was a very special woman.  She died when I was only a little older than Patrick.  Believe me, I understand very well what it’s like to lose a mother.”  Adam studied the tips of his boots for a moment.

Ray nodded thoughtfully.  “Siobhan never mentioned that…” he said.  “It’s that sorry I am, man.  But… well, then, it allows ye to understand the lad’s feelings, does it not?  And that’s somethin’.”

Adam nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly.  “I guess it is.”

They were quiet for a few moments, each in their own thoughts.  So far, Ray liked what he saw.  A man couldn’t be a successful lawyer for long without developing a certain ability to judge other men, and quickly.  Thus far, he’d been pleased with these Cartwrights.  He also knew that Siobhan had loved this man beyond reason, and she didn’t give her affection and respect easily.  He’d seen affection in this family, and a caring for each other that, if extended to Pat, would be exactly what the boy needed to heal.

“Adam, it’s blunt I’ll be w’ye,” said Ray.  “Pat didn’t want to come out here.  All of his life he’s built a shell around himself when it comes to you.  Siobhan, God love her, never ever spoke ill of ye, but Pat got it into his head that you were evil incarnate, the Orangeman that destroyed his mother’s life.  It’s going to take some doing to dismantle that shell.”

“Orangeman?”  asked Adam, frowning.  “I haven’t heard that term in … well, since Siobhan…”

Ray nodded. “A Protestant, a supporter of the crown, to put it in its simplest terms. We Irish Catholics have been fighting the Orangemen in our own country, and now here, for centuries.  The antagonism is in our blood.”

“And Pat sees me that way?”

Ray sat down in the blue velvet chair. “It’s what he’s been taught all of his short life.  Siobhan explained to him when he was very young why she left Boston.”

“I wish she’d explained it to me,” said Adam, a little bitterly.

“Ah, use yer head, lad!” declared Ray.  “A land-holding Englishman?  And she a daughter of the old sod, whose own father and brothers were hanged by the like?  She told me she hated herself for lovin’ ye, felt she had betrayed all her family and people stood for.  When she learned she was carryin’ the lad, she had to leave.  She couldn’t bear the thought of what love ye had dyin’ after the years, and bein’ replaced by her hatred of ye.”  

Adam stared at him. 

Ray stopped, shaking his head.  “I apologize,” he said more quietly.  “To be honest wi’ ye, I don’t really think that was her reason, though I’ve no knowin’ o’ what the full truth might be.  I think she managed to create a good tale for herself wi’ that.”

Adam sighed; he’d thought it might be something like that.  Most of their discussions had found themselves revolving around the Irish question of Home Rule. “I tried to make her understand it wasn’t like that out here,” he said softly.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, it was her heart that troubled her,” replied Ray, crossing his legs.  “Here, in Boston, in New York, in Ireland…  it wouldn’t ha’ mattered.  The pair o’ ye were doomed before ye began.”

Adam stared at the empty hearth, depressed.  This was going to be even harder than he’d expected.

“As for Patrick,” sighed Ray, “he’s stubborn as a mule and once he gets an idea into his head, it’ll take a four-horse team to drag it out of him.  But he’s a good lad, a hard worker.  He’s been working, in fact, for the same pub Siobhan worked at, as an errand boy and pot boy since he was nine.  Lately, as tall as he’s grown, has been doing a man’s work. Trust me, loading kegs from the waterfront and luggin’ em into the storeroom, and keepin’ a woodpile stocked for a three-story pub and gamin’ house is no joke.” 

“Siobhan must have hated that,” Adam whispered.

“She did, that.  But her pride kept her from lettin’ me help them.  I had to do what I could from the side, as much without her knowin’ as possible.  Jaysus, but that woman had a temper!”  grinned Ray.  

Adam smiled too. “I remember,” he said ruefully.

Ray leaned back again.  “What plans do ye have for the boy?”

“Plans?” repeated Adam.  He shrugged, frowning. “I can’t say I have any at the moment.  The only plan I have right now is to give him time to get to know me and me to know him.”

“Might I be offerin’ a word of advice?”

Adam gestured to the other man as if to say, “Please do.”

Ray thought for a moment, then leaned forward, steepling his fingers as he rested his forearms on his thighs.  “Ye’ll never be forcin’ Pat into doin’ something he doesn’t want to do.  Trust me, if ye try, ye’ll regret it.  Yer best method of dealing with him will be wi’ patience and understanding; he’s a very bright lad, and once he sees the sense of a situation he’ll take advantage of it.   But there’s gonna come a time when you two’ll reach a donnybrook and one o’ ye’ll have to give in.”  Ray eyed him.  “Sure, it’ll be a challenge to do it without breakin’ him, but ye’ll have to be the one to hold strong.  Pat respects nothin’ more than he does strength, and if ye’ll be even-handed, he’ll accept any discipline ye hand down.  But, be unfair and ye’ll hear about it.”

Adam smiled.  Connelly could have been talking about a young Adam Cartwright at that age.

“Don’t push him too hard to explain his feelings,” advised Ray.  “He’d rather face an army of Orangemen than open up sometimes.  He keeps his feelings deep inside.  And he can a ruthless little amadán, that lad.  That tongue o’ his can cut like a saber… rather like his sainted mother, there,” Ray smiled, apologetically.

Adam chuckled, nodding to himself, remembering…

“At first glance,” Ray said thoughtfully, “ye might think he’s one who acts first and thinks later.  But I’d say t’would be more accurate to say he calculates the odds and decides whether the risk o’ any consequences is worth the return on investment,” he said dryly. 

Adam laughed aloud at that one.

Ray smiled, sadly, then.  “Be patient with him.  He’s been through a lot.”  Connelly chuckled.  “Listen to me, now, talking about the lad as though I had any better idea than you how to be a da!”

“Da?”

Ray smiled and shrugged. “Just what we Irish use for father, similar to your ‘Pa’,” explained the man.

Adam raised his brows; now, there was something he hadn’t thought about.  What would Pat call him?

 

The morning passed quickly, and Pat drank in the sights and sounds of the ranch by following Little Joe around, and then Hoss and Tom.  His quick mind picked up cues and new words and phrases previously unknown in his vocabulary.  After lunch, the hot sun climbed high in the sky and Hoss walked him around the ranch yard pointing out the different buildings and areas.  Pat found himself feeling most comfortable with this uncle, simply because of the easy manner.  There wasn’t the feeling of having to be always on his toes as there was with his Uncle Joe. 

He thought he was going to like his grandfather.  When he wasn’t yelling, like that first night, Pat felt as though he was a gentle, caring man.  But Pat had the feeling you didn’t want to take crossing this man lightly.

But his father…God, he didn’t know what to make of that one.  He didn’t even want to examine how he felt.

In the afternoon, he was out behind the kitchen chatting amiably with Hop Sing, when Adam came out the back door, walking toward them.

“Pat?”

The boy looked up, warily.

“We might as well get you started into a routine,” Adam said quietly, easily.  “Everyone here has jobs they have to do in order to keep the ranch running.  Since your experience doesn’t run to breaking broncs, I thought we’d keep your chores simple to start with.”

Pat’s eyes narrowed.  “Chores?”

Adam nodded.  “As I said, everyone has jobs to do; we all work together here.”

“What do I have to do?” he asked sullenly.  Adam gestured behind him. Pat turned, to find a woodpile, and a stump with an ax embedded in it.

“I think for a while we can count on you to get the kitchen and house wood and kindling cut, split and stacked.  It was Joe’s job for today, but he’s got his hands full with those horses.”  Adam waited quietly for a reaction.

“I just got here!” the boy protested.  “You’re making me a hired…hand, is it? Already?” Hop Sing sighed and shook his head, heading for the kitchen.

“No, you’re not a hired hand,” answered Adam patiently.  “You’re a member of the family and as such you have responsibilities.  We’re keeping them light to start with.  Spending an hour or so a day getting the kitchen and house firewood stocked shouldn’t be that great a hardship.”

Pat bristled.  Well, o’ course it wasn’t!  He’d handled the woodpile at the “Witches Broth” by himself for the last five years, a lot harder work than this.  He just had his dander up, and now having plunged down the path, didn’t know how to turn around and come back.  “And if I don’t?” he asked insolently, his chin up, belligerent, refusing to back down.

“Then you won’t eat,” replied Adam calmly.  

Startled, Pat frowned and studied him, realizing this was no bluff.  Scowling, the boy marched over to the stump and wrenched the axe from it with one strong pull, wielding it with familiarity.  

Adam nodded to himself; Connelly hadn’t been weaving a tale.  The boy knew how to handle an axe.  He stepped back as the chips began to fly and smiled quietly on his way back into the house.  He could remember working out a lot of his own frustrations and angry feelings on that woodpile and figured the physical work and sweat would do the boy some good.

 

Pat did his chore for the day, and, sliding the axe handle so that one hand gripped it at the end and the other near the head, he slowly arched his back and stretched out his back and arm muscles, sighing with pleasure as he could feel little pops along his spine in release.  Stuck on that train, and in the coaches and wagons between New York and here, Pat had got next to nothing for exercise.  While he’d never admit it, working up a sweat made him feel less jittery and antsy and went a long way to settling him. 

But he’d been up very early after many nights of poor sleep, and all of the heartache and the heavy emotional load of these last weeks made for a very weary boy who sank into his seat that night for supper.  Talk was light and relaxed at the table that evening, but Pat was so tired his head was spinning and his eyes kept closing despite his best efforts.

The others talked about the weather, the political climate here in the West, and it wasn’t until nearly halfway through the meal that Adam glanced over at Pat, and smiled to see him out cold, his head resting on his fist and his fork still in his other hand.  

“Poor kid,” grinned Hoss, “he’s plumb tuckered out.”

Ben and Adam both rose to go to him, and Ben sheepishly sat down.  It was going to be a bit harder than he’d thought to turn off his paternal instincts.

“Pat,” said Adam gently, not wanting to startle him.  

The eyes fluttered open sleepily.  Then, embarrassed, Pat sat up straight in surprise.  He reddened as he saw the smiles on the faces around him.

“Just closed my eyes for a second!” he said crossly.

Adam smiled, remembering all too well the confusion and embarrassment of being made the unwanted center of attention.  “Maybe you’d better think about turning in.”

Pat was too tired to argue.  Irritably, he shoved back his chair and trudged up the stairs.  At the center landing, his father’s voice stopped him.

“Pat.”

The boy turned back wearily.

“In this house, we observe common courtesy,” said Adam quietly.  “It wouldn’t hurt you to say a simple, polite ‘Goodnight’ to your grandfather and the others.”

Blushing, Pat stared at him.  Another face off.  

Adam waited patiently, while the others shifted uncomfortably.  Ben watched carefully, hoping this wouldn’t turn into an unnecessary battle.

Exhaustion won.  “Good night,” the boy muttered, and continued on upstairs.

Once the snick! of Pat’s door closing was heard, Adam exhaled, shaking his head.

Tom Ryan grinned and nodded.  “Round one to you, lad,” he said softly.  “Well done.”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Author’s Note: * I’m jumping a little ahead in time here with this one… Coney Island, as an amusement center, didn’t open until 1914, though amusement parks had been present in Europe for more than 100 years.

 

CHAPTER TEN

August 21, 1871

“Oh, tarnation!”

Ben slammed down his pen and leaned back in his chair, stretching out his shoulders.  That marked the third time he’d added up that column of figures and it was yet a third sum!  Sighing, he felt the sunlight on the back of his neck from the window behind him, beckoning him outside.  It was a gorgeous day, and here he was, cooped up at his desk, doing the ranch accounts, a task he hated worse than anything.  Rubbing his eyes, Ben squared his jaw stubbornly and got to his feet. I need a break!

Ben poured himself a cup of coffee and decided to just get a few breaths of fresh air, then he’d come back in and finish.

Ben stood on the porch, sipping his coffee and looking over the yard.  Tom Ryan and Hoss had gone for a ride around the ranch with Hoss giving a guided tour, as had been arranged at breakfast.   Ray had gone into town, checking for any correspondence from his office in New York.  

Ben knew Adam was planning to get Pat started learning to ride today, and sighed, wondering how that little lesson was going.  Pat had trailed after his father scuffing his feet in a pair of Joe’s old boots and scowling all the way out the door.  Ben chuckled as he recalled Pat’s mutterings: “If God a’ wanted people to ride horses he’d a given us built-in saddles.”  Ben decided that he’d take a walk down to the corral and see how the lesson was progressing.

The scowl hadn’t budged.  Patrick stood back from Blackie, an older, smaller pony, eyeing the animal warily.  Adam had finished explaining the different parts of the horse’s gear, from saddle and bridle to bit, noticing Pat wasn’t taking his eyes off the horse.

“All right,” he finished, after tightening the cinch, gathering the reins and turning to his young son.  “Up you go.”

Pat swallowed hard and slowly approached, his heart hammering.

“Always mount a horse from the left side,” Adam was saying, guiding Pat around to the side of the animal.  “Put your left foot in the stirrup…that’s it.”

Pat was grateful for his long legs; he could feel the muscles in the back of his left thigh stretch as he got a leg up.

“Now, bounce a little and spring up.”

Pat looked back at his father askance. “Right,” he muttered, shaking his head.  Setting his jaw, he gave an awkward bounce…and barely managed to get halfway up, landing back on his other leg with a shuddering jar.  “Shit!”

“Watch your language,” said Adam calmly.  “Now, try it again and I’ll boost you-“

“I can do it without your help!” grunted Pat, his face red. 

Adam sighed and stepped back holding Blackie’s head.

Pat focused and mentally calculated how to disperse his body weight, and with a combination of a bounce, a spring and then a hearty tug on the saddle horn, swung himself up into the saddle with a grunt.  Once up there, he awkwardly tried to fit his right foot into the other stirrup, nearly losing his balance and toppling off, except for his father shooting out an arm to steady him.  Pat firmly shook off the hand and sat himself up straight, but tense and rigid as a ramrod.  Adam drew in a deep breath, holding on to his temper, and sighed.

“Good,” he said, coming around the side, handing the reins up to the boy and taking Blackie by the bridle.   “Now, just relax.  The horse’ll be able to tell if you’re nervous.”

“Great…so how do I tell if he’s nervous?” muttered Pat.

“Just relax,” repeated Adam with a smile.  “I’ll walk him around and I want you to just get used to the feel of being in the saddle, all right?”

Pat swallowed hard and picked up the reins awkwardly.

“Try to sense how the horse is moving,” instructed Adam as he led the pony around the corral.  “Let your hips and legs move with him, don’t fight it.”

“Don’t fight it… sure…” muttered Pat, mentally cursing his mother for ever having been to Boston and leaning over a little to look down.  

“Sit up straight,” admonished his father, “or you’ll fall off.”

Pat abruptly sat up straight, suddenly wobbling, throwing out an arm to steady himself.  It didn’t help, as Pat swerved one way and Blackie the other.  Pat nervously tried to overcompensate, but Blackie stopped abruptly, confused by the foolish human sitting on top of him, and Pat promptly toppled off, landing on his side in the dirt.  Adam had lunged for him but wasn’t fast enough.  Worriedly, he hurried around Blackie and leaned down to his son.

Pat slowly got his gangly legs untangled, and managed, wincing, to sit up, knees bent, looking up at Adam with a black eyebrow cocked, and a disgusted glare.  Adam fought not to smile and offered a hand.  Patrick looked at the hand with disdain, and maneuvered to his feet under his own power.  Wincing and rubbing his hip, the boy turned to walk away.

“Hold it, Pat,” said Adam firmly.  The tone got Pat’s attention, and he looked back over his shoulder, scowling. 

“When you fall off, you just turn around and get right back on.”  

Pat stared at him for a moment.  

Adam stared right back, and patiently waited.

It became clear to Pat his father was going to brook no nonsense about this.  Pat glanced at the horse, absently rubbing his bruised hip. Then he glared again at Adam and, exhaling in exasperation, stalked to the left side of the horse, and slipping his left boot into the stirrup, sprang up onto the horse perfectly, his right foot naturally slipping into position in the opposite stirrup.

“Good!” praised Adam, a little surprised, and they began their walk again.

Ben had paused on the porch, his heart in his throat as he watched Pat fall off, and then the tense little interchange between father and son.  After Pat had mounted again, Ben breathed a little easier and strolled down to the corral, resting his arms on the fence, a smile on his face, watching his grandson’s first experience alone on a horse.  Actually, the boy wasn’t doing too badly, the tumble notwithstanding.  He was sitting upright, a little stiff but not too bad, and seemed to have a natural center of balance.  Not bad at all, Ben nodded, pleased.

“Use your thighs and knees to grip the horse,” instructed Adam. “Don’t tug on the reins, remember they’re connected to a nasty piece of metal that horses aren’t particularly fond of.”

Pat’s face was a mask of serious concentration as he worked to get used to this.  He heard the last bit of attempted humor and grumbled, “I just said I ain’t never rode a horse, not that I ain’t never driven one…I know what a stinkin’ bit is!”

Adam sighed.  “You know, this would be a lot easier if you’d stop being so difficult.”

“Easier for you, or easier for me?” glowered Patrick, shifting again for position in the saddle.

“Easier for both of us,” snapped Adam, beginning to lose patience.  

The attitudes were becoming a little charged in the corral, and Ben noticed the tension mounting… so did Blackie.  The little pony started stomping a bit, moving around.  Ben watched Pat and was surprised to note that the boy seemed so preoccupied by being angry at Adam that he was unconsciously allowing his body to naturally guide the pony, his legs and knees gripping its flanks while he glared down at his father.

“Keep your head up and look straight ahead,” barked Adam, his temper simmering.  

Pat’s own temper was reaching a boiling point, too, but he obeyed, glaring straight ahead of him.  

Uneasy, Ben could see trouble coming; it appeared his equally pigheaded son and grandson were determined to best each other, a real recipe for disaster.  Ben had just about decided to intervene when Adam barked at Pat about leaning forward again, and Pat lost his temper.

“Damn it!” he shouted, unconsciously yanking on the reins.  The sudden movement and yell startled Blackie, who pranced a bit, causing Adam to jump back in order to not get a foot trampled., Pat, alarmed, made the mistake of digging in his heels, trying to get a better control of the animal.

Adam was trying to regain his hold on Blackie’s bridle, but the horse was unusually alarmed, and Pat was holding, for dear life, onto the reins, mane and anything else he could get his hands on.

“Whoa!” he shouted, with little result.  “Whoa, you son of a bitch!!”

Pat’s bootheels jammed into the little horse, and with a single whinnying scream, Blackie bolted for the gate… just as Ben was in the process of slipping the securing rope over the post.  He barely leapt out of the frantic horse’s path before getting trampled.

“Oh, my God…” groaned Adam, running for the barn.

Ten minutes later, Adam found them in a field.  With relief, he saw that Pat was on his feet, so he obviously hadn’t broken his neck.  Pat was standing in front of the horse, talking to it, hands on his hips… Adam chuckled to note that Blackie was seemingly doing his level best to appear to be listening.  

Adam decided to wait a bit and see what progressed.  Guiding Sport quietly, Adam chose a vantage point behind a tree, and watched his son come around the left side of the horse, still talking to the animal, gather the reins in his left hand, slip his foot into the stirrup and spring into the saddle in one smooth motion.  Adam stared in pleased surprise, feeling an idiotic pride in the quick study Patrick had turned out to be.  

He watched as Pat seemed more relaxed in the saddle, gently guiding the horse first to the left, then to the right.  Adam could see how much more comfortable Pat seemed with the learning process when he, Adam, wasn’t around; to be honest, it hurt a bit.  He wished he could figure out how to get through to the boy, and break through his mule-stubborn shell.  He sighed, then, shaking his head.  Maybe it isn’t him… Adam could remember how he had learned best without something pestering him, breaking his concentration, ‘pokin’ the bear’, as Hoss used to say.  How on earth do you teach someone when they won’t let you?! Frustrated, Adam forced himself to settle.

He dismounted, and relaxed behind the tree, watching Pat ride, tumble and get back on, over and over again, getting to a point where he could trot some and canter a little bit, all done with a very determined look on his face.  Adam had no way of knowing that the boy’s expression was exactly the one he adopted when absolutely bound and determined to do something.

After an hour and a half, Adam decided Pat had had enough, or he wouldn’t be able to walk tomorrow.  He walked Sport up beside him as Pat reached down and patted Blackie’s neck.  Pat looked up, saw his father, and his usual black scowl returned to his handsome face.

“Good job,” Adam commented.

Pat patted the horse, and eyed his father, wondering what else he was going to say.

Studying him, Adam leaned back. Careful, Cartwright…  “May I make a suggestion, without getting you upset?” he asked, calmly.  

Pat shrugged.  

“I think you’ve had enough for your first day.  You’re going to be pretty sore tomorrow as it is, hurting in muscles you never knew you had.”

“I can handle it,” replied Pat, glowering, his chin up, pugnacious.

“Uh huh,” nodded Adam, dryly.  Without another word, they headed toward home, walking the horses.

 

The noon sun was warm, but not oppressively so as Hoss and Tom made the circuit of the Ponderosa within a few hours’ riding distance.  These two men had fallen into an easy camaraderie and found it uncomplicated to talk with each other.  

Hoss let the animals drink at the lake and he and Tom strolled along the shore.

“If it ain’t too personal,” began Hoss slowly, “would you tell me some about the girl?  Siobhan?”

Tom’s face grew quiet.  “What do ye want to know?”

“Oh, I dunno…what was she like, the things that were important to her.  I know my brother loved her so much, and I know he’s never really got over her,” replied Hoss.  “We were pretty close before he went to college, and there were some things Adam didn’t write Pa about.  But he did write to me about Siobhan, telling me how beautiful she was, and how smart.  Said I’d love her when he brought her home, that he wanted to marry her. Then, there weren’t nothing more.  ‘Fact, it was several months before he wrote at all…to me anyway.  He’d write to Pa, and tell him the usual boring stuff about college, but nothing about him, nothin’ about his feelings.”

Tom sighed. “She could do that to a man, fer sure.  Siobhan was…well, she was one of a kind, to me.  She was tall, and slim as a reed; black hair down to her waist, she had, and blue eyes… well, look at Pat’s eyes and you’ll see his mother’s.  But the thing that stood out w’ that lass was her spirit.  She was amazin’.  Nothin’ got her down.  Not bein’ poor, and lad, she was that!  Not havin’ to sweat as a barmaid through lousy weather and worse patrons.  Not even raisin’ her lad wi’out a father.  Siobhan was…I don’t know…driven to get the job done.”

Hoss smiled to himself.  “Sounds a lot like Adam.”

“Aye,” nodded Tom.  “She said often they were too much alike to have been good for each other.”

“She talked about him?” Hoss asked, in surprise.

“Talked about him?” sighed Tom wryly.  “Lad, when I wanted her to marry me, all she could talk about was him.”  

They walked on in silence for a while.  Then Hoss said, “It sounded pretty bad, Tom, the way she died, I mean.”  

“Aye, Hoss, it was that.  Poor lad…he was in a state for weeks after she died.”

Hoss stared at his boot tips. “Adam said he watched it happen.”

“He did,” nodded Tom.  “And held her in his arms, he did, after she’d been shot…saw it happen.  He held her, bleedin’ she was, right there on 8th Avenue..  No child should have to see or experience that.”  Tom angrily shook his head.  “No better than Ireland, it wasn’t, no better a’tall!”

“You from Ireland too?”

“County Clare,” nodded Tom, his lips tight.  “Me da and I hoped to find a better life for Ma and the girls, me sisters, but it weren’t meant to be for them.  Ma, Bridget and Kathleen all died on the way out, boat fever.  Just me da and I got to America.”

Hoss shook his head.  So much death.  “Why’d you leave?”

“The famine, lad!” answered Tom, surprised Hoss didn’t know.  “We was potato farmers and it was the crop wilt that killed many a lad and lass from Ireland, not just the trip out.  We tried for a year to keep goin’, but there just wasn’t enough food.  So, we came to America.  Da works for a farmer in the north, and I became a cop.”  Tom sighed.  “Even that’s over now.”

He explained to Hoss what had happened the day of the riot; Hoss was horrified at the thought of the women and children, innocently killed as the gunfire started.  He shook his head, finding it all difficult to comprehend.  He felt bad about Tom losing his job, too, all because he went back to check on the people he loved.

“Well, I ain’t gonna say I’m completely sorry,” said Hoss with a sigh.  “I’m real glad you were there to help with Pat.  I got a feelin’ he needed you and Ray a lot on this trip out.”

“That he did,” said Tom with a grin.  “Oh, what a spalpeen he can be!”  Tom glanced at Hoss and decided to take the plunge. “Hoss, lad…tell me about yer brother.  What I mean is, what does he think of all this?”

Hoss contemplated a moment.  “He’s worried he ain’t gonna be the best father for Pat he can be, which’ll make him work even harder at it,” he said slowly.  “Adam ain’t never done nothin’ halfway.  We was talkin’ a bit about it a few days ago, before Pat came, and he was sayin’ he wished he’d known about him.  He missed out on Pat bein’ a little shaver.  But he’s gonna do the best he can to make him feel loved and at home here.  Adam ain’t stupid, he knows it ain’t gonna be easy, but he wants to do his best.”

Tom nodded.  “He seems like a fine man.”

“Oh, he is, Tom, believe me,” said Hoss earnestly, stopping and looking at the other man.  “You gotta understand, Adam’s pretty soft-hearted once ya break through that hard head o’ his.  When Little Joe and me were growin’ up, he pretty much raised us near as much as Pa did, since Pa had to work so hard.  Lots o’ times, it was just Adam there for us. Ya see, it was kinda like he never had no childhood.  It was just him and Pa when his ma died and they was travelin’.  An’ when my ma died, he was only six.  By the time Joe came along, he was much older.  And when Joe’s ma, Marie, died, Adam really kinda had to take over for a while…Pa took her death real hard.  Adam was only seventeen, and he was runnin’ the ranch, raisin’ us, and doin’ it all, while tryin’ to bring Pa around, too.  Adam ain’t never had things easy.”  

Tom thoughtfully stared out at the sunset.  “He’s a man who’s known a lot of loss.”

Hoss nodded.  “I got a lot of respect for my brother Adam.”

“And a lot of love?” smiled Tom gently.

“Yep,” said Hoss, a bit embarrassed.  “That, too.  And he’s got a lot of love for us.  I think that’s what brought him back from the east after he finished college.  Sometimes, I know, he gets fiddle-footed and wishes he was someplace more excitin’, but he sticks it out because he knows Pa needs him here.  He ain’t never gonna let anyone down that he cares about.  He cares about Patrick, too.”  Hoss looked at the other man; many people underestimated Hoss, thinking him as slow as he was big.  But he knew exactly what this man was fishing for.  “Tom, you ain’t got nuthin’ to worry about.  Adam’s gonna be a real good father to young Patrick.  They’ve just gotta take some time and find some even footin’, ya might say.”  

Tom smiled at the other man and nodded.  They walked back to the horses, to make the return trip to the ranch, with Tom feeling much better.

 

After lunch, and a gentle reminder from Adam, Pat went out to the woodpile to do his daily chore, working up a good sweat and loosening up some of the frustration and anger he’d developed after his riding lesson, allowing his mind to rant a bit, and try to mentally work through the morning’s experience…

How anyone could expect a body to remember everything that’s bein’ spit at ya while you’re sittin’ ceilin’-high on some huge beast was beyond him!  Pat needed quiet to take things in and figure ‘em out, settling ‘em to make ‘em part of his understanding.  Havin’ this fella yap at him without ceasing had unnerved him and made him even more nervous and tense. 

Once he got out in the field, alone with the damn thing, he and horse had a meetin’ o’ the minds.  He promised the animal he wouldn’t kick him, if Blackie promise not to separate him from the saddle a’purpose. While he had a few tumbles, he could tell the horse wasn’t makin’ it personal-like.  And they got on fine…

Chopping wood could be hard work, but it was work Pat knew like the back of his hand.  He never handled an axe without paying attention to what he was doing, but it didn’t require an exhausting amount of concentration.  Once in a rhythm, Pat found himself able to let the tension leach out of him, seeing the steady accumulation of split wood provide a concrete proof of accomplishment, something he badly needed after feeling so much like a fish out of water. 

By the time he was finished, he was tired but felt a bit better as he slipped his shirt back on.  He noticed that the axe was dulling and thought he’d better sharpen it, so he walked  off toward the barn figuring that the tools he’d need would likely be there.

Inside, he found his Uncle Joe mucking out stalls and talking affectionately to the horses.

“Gettin’ any answers?” he asked dryly, as he walked in.  Joe turned and grinned. 

“Not yet,” he said.  “I’ll let you know.”

Pat shook his head, trying not to smile, and lifted up the axe.  “It’s gettin’ dull.  You got a whetstone?”

“Over by the harness rack,” nodded Joe in the general direction.  Pat followed his nod, and saw a work shelf and table, and noted the whetstone.  He picked it up and kicked up a leg on a nearby haybale to rest the axe on his knee while sharpening it.  

“Your pa wanted me to show you how to do the barn chores,” said Joe as he tossed the currying brush onto the tack table.  

“Why?”

“Because they’re part of the everyday chores,” responded Joe, “and when you ride, you’ve got to learn how to take care of the animal when you’re finished.”

Pat harrumphed and turned his attention back to the axe.  Joe studied him; like everyone else in the family, the resemblance to his brother startled him.  Joe’s earliest memories of Adam were as a youth just a little older than Patrick, and the likeness made him feel as though he’d slipped back in time.  He noted that Pat seemed to know what he was doing with the axe; the boy sharpened the edge of the tool with clean, sharp strokes and eyed it carefully.  When he was finished, Joe noted he had replaced the whetstone in its proper place, and watched Pat grip the axe again, heading for the barn door.

“Hey, hold it!” Joe called.  

Pat stopped, and turned back, surprised. “What?”

“I told you; I’m supposed to teach you how to do the barn chores.”

Pat brows knit in a scowl. “What, now?!”

“No better time than the present,” replied Joe firmly.  Sighing in pained resignation, Pat carefully laid the ax down on the worktable and walked over to his uncle.  

“First thing, we get the horses out ‘cos it’s easier to work without them in here,” said Joe, matter-of-factly slipping halters over Buck and Cochise’s heads.

“Whose are they?”

“This is Buck, Pa’s horse,” answered Joe, rubbing Buck’s ears.  “He’s an old fella, but he and Pa are a real team, just like all of us and our horses.  We work together, see, cutting cattle, or riding the herd during round-up.”  He handed Buck’s halter to Pat, who startled, took it, wondering if he was just supposed to hold on to ‘em or do something else.  “This one’s mine, Cochise.  Adam got her for me,” he said, glancing at Pat.  “When I was twelve, I saw her in a herd of wild horses and wanted her so bad.  I tried for weeks to capture her, but I didn’t have any luck, and then the Paiutes got her first.”

“Paiutes?”

“Indians up in the hills,” explained Joe.  “Adam went up and traded a lot of things for her, including his brand-new rifle.  And had to explain it to Pa and risk getting his head bitten off,” Joe shook his head with a grin.  

Pat looked at him questioningly.  Joe laughed.  “I’d had a rough summer…had gotten into a lot of trouble at school that year, so summer didn’t start off so well.  Adam had just gotten back from college then, too, and he and I were lockin’ horns on a regular basis.  I was pretty rough on him ….,” Joe blushed as he remembered his escapades of that summer.  “Pa didn’t think I deserved her and was really mad at your father for trading for her.  But ol’ Adam…he just dug in his heels and finally talked Pa into letting me keep her.  She’s been the best mare I could have hoped for, haven’t you, girl?” he grinned, letting the mare nuzzle his hands.  He laughed. “No sugar today, Cooch.”

But Pat wasn’t thinking about the camaraderie between his uncle and his horse, he was thinking about this new information about his father.  His face open and relaxed for the first time, Pat wondered if his father might not be as distant and aloof as he looked.  Then he frowned. No, maybe he wasn’t with his younger brother, but he’d never warm up to him that way.  

Joe had been paying attention to Cochise and hadn’t seen the change in expression on his nephew’s face, he just saw the scowl.  Frowning himself, he handed the halter to Pat.  “This one’s Chub’s stall.  He’s Hoss’.  And that’s your father’s horse, Sport.  He’s gettin’ old now, Adam’s had him for almost twenty years, but he loves him; he’ll ride other horses to give Sport a rest now and again, but Sport’s always been his favorite.”

Joe took Sport’s halter and walked him out of the barn.  Pat figured he was supposed to follow with Buck and Cochise, and they released the animals into the corral, to join Blackie.  Joe gestured to Pat and they returned to the barn.  Joe, businesslike now in his irritation with Pat’s reluctance to loosen up and try to accept the situation, started drilling him through the steps of barn chores.  Instead of showing him, the drill began to sound like orders to Pat, and he started to bristle with irritation himself, feeling like he was back in the frustration of this past morning.  Were they all like this? Barkin’ our orders and just figurin’ a body’d go along like a sheep?!

Between his annoyance at his uncle and his remembered discomfort from the morning,  by the time they were almost finished, Pat had worked himself into a thoroughly bad mood, and his uncle wasn’t far behind.

Lugging hay bales evoked such a powerful memory – and a wave of homesickness –  in Pat of unloading beer kegs from the barges on the waterfront and transferring them into the beer wagon for the ‘Broth’.  The memory hit him like a ton of bricks, and he knew if he didn’t stop, he was going to start to cry.  And he would never, never, give this man the satisfaction of crying in front of him, not if he died for it.

“I’ve had enough,” he said crossly, dropping a hay bale and sitting on, to regain his composure.  “If your brother wants it done, let him do it himself!”

Joe turned in shock.  “You’d just better get up off your butt and do your share!” he snapped.  “Your father said I was to show you the ropes and that’s just what I’m gonna do!”

“Well, you have fun with that,” snorted Pat, hauling himself to his feet, and walking toward the door, “I’m goin’ in.”

He was snapped around by his uncle, with a firm grip on his upper arm, to face Joe, an angry expression on his face. “Hold it right there, Pat,” he said warningly.

Without even thinking about it, Pat instinctively brought his wrists together and rammed his arms upwards, breaking a surprised Joe’s hold on him.  He danced back on the balls of his feet, cocking his fists ready to fight back, a furious glower on his face.  

Battle was arrested, however, when both of them heard the terse sound of Adam’s voice from the barn door.

“What’s going on in here?”

Joe and Pat angrily glanced at each other.  “Nothin’,” retorted Pat, nastily.  “Just gettin’ my orders.”

“I’m just doin’ what you asked me to do, Adam,” snapped back Joe.  “But he’s being a royal pain in the – “

“Pat, go on into the house and get washed up for supper,” interrupted Adam.

Joe was steamed and turned around, returning to the job at hand.  Pat glared at Joe’s back, then did as he was told, glowering at the ground as he stalked by his father.  Adam watched him go for a moment, then walked towards his younger brother and, using a pair of hay hooks, picked up the bale Pat had been sitting on and lugged it over to Joe to break up and put in the manger.  He didn’t mention he’d been observing the interchange for several minutes before intervening. 

Finally, work finished, Joe decided he was going to say something, whether Adam liked it or not.   Joe turned to his brother, and said forcefully, “You know, if you keep letting him get away with that he’s gonna be a spoiled brat.”  Then he shook his head in exasperation, continuing, “Forget it, it’s too late.  He’s a brat to begin with.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Adam with a small smile.  “He just sounds like someone else I know who doesn’t like taking orders.”

Joe stopped and looked at his older brother, a sour expression on his handsome face.  

“Joe, I know he’s being difficult, but weren’t you the one who told me to relax with him?” Adam asked innocently.

Joe started to reply, then stopped, narrowing his eyes, and thinking about how he hadn’t heard the barn door squeal before Adam spoke earlier.  A slow, wry smile grew on his face.  “Just how long were you standing there?” he inquired, grinning, his hands on his hips.

“Long enough to know that he’s enough like me to get your dander up,” Adam answered, an eyebrow raised.  “Don’t you remember what it felt like when you were his age and I was trying to teach you things, and you felt like I was being bossy?”

“Yeah, well, you were bossy!”

“I guess some of it rubbed off on you,” smiled his older brother.  “I’ll talk to him after supper.  But I’d be willing to bet part of his bad mood is a result of being tuckered out and frustrated.  I’ll bet you didn’t know that gave him his first riding lesson this morning, and he spent a lot of time tumbling out of the saddle.” He raised an eyebrow at his little brother. “I doubt that did a whole lot for his confidence in himself.” 

Joe looked at his older brother, and sighed, shaking his head.  “No… No, I didn’t. Why didn’t he just say so?”

Adam adopted a comically pained expression, looking at his brother as though he truly was too dim for words.

Joe chuckled and waved a hand.  “Okay, okay,” he sighed, “I get the message.”

Adam clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him good-naturedly toward the door. “C’mon little brother.  Time to get washed up for supper, like a good boy.”

Laughing, they left the barn and walked toward the house.

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

August 22, 1871

Everyone was already at the breakfast table when Patrick stiffly hobbled his way down the hall and to the stairs the next morning.  Adam gave Joe a stern glance, as if to forestall any comments or joking, and it was reinforced with an equally stern look from Ben.  Joe managed to look pained, while Hoss grinned at him. 

Pat was in pain, there was no doubt about it.  He slowly, stiffly eased himself into his chair, wincing as his thigh and back muscles complained bitterly when he stretched them to sit down.  To Adam’s surprise—and earning him Adam’s grudging respect—the boy didn’t utter a whimper and forced himself to appear as composed as possible.  After all, he had stubbornly refused his father’s suggestion of a hot bath last night to soak out the soreness and was bound and determined not to show him that he regretted it this morning.  

Hop Sing placed his breakfast in front of him, and he unthinkingly raised an arm to pick up his coffee cup; that was a set of muscles he hadn’t dallied with yet this morning, and the discomfort that effort generated made him wince and catch his breath. Hop Sing narrowed his eyes at him, then nodded, firmly, and headed to his back room where his medicinal herbs lay.

Tom Ryan didn’t have the forbearance Adam had; he grinned at the boy.  “A bit tender this mornin’, lad?”

“I’m fine,” muttered Pat, forcing that arm forward despite the pain experienced to reach his cup.  Tom chortled, making Pat glare.

“Ryan, so help me—” he started, his brows knit together in a black scowl, pointing at Tom with his fork.

“Patrick,” broke in Adam, mildly, “would you be good enough to pass the sugar?”  

The diversion worked, for the moment.  Pat snorted, and carefully handed the sugar bowl off to Hoss, beside him, and put his attention back to his breakfast.  Ryan chuckled, and Ray decided to change the subject, although he wasn’t sure how this one would be accepted either by Master Patrick.

Breakfast conversation continued while Patrick pushed his breakfast around his plate, too uncomfortable to want much to eat, until Hop Sing came back to the table with a small, beautiful cup filled with something that had a weird, medicinal smell to it.  He set it in front of Patrick and stood there, sternly speaking to him in Chinese, and then remained solidly still, crossed his arms, and waited.

Pat, surprised, started to argue, but the Chinese man lit up one side of him and down the other until the boy finally replied… something… to the man, picked up the cup and tossed it into his mouth, then made a horrific face, and leaned suddenly toward his plate.

Hop Sing further scolded him in Chinese, apparently warning something dire, because the boy stopped just short of spitting out the mouthful of liquid. Glaring back at the man, his face still twisted with disgust, he forced it down, shuddering.

Hop Sing finally nodded smugly and took the cup back into the kitchen.

Adam, Joe and Hoss all chuckled to themselves remembering having been dosed by Hop Sing in the past. 

“Smartest decision y’ever made, Squirt,” Hoss assured Patrick. “Ain’t nobody ever won fightin’ against Hop Sing when he’s doctorin’.”

Glowering, the boy put his attention back to his breakfast.

“Mr. Cartwright, Tom and I will be going into Virginia City today to make our arrangements to return to New York,” said Ray calmly, avoiding looking at the boy at the other end of the table.  But he could feel the blue eyes come up off his plate and stare at him.  Tom glanced at Pat and back at Ray, then frowned and buttered his toast.

“Would you like some company?” asked Adam, as he stirred his coffee.  “I’m taking Patrick into town to get some clothes and a haircut.”

“A haircut?!” choked Pat, his fork clattering to the plate.  “What for?! I don’t need no haircut!”

Adam cocked an eyebrow. “Have you looked in the mirror lately?”

Joe and Hoss exchanged amused glances; Ben sighed.  “I guess no youngster appreciates looking like a gentleman,” he grinned, looking pointedly at Joe. “Patrick, your Uncle Joe used to give me fits about getting his hair cut.  He preferred going around all the time looking like a riverboat gambler.”

The laughter diffused the tension for a moment, but Adam could see that Pat was still going to balk.

“In answer to yer question, Adam, we’d be appreciatin’ your company,” smiled Ray. 

“Well, suppose we get started,” Adam said, dropping his napkin beside his plate.  Pat looked up, annoyed. 

“I just sat down!” he protested.

“No hurry,” nodded Adam.  “By the time I hitch up the team you should be finished and we can go.  We’ve got a lot to do.”

“Aw, Je—” began Pat in frustration, throwing his napkin down in a temper.

“Don’t finish that, young man,” warned Adam coolly, “unless you want to find out what it’s like to have your mouth washed out with soap.”  

A pair of calm but firm brown eyes met a pair of hot, angry blue ones, and locked.  Pat drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, working very hard to keep his temper.  Forgetting his discomfort, he pushed his seat back and got to his feet.  

“Can I be excused?” he asked through his teeth.  “I’m ain’t hungry anymore.”

“Suit yourself,” replied Adam, nodding.  “Go get your boots on.”  

Without another word, Pat left the table and stomped back upstairs.

Ray drew in a noisy breath through his nose, and very deliberately turned to Tom, one blond eyebrow arched, and his mouth twisted in disgust..  “Sure, and a fine help you are,” he declared, annoyed, to Tom.

“Ah, he was in a right mood before he got out o’ bed,” protested Tom, feeling a little sheepish about the role he played in starting Pat off on the wrong foot this morning.  Uncomfortable, he got to his feet. “Can I be helpin’ ye with the team?”

Adam glanced back at the embarrassed Irishman and sighed.  “Sure, why not,” he muttered and stalked past him out the door.  Ben sighed and rubbed his temples.  It was promising to be a long day.

 

“So, we’ll be meetin’ ye back here at noon?” smiled Ray, as he glanced up at the International House’s sign.

“That should be about right, ” nodded Adam, sitting up on the buckboard with Pat beside him.  Pat was drinking in the sights of the town, and wondering how in the name of God people survived in a backwater like this…  “We’ve got some errands to run, shopping to do, but by lunch time we should be finished.”

“See you then,” nodded Ray, heading down the street toward the stage office.  Adam flicked the reins and got the horses going.  

Pat hadn’t said much on the way in, preferring instead to keep his own counsel and study the scenery.  Not only had he gotten over his snit from the morning, but whatever medicinal qualities had been in that godawful concoction Hop Sing had forced down his gullet actually had eased a lot of his discomfort.  Besides that, Pat found he was seeing his mother’s image in his mind more and more lately and guiltily remembered his promise to behave.  And, finally, he decided he’d best work harder at eliminating the cussing (learned at the feet of the longshoreman on the waterfront), because he actually knew exactly what it was like to get his mouth washed out with soap; it was one of Siobhan’s nastier punishments for his foul mouth, and he didn’t like it, not at all.

Adam surreptitiously glanced down at the boy beside him and smiled.  The scowl was missing, and there was an intelligent “information gathering” look in its place; inquisitive, studying, serious, with an occasional small smile at something that tickled the boy’s fancy as they rode by.

Adam stopped the wagon in front of Paul Martin’s office and stepped down.  ‘First stop,” he announced, and Pat got down behind him.  His father had said something about a haircut, and some shopping.  He focused his attention on the building in front of him and stopped dead in his tracks.

“No!  I ain’t sick!” he protested, stopping short as he saw the apothecary symbol and the somewhat recognizable squiggles on the sign.  He didn’t know what the names of the letters were, nor what they spelled, but he sure as hell remembered what they represented from his own painful experience years ago in Hell’s Kitchen.  

Pat hated doctors. 

The only time he’d ever been forced to visit one was at the age of five when he’d cut himself rather badly on some broken glass in the alley behind the “Witches’ Broth” and had to have almost two dozen frightening, painful stitches in his hand.  It had been the only time he’d ever felt abandoned and unprotected by his mother, the only time he’d felt betrayed by her, and that emotion had stuck with him with a vengeance when around any member of the healing profession… even Hop Sing, this morning.

Even now, just seeing the shape of those markings on the sign made Pat’s heart pound in terror; pure reflex made him turn tail to run.  This time, though, a strong hand latched onto his arm and hauled him up, short.

“Whoa!  Take it easy!” protested Adam, turning him around as gently as he could.  The apprehension in Pat’s eyes startled Adam, and he rested his hands firmly on Pat’s shoulders, as much to reassure the boy as simply to hang onto him.  “It’s all right, Pat,” he said gently, squeezing his shoulders in comfort.  “I just want him to check you out, to make sure you’re healthy.  He’s not going to do anything else.”

Pat swallowed hard and looked at the door of the building, then back to his father.  For the first time, Pat saw genuine concern and caring in his father’s face.  It made him feel a little calmer, a little more reassured… but not enough to make him willing to go in that awful place. 

He swallowed hard, pulling back toward the wagon.  “But why?! I feel fine! Why do I have to?!” he asked shakily, his nerves shooting his voice an octave higher, strained. 

“It’s just an exam, Pat, I promise,” reassured Adam, gently but firmly ushering him up the steps in front of him, the boy resisting slightly all the way.

Adam made the introductions, trying to ease Pat’s fears by mentioning how Dr. Martin was a very old friend of their family and helped them all through various illnesses or injuries.  It didn’t matter a damn to the boy, who swallowed hard, and kept looking anxiously toward the door for a way to escape.

Paul Martin knew a scared kid when he saw one, and he did his best to make him feel at ease.  Paul made the examination as quick as possible.  He made sure Pat was told exactly what he was doing at all times, and his honesty and forthright manner eased Pat’s jitters a bit.  The boy ended up submitting nervously with a certain amount of grace to being poked and prodded.

“Well, young man, you’re in fine shape considering the trip you’ve just had,” pronounced Paul to Pat, easing Adam’s mind, as Pat quickly buttoned his shirt up again.  

“I toldja I was okay,” muttered Pat as he jammed his shirttail into his pants, antsy to leave as soon as they could.

“Well, he’s tall for his age, Adam, and a bit underweight, but a few weeks of Hop Sing’s cooking, lots of exercise out in the fresh air and plenty of sleep will fill him right out,” said Paul to Adam.  “Otherwise, lungs are in good shape, heart’s sound as a dollar. Ears look good.  By the way, what are those bruises from?”

“Pat just started riding yesterday,” answered Adam, smiling at Paul.  

“Oh, I see,” laughed Paul.  “Well, son, you might want to take a soak in a hot salt bath tonight to ease the soreness.”

Pat reddened and glared down at his swinging legs while Adam looked innocently at Paul.  “A hot bath?  Think it’d help?”

“Adam, what’s the matter with you?” answered Paul, looking at Adam in surprise. “Haven’t you taken enough spills off a bronc to answer that?”

To forestall any further discussion, Pat scowled and hopped off the examination table, impatiently turning back at the door. 

“Can we go now?” he demanded, trying hard to cover his anxiety with impatience.

“Yup,” nodded Adam.  “Next stop, the barbershop.”

“Oh, goody,” muttered Pat as he preceded his father out the door.

 

It was a busy day at the mercantile.   Bill Jenkins, his two sons, his wife and his daughter were all working with customers, filling orders, lugging supplies out to wagons, helping choose dress patterns and fabrics, measuring out sugar and coffee.

Community conversation was always central at the general store and today was no exception.  The major topic today, however, seemed to the be the Cartwrights and their latest arrival.

“Mary, do you know what I heard?” hissed Martha Grant.

“What?”

“That he’s the son of a saloon girl!”

“No!”

“It happened while he was in college!” nodded Martha, earnestly.

Horrified, the other ladies in the group crowded around Mary Robison, anxious for the gossip.  Mr. Jenkins wearily glanced in their direction shaking his head.  He sure hoped this nonsense would die down soon.  The Cartwrights were friends of his, and the fervor with which the townspeople were coming down on Adam was disturbing.

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” sniffed Jane Trent, shaking her head.  “I can remember when young Adam Cartwright was an impossible youngster, getting himself into all kinds of trouble.”

“What do you mean, Jane?”

“Well, my land, Thelma! Don’t you remember when young Cartwright was arrested for the murder of that miner, years ago?”

“Murder!” squealed two or three of the ladies.

“He was acquitted of that charge,” said Jenkins sternly on his way by, carrying a box of canned peaches to the window.

Mrs. Trent sniffed again.  “Well, there’s no smoke without fire…”

“And I heard from Alice Marquette years ago that Adam and her boy Ross had been involved with those awful saloon girls that used to work at Dutch Pete’s, remember?” nodded Julia Trimble, nodding her head vigorously.

“Poor Ben Cartwright must be dying a thousand deaths!” declared Mrs. Trent. “Imagine, having to house an illegitimate child in your home from origins like that!”

“Poor Ben Cartwright, my eye!” scorned Mrs. Robison.  “He let that oldest boy run wild, and he’s doing the same with young Joseph!  ‘As ye sow, so shall ye reap,’ I always say!”

The ladies all clucked their tongues and shook their heads, relishing every word of gossip being shared.  

The big double doors to the mercantile opened and the subjects of so much discussion walked in.  Adam glanced at Pat, now freshly trimmed and looking a lot more presentable, as he wandered toward the candy area.  Smiling to himself, Adam walked to the main counter and grinned at Bill Jenkins.

“Hi, Bill.”

“Hey, there, Adam,” smiled Bill.  This might not be the most auspicious time for Adam to arrive, but Bill wanted to make him feel welcome and make it clear which side of the fence the Jenkins family stood on.  He glanced with a smile toward the confections counter.  “So that’s young Patrick, is it?”

“That’s him,” smiled Adam with a sigh.  “Listen, we need to get him fully outfitted, Bill…some work pants, some shirts, socks, the works.  I’d like to get him fitted for a suit, and a couple of dress shirts, too.”

“How about boots?”

“He’s wearing an old pair of Joe’s right now that seem to fit him well. They’ll do until the ones we just ordered from Lone Star Leather are finished next week,” nodded Adam.

“Well, let’s take a look and see what size he is,” replied Bill, pulling out a pad of paper.

“Pat?”

Pat looked up from the mouth-watering candy display when he heard his name, and reluctantly walked over to join his father.

“Pat, this is Mr. Jenkins,” introduced Adam. “He and his family have been good friends of ours for many years.”  

Pat stuck a hand out over the counter in a frank, open gesture of politeness as his mother had taught him.  “Nice t’ meet you, Mr. Jenkins,” he said soberly.

“Nice to meet you, Patrick,” nodded Bill with a smile.  Lord, the resemblance is amazing! he thought to himself.

Adam was aware that just about everyone in the store was focusing very hard on what they were doing and studiously avoiding even looking his way…while he was watching them.  He was sure the moment his back was turned they paid a lot closer attention to the interchange between him and Bill.  Adam found himself growing a bit irritated.  When was this nonsense going to die down?

“He’s going to be rough to fit easily, Adam,” said Bill, scrutinizing the youngster; Pat squirmed under his intent gaze.  “Tall, real slim.  Hmmm…”  Finally, he shook his head. “Nope, we’re going to have to do measurements for the suit anyway, so let’s just get ’em and I’ll get the rest of the clothes taken care of from there.”

“Whaddo I need all these clothes for?” asked Pat, irritably, as Bill measured him while he stood on a large box  in front of the triple mirror in the men’s clothes area of the store.  “I got plenty.”

“Somewhere along the line, you’re going to need them to be washed,” answered Adam dryly.  “The weather’s going to be kind of cold in a month or two to be going around without ’em.”

Pat turned and made a face at him, causing the shopkeeper to exhale in exasperation. “Stand up straight and stop your fidgeting, young’un, or I’ll have one arm longer than the other!” complained Bill.

Heaving a huge sigh, as though feeling simply too hard done by for words to express, Patrick glowered at the mirror while the shopkeeper moved the measuring tape around.  “Pretty tall for your age, ain’t ya?” 

“I guess.”

“How tall are ya?”

“Dunno,” Pat muttered.  

Adam eyed him. “I’d guess around five feet seven inches, Bill.”

“Well, then,” said Bill, putting one end of the tape measure into the boy’s hand, and raising it up to the top of his head, “hold that right there.”  He then proceeded to lower the tape to the top of the boy’s bootheel.  He glanced up at Adam with a grin. “Five feet, seven and 3/16ths.”

Pat swallowed hard for a moment; he understood some of the numbers, but not the context in which they were used, and he frowned. 

“Hmm.. how old is he, Adam?  Fourteen?  Fifteen?”

“Fourteen,” grunted Pat.

“In three months,” added Adam, with a small smile, earning him another exasperated sigh from his son.

“All right, son, you’re all set,” smiled Bill, patting the boy’s arm, letting him climb down and slipping his measuring tape around his neck.

“Did you hear about the new arrival?” Adam heard clearly stated behind him.  Closing his eyes, Adam tried to stay calm.

“No, where?”

“At the Langtons!  The most beautiful baby boy!” 

“Oh, how wonderful!” “Isn’t that nice?” “Oh, that’s good news” crowed all the ladies in the store.

“Yes, isn’t it?” continued Mrs. Robison, her voice cutting Adam’s nerves like a buzz saw. “Such a nice family…never any hint of scandal…”

Pat hadn’t missed a word, either.  He glanced at his father, trying to gauge his reaction.  It wasn’t hard to figure out.  Adam’s face had closed as tight as though shutters had been slammed over it, his lips flattening into a hard line.  Pat sighed.  So… the old man’s got some stuff to learn ta get used to, apparently.  

Adam heard the sigh, and glanced at his son, worried that the comment had upset him.  To his surprise, when his eyes met Pat’s, he found the boy’s filled with pity.  For him?!  But the boy moved off, back toward the candy again before he could be sure.

Adam leaned over to Bill, who was gathering jeans, other pants, shirts and socks together based on Pat’s sizes.

“I’ve given him a little room to grow in the sizes of these clothes, Adam,” said Bill as he sorted through the items.  “If anything’s really too big, just send ’em back and we’ll exchange ’em.”

“Sure thing, Bill.  Listen, would you do me a favor?”

“Sure, Adam.”

“Fill up a bag with about two bits’ worth of candy, would you?  Peppermint sticks, gum drops, jelly beans…you know,” he said quietly.  Bill glanced over at the candy counter, seeing Pat still staring, his mouth watering, and grinned, nodding.  “Sure thing.”

Pat sighed and turned away from the candy.  It would have to wait until he had a little pocket money of his own.  He wondered if there were some jobs around the Ponderosa he could do to earn some spending money?

“Pat?”

Patrick turned at the sound of his name, and saw his father standing quite close to him, holding something.  He looked down and his eyes widened.

It was the most beautiful, dove gray Stetson hat, studded with silver bits.  Pat stared for a moment, then looked up at his father, his jaw dropped.

“For me?” he asked softly, surprised.

“Gotta have a hat,” shrugged Adam, smiling.  “Try it on.”

Pat took the beautiful hat in his hands, and turning back toward the mirror, slowly set it on his head.

Adam nodded and smiled.  He knew the style would look well on the boy; it was the same gambler’s style he always chose for himself, and the dove gray would suit Pat’s coloring and eyes.  And that etched pattern on the studs was quite unique; he’d never seen the like, and it intrigued Adam, making that hat something he felt sure no one else would have.  He wanted his boy to have something that was unique and totally his own.

He’d accurately gauged the difference in their sizes, too; it wasn’t much.  It wouldn’t be long before Pat would be wearing his hand-me-downs.

Then Adam’s heart soared as Pat turned to him, his face split in the first truly happy grin he’d seen yet.  Those blue eyes lit up like stars, and Pat’s whole face was transformed.

“Do you like it?”

“Yeah!” the boy nodded.

“You could go look at the others and see if you like something else better, you know,” he grinned.

Pat shrugged and walked toward the men’s hats, but Adam noticed he didn’t remove the gray Stetson.  Adam smiled as he leaned against the counter.  He felt something tap his arm, and looked at Bill, grinning as he handed him the bag of candy.  Adam stuck it into his pocket and settled the bill.

 

By the time they had loaded their purchases into the buckboard, Adam glanced at the big clock over the bank.  “11:30. We’ve made good time today,” he smiled down at Pat.  “Let’s go over and see if Tom and Ray are back from the stage office yet.”  Adam climbed up into the wagon seat, and Pat followed him up.

Adam glanced at his son and pulled from his pocket the bag of candy, pulling out a peppermint stick and popped it into his mouth, gripping it with his teeth as though it were a cigar.  Pat’s mouth dropped open as he stared at his father in shocked surprise.  Grinning, Adam popped another into his son’s gaping mouth, making the boy laugh.  

“You crazy or what?” asked Pat, chuckling, shaking his head with an amused smiled, as he licked the sweet, delicious treat.

Adam said nothing, but grinned as he urged the horses on to the hotel.

 

But Connelly and Ryan were nowhere to be seen at the International House, and Jim, the desk clerk, stated he hadn’t seen them.  Adam made a reservation for lunch since it looked like a busy day, and he and Pat stepped out onto the sidewalk again.

“Hmm….I wonder where they might be?” mused Adam, looking back and forth up the street.  Surely it couldn’t take this long to finish their business.

“The saloon,” Pat said dryly, gesturing at the Silver Dollar’s batwing doors, and started to walk across the street.  Adam smiled and caught up with him, and they walked across the street together.  When they reached the sidewalk in front of the swinging doors, Adam put out a hand and gently held Pat back.

“You stay right here.  I’ll be out in a minute.”

“What?”  Surprised, Pat looked at him.  “Why?”

“Because you have no business being in a saloon at your age,” replied Adam, raising an eyebrow.

Pat barked with laughter and rolled his eyes. Then he realized his father wasn’t kidding.   “Aw, c’mon!” he protested. “I bin workin’ in a saloon for the past five years years! I was raised in a saloon, for Pete’s sake!”

“Not anymore.”

“What, you expect me ta just sit out here, twiddling my thumbs?!  That’s—” Pat protested angrily.  

Adam turned back to him and eyed him sternly. “That’s exactly right, I expect you to ‘just sit out here’ and wait for me. Twiddling your thumbs is optional.   I won’t be long.”

Pat fumed. “Of all the stupid…”

“Patrick?  Did you hear me?”‘

“Yeah, I heard ya,” he grumbled, leaning a shoulder against the supporting column.  Adam started forward through the doors, then hesitated, and turned back.  “Stay put, clear?”

Without meeting his father’s eyes, Pat nodded with little grace, pulling the brim of his hat lower over his face, crossing his arms in an angry stance, and sulked.

 

Adam pushed open the swinging doors and entered the Silver Dollar, scanning the room for Tom and Ray.

“Mornin’, Adam.”

He sighed, raising his eyes heavenward, and finally turned around.  Vera was seated at a table behind him, alone, with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, one half full in her hand, the other empty and on the table.

“Vera,” he nodded.

“So, how’s it feel to be a daddy?” she asked, coyly.

“Fine, thanks,” he said tightly, and walked on into the room, seething.  He was rapidly getting tired of this.  Why couldn’t these fools just leave him and his family alone?

He spotted Ray and Tom at a table near the back, looking over some papers while they enjoyed a beer.  Ray glanced up and saw him coming and smiled, waving him over.

“Booked our stage,” he smiled, waving the tickets.  

“When do you leave?” asked Adam, slipping into the empty chair between them.

“Saturday morning,” answered Tom, glumly.  ‘Otherwise it’d be another week to make the connection we need.”

“Saturday,” repeated Adam quietly, exhaling in surprise.  “That’s going to be rough on Pat.”

Ray’s smile faded a bit, and Tom took a huge slug of beer.  “Everything up ta now’s been rough on Pat,” grunted Tom.  “Guess he’ll just haveta handle that, too.”

Ray looked at his friend. “Tom…” he chided.

“Ah, phffftt!’ the man snorted, sitting back in his chair.  

Charlie dropped off a beer in front of Adam then, and when he reached into his pocket for a coin, Charlie patted his shoulder.  “This is that one on the house, remember?”  he smiled and walked back to the bar.

“And how was your shopping expedition this mornin’?” smiled Ray, trying to be pragmatic about it all.

“Well, his hair is trimmed, he’s got a pair of boots ordered, a suit’s been fitted, and several pairs of pants, shirts, socks, what have you are out in the buckboard.  And,” Adam smiled, “a new gray Stetson.” Adam took a good swallow of beer.

Tom laughed.  “A hat!  Saints be praised; he’s wanted one for the last two years!”

“Earned me the first smile he’s coughed up since he’s been here,” admitted Adam with a grin.  The grin faded a little as he thought of the nonsense in the store.  “He also got to meet some of Virginia City’s fine, upstanding citizens.”  Adam took another swig of his beer, frowning.

Tom and Ray glanced at each other.  “Trouble?”

Adam shrugged.  “Annoyance.  It just bothers me he’s got to put up with it.”

“Lad, don’t you be frettin’,” said Tom gently.  “He’s used to it.  Been dealin’ with it all his life.”

“Well, he shouldn’t have to,” snapped Adam, resting his elbows on the table as he sipped his beer.  “It’s not as if he had any choice in the matter.”  He looked up suddenly, remembering the visit to Paul.  “Hey, maybe you two can help me with something.  Why is he scared to death of doctors?”

Ray and Tom glanced at each other in concerned surprise.  

“What on earth did he see a doctor for?” asked Ray, concerned.

“I wanted our family physician to check him out, make sure he’s okay, and he nearly took off on me like a scalded cat when we showed up at Paul’s office.  He was terrified.”  Adam looked at Ray questioningly, who was nodding with a grim smile.

“Ah, Jaysus, ’twas a terrible cut he got, the poor lad. Only a wee shaver, he was, five or six at the most, and he sliced his left hand somethin’ fierce. Right into the muscle it went, a deep gash it was that needed a pile of stitches. Siobhan needed me to help her drag him down there to the doctor, the little fella kickin’ and screamin’ the whole way. ‘Twas agony, I tell ya, and the poor bairn was hysterical for hours. Siobhan had the divil’s own job calm’n him down, and he wouldn’t look at her for three days, so upset with her he was.  He’s still got the scar.  To this day, the sight of a doctor sends shivers down his spine, poor lad,” Ray said softly.  He remembered the day Siobhan died, and the fight Pat started to put up before taking the sedative Dr. O’Meara prescribed.  It had been difficult, but he was too spent to fuss for long.

Poor kid, Adam thought, sadly.  It’s always been a fight for you, hasn’t it?

Tom and Ray glanced at each other.  “Adam,” began Ray, a little uneasily.  “I think you probably have been able to figure out the kind of … relationship both Tom and I have had with Siobhan.  We wanted ye to know….”  Ray faltered, a little embarrassed.

Adam looked up, surprised at the change in the conversation.  He had figured early along that both Tom and Ray had been very close to Siobhan…how could he not recognize the signs?

Uncharacteristically, Tom drew in a deep breath and fixed his eye on Adam.  “That lad means a great deal to both o’ us.  We were prepared to accept him as our own when we each asked his mother to wed.  We had to be sure you were goin’ to do right by the boy, that’s why we both came out here wi’ him.”

Adam nodded and waited, nervously.  He could gauge nothing by their faces.

“As hard as it’s going to be to leave him behind,” said Ray quietly, “we know you’re going to be a good father to the lad.  Give him some time, and he’ll know it, too.”

Adam looked at both men, feeling terribly humbled.  They were trusting him with Siobhan’s boy.  It didn’t matter that biologically he was Pat’s father; for the past thirteen years one or the other of these men had helped to raise him.  Adam swallowed hard, seeing the gravity.  

“I want you to know how grateful I am to both of you,” he said softly.  “Not just for Pat’s welfare, which I know you two have looked out for all these years, but also for…” and he faltered, then drew in a breath and went on.  “For Siobhan.  I want you both to know, I loved her.  I loved her desperately, and I wish to God I could have made her believe that.”  His voice cracked a bit and he stared down into his beer.

“She knew, lad,” said Ray, softly, resting a hand on Adam’s arm.  “Believe me, she knew.”

The three men were quiet for a moment, then Tom suddenly looked up, startled. “Hey… where is the lad, anyhow?”

Adam shook himself out of his reverie, remembering. “I asked him to wait outside while I came in to find you.”

Tom and Ray stared at each in dismay.  “Yer kiddin’, right?” demanded Tom in exasperation, bounding to his feet and heading for the door.

“Christ, man!  If ye think he’s sittin’ there patiently waitin’ for ye, yer barmy!” snapped Ray over his shoulder, following at Tom’s heels.  Alarmed, Adam got to his feet and followed as well.  

Sure enough. The wooden sidewalk in front of the Silver Dollar was empty.

 

Pat had waited a grand total of about five minutes when he decided this was daft.  He was going to walk around a bit and explore.  

He strolled down the sidewalk, tipping his new hat at ladies he passed, and trying to assimilate the nuances of the town.  As a street kid, he quickly assessed Virginia City’s layout and was able to mentally place the streets in his head.  As a non-reader, Pat had developed many different coping skills, including memorization and visualization; as a consequence, he’d learned very quickly how to associate places and landmarks to find his way.  For example, he would always remember that the bank stood on this particular corner, and the livery stable was over that way.  For nearly fifteen minutes he wandered the town, looking, studying and drinking it in.

He was beginning to get pretty hungry, and decided he’d probably better get back to the saloon before Adam missed him, and turned back up the street.  He noticed a group of boys about his age hanging around the entrance of a side street, a group that hadn’t been there five minutes earlier when he’d passed.  The hairs on the back of his neck quivered.  

Pat had not just arrived in this Western backwater via the latest turnip wagon; he could tell by their stance, by their deliberate lack of curiosity, that they’d been following him.  He drew in a deep breath and began to walk, careful to angle himself away and across the main street.  Sure enough, they followed.

“Hey, ain’t that a Cartwright?”

Pat’s lips tightened and he kept on walking.  He was severely outnumbered here, and didn’t know the territory. Keep walkin’, lad, they cannae hurt ye with words! his mother always said. He rarely heeded her, but still…

“Yeah, one of the high and mighty Cartwrights!”

Pat continued to put one foot in front of the other, heading back toward the saloon, trying to use his peripheral vision to gain some hold on the area, to figure out his best vantage point.

“Oh, no…  but it can’t be a Cartwright…they’re all fine, upstandin’ members of the community,” jeered another.

“Ain’t none of em…a bastard!”

Pat stopped and closed his eyes, balling his fists.  He struggled to keep his temper, remembering his mother’s admonishments through the years: they were just words, words couldn’t hurt him.  Unfortunately, today had already been a difficult morass of emotions and he found his temper hadn’t just begun to fray; it was already unraveling and rollin’ down the street.  His mind whirled; if he broke and ran, he’d be forever branded as a coward.  If he turned and fought, with the odds at such a disadvantage, he’d get the daylights kicked out of him.

But it really didn’t take much wrangling to make a decision. Pat had been spoiling for a fight since he’d arrived here.  Hauling in a deep breath and willing his mind to stay clear and alert, he turned.

 

Adam, Tom and Ray broke up and started hunting.  Adam was furious.  I told that kid to stay outside the saloon!  He was going to have a little word with Master Patrick, that was for sure.  Hurrying down the street, he ignored the surprised and annoyed looks of passers-by he pushed past and peered down streets and alleyways…wait!  There! Down “B” Street.  Oh, bloody hell….!

 

Seven boys, none of them younger and several considerably older than Patrick, were positioned strategically.  

“Great odds you fellas pick,” Pat said dryly, drawing on his toughest New York accent and stance.  “Seven ta one.”

The one in the center of the group stepped forward, grinning insolently.  “Don’t need seven of us…just me.”

“What’s your problem, anyway?” asked Pat coolly.

“Don’t want your kind in our town,” he responded.

“You don’t even know me,” bit back Pat.  “How d’ya know what my…kind…is?”

“Don’t take much to see what you are…a two-bit bastard son of a saloon whore!” snapped back the boy in the lead.

The boy dropped back in surprise as Pat launched all one hundred and twenty pounds at him, a vicious kick landing squarely in the boy’s breadbasket, dropping him with a grunt of pain.  Pat had a feral grin on his face as he recognized that these here boots his father forced him to wear just might be of some use, after all…  

His fists were cocked as he circled the rest of the group.  Snarling, two others launched themselves at him; while he managed to neatly dodge a blow to stomach from one, the other landed a solid punch to his jaw, knocking him sprawling.  In no time, however, Pat had rolled to his feet and was about to fly at two more coming at him when his lunge forward was abruptly halted by a hand clamped on his collar, and he was yanked in the opposite direction.  

Still seeing red, and with his blood roaring in his ears, he barely heard a deep voice barking, “Break it up!  That’s enough!”  He didn’t register the owner, and so he continued to fight back and kick, until the hand holding him so tightly shook him hard.

“I said, that’s enough!”

Adam towered over the crowd of boys who suddenly turned tail and scattered to the four winds,  laughing and jeering.  Breathing hard, and rubbing his aching jaw, Pat slowly stood back up straight again, and the red haze began to slowly recede from in front of his eyes. 

Adam watched them run, then turned back to his son.  He tipped the boy’s chin up and gently touched the rapidly reddening mark on his chin, and Pat flinched and pulled back, wincing in pain.  Adam sighed.

“Are you all right?” he asked tightly.

Pat angrily nodded, looking around on the ground.  He leaned over and picked up his new hat, slapping the dust off it.  At that point, Ray and Tom rounded the corner, having seen the other boys running off and figuring where trouble was, Pat would be.  They stopped short, watching the drama unfold.

“What happened?”

Pat sullenly refused to look at him or answer him.  Adam tried another route.

“I thought I told you to stay in front of the saloon,” he demanded, hands on his hips.

“Well, I didn’t! Big surprise!” barked Pat, his frayed nerves finally coming undone, his feelings as sore and raw as his jaw and knuckles. Truth to tell, all he wanted, right now, all he wanted, was to hop a train back to New York and never have to look at anybody here ever, ever again!

Without another word, Adam gripped his son’s bicep and marched him back up the street.

“Lemme go!” seethed Pat, trying to yank himself free.  Adam ignored him, his hand clamped around the boy’s arm as tight as the iron hoops around a beer keg as he continued to drag him up toward the buckboard in front of the hotel., fighting all the way.  Tom and Ray worriedly looked at each other and followed.

Pat kept up the struggle, trying to jam his bootheels into the dirt, until Adam stopped and shook him, hard enough to make his teeth rattle. Then he bent forward, forcing the boy to look at him, nose to nose.

“Patrick, you settle down right now and stop fighting me, or so help me God, I’ll bend you over and tan your hide, right here in the middle of the street!” 

Pat fumed but stopped fighting.  Adam spun him around and pushed him toward the wagon, with Tom and Ray straggling behind.  “Now, cool off!” Adam ordered, roughly boosting him into the wagon.  “Get up there while you’re still able to sit!”

They had drawn quite a crowd by this time, but Adam was frankly too furious to care. 

Ray sighed, watching the exchange between Adam and Patrick, and rolled his eyes, thinking of Siobhan.  Lass, lookin’ at them two, it’s impossible for the lad not to be his son. Stubborn as mules, the pair of ’em, with tempers shorter than me beard. With them two, the fruit doesn’t just not fall far from the tree, it’s still attached to the bleedin’ branch!

Tom and Ray scrambled into their buggy tied up behind them as Adam angrily flicked the reins and got the team going.  Pat sat beside him, slumped in his seat, his arms crossed angrily over his chest, red-faced and blinking hard.

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Saturday, August 25, 1871
The Ponderosa

Patrick leaned his forearms, his hands clasped, against the rails of the corral, staring out at the meadow beyond the yard, but not really seeing it.  In a very short time, Tom Ryan and Ray Connelly, friends he’d known all his life, his last connections to his mother, would be leaving to catch the stage, returning them ultimately to New York.  

The thought of being left behind here, alone in this wild place, made Pat’s mind spin in tighter and tighter circles, and his stomach ached as he tried to contemplate life without these men.  Who would be left on his side? Who would even try to understand him?  He had no one…no one!  Who would be there to talk to him when it felt like his feelings were going to overtake him completely?  Ma could see it coming, and somehow, she was always able to give him something else to think about, to put his mind to, so that his nerves could have a moment to calm down.  Somehow, Tom could always find a way to help him keep his temper from fully boiling over and hurting himself or someone else.  It was Ray who had taught him the value of arguing from a position of knowledge, to think things through as much as he could rather than just reacting from fear or anger.  

But soon, they would all be gone from him.  Pat felt like his throat closing on him, making it hard to breathe.  Until suddenly he could hear his mother once again.

“Give him a chance to love ye as much as I do.”

And suddenly, an image of his father popped unbidden into his mind, and he drew in a shaky breath, remembering yesterday…

 

When they’d returned to the ranch from Virginia City, Adam had ordered Pat to his room, and after hauling in their purchases, had followed him up.  Pat was sitting in an easy chair by the window, his bare feet propped up on the sill, staring outside blindly.  He never moved when his father came in the door.  Adam walked over to Pat’s bed and sat down.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened in town today?”

Pat continued to stare out the window.  “If you’re gonna hit me, just get it over with,” he said dully.

Adam sighed.  “I don’t want to punish you, Patrick. I don’t want to hit you, and I don’t want to yell at you.  I just want to know what happened.” 

Pat slowly turned his head and looked at his father.  He drew in a deep breath.  “You can probably guess,” he said tersely.

“I supposed there must have been some name-calling,” Adam nodded, patiently.  

“Yeah, well, there was,” said Pat wearily, shrugging.  “I dunno.  Ma always told me to forget it, that words couldn’t hurt me, but – ” his voice trailed off.  He heard his father sigh again.

“Pat, I’m sorry.  I wish things didn’t have to be this way.”

“It ain’t nothin’ new, believe me,” Pat said bitterly.  “At least not for me.  Hell, I been a bastard all my life…you only had to be the father of one for a few weeks.”  

Adam winced.

Immediately after uttering the words, Pat’s heart ached, and he regretted it.  He looked ashamed of himself.  “I’m sorry. I… I shouldn’t a’ said that.”

There was silence for a moment.  Then Pat wearily dropped his feet and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.  He swallowed hard.

“I was okay till they said things about…about her.”  Pat said softly.  He picked his head up defiantly and looked at his father.  “My mother was a lotta things, but she wasn’t no whore.”  

He saw Adam flinch, and hang his head for a moment. 

“Well, I suppose I should be a good father and scold you for fighting,” the man said finally.  “But under the circumstances, I think I’ll just suggest two things: learn to control your temper, and check the odds before you start swinging.”

Despite his unhappiness, Pat managed a small smile at that.  He picked his head up and studied his father.  “Did you love her?” he demanded, staring hard at him.  He had to know.

“More than anyone I’ve ever loved in my life,” Adam answered softly, meeting his eyes.  

Pat said nothing, but the tension in the room seemed to ease a little.  Adam got to his feet, and came over to his son, tipping up his chin.  He studied the bruise forming on Pat’s jaw.  “C’mon,” he said with a tired smile.  “Let’s go get something to put on that bruise.”

 

Pat felt more confused than ever after that.  Nothing was in its right place anymore!  And even the hatred and anger he’d always felt when thinking of Adam Cartwright was shifting and changing, now, too. He didn’t understand who he was anymore, and had no idea at all who it was he was going to become.  And that frightened him. To be honest, it terrified him.

 

Adam watched from the front porch, his heart aching for his son.  He knew how much this had to hurt his boy, saying goodbye to the last two vestiges of the only life he’d ever known.  Adam seriously wondered how much more the boy could take.

The buckboard was in the front yard, loaded with men’s bags.  Adam turned as he heard the door open.  Ray and Tom were walking out talking with Hoss and Ben. Joe trailed behind, listening.

“Well, it’s been a great pleasure having you here,” smiled Ben.  “I hope you’ll come back and visit Patrick.  He’d enjoy seeing you both again, I know.”

“Now that’s an idea, it is, Mr. Cartwright,” nodded Ray, trying to smile.  

Tom glanced around the yard.  “Where’s the lad?”

Adam nodded toward the corral. 

“How is he?”

“Upset,” replied Adam, quietly.  “He’s going to miss you.  But he says he doesn’t want to ride into town.  He wants to say his goodbyes here.”

Ray nodded, and Tom tightened his mouth, shaking his head as he tried to keep control of his emotions.

Adam turned to the corral again.  “Pat!”

 

Pat raised his head as he heard his name.  He drew in a shaky breath and turned, walking slowly toward the big ranch house.

Tom’s eyes were damp as he watched the boy walking toward them.  His face was pale, and the purple bruise on his chin simply emphasized his pallor. But he still came forward, one foot in front of the other, determined.  Has his mother’s courage, all right, that one does, Tom thought. Poor wee lad.

“You behave yourself, y’hear?” smiled Ray shakily, resting his hands on the youngster’s shoulders.  Dumbly, Pat nodded.  “I’ll write ye and let ye know all the news of Hell’s Kitchen.  Would ye like that?”

“Sure,” Pat nodded, his eyes welling.

“All right, then,” nodded Ray, putting a gentle hand around the back of the boy’s neck.  Words failed them both, and Pat buried himself in Ray’s arms.  The older man squeezed his eyes shut and hugged the boy close to him. “I love ye, lad,” he whispered, drawing back and trying to smile at him. He gazed into Siobhan’s eyes, and winced; it yielded a palpable pain, and his hand wiped his face, and then squeezed the boy’s shoulder.

Pat nodded again, and drawing in another deep breath turned to Tom.  But with this one, the boy couldn’t control himself.  He burst into silent tears, and Tom gathered the boy to him in a hug, muttering soft Irish nonsense noises as he rocked back and forth with him. 

Hoss and Joe uncomfortably shifted around, embarrassed by the deep emotion charging the air around the yard.  Ben felt his own throat close up, and his eyes watering.  Ben glanced at Adam and saw how the naked emotions were upsetting Adam, too.

Finally, the storm seemed to pass.  “You be a good lad, now,” said Tom shakily, gently setting the boy back to stand on his own two feet, squeezing his shoulders as though to impart strength. 

Scrubbing at his tears with his shirt sleeve, Pat sniffled and nodded.

“Remember, Pat,” said Tom very softly, very gently, just loud enough for the lad to hear, and gazed into his eyes.  “Remember what yer mother told ye.  Give the fella a chance to love ye.”

Pat’s lips trembled, and he nodded.  “I’ll try,” he whispered.

Tom ruffled his hair, and turned away, wiping his eyes.

Pat drew in a deep breath and looked at the two men who had been the closest thing to fathers he’d ever known.  “I got chores to do,” he choked out, gruffly.  “I’ll seeya.”  And with that, he turned and hurried off to the barn, head down.

Adam watched him go and then helplessly turned back to the two men.  “Maybe I should stay and let Hoss drive you in,” he said, worriedly.

Ben stepped forward. “No, Adam, you go on.  Pat needs some time to himself,” he said firmly.  “This has been too hard on him to make him talk about it this soon.”  He patted his son’s shoulder.  “I’ll check on him in a little bit and see how he’s doing.”

Adam hesitated, then nodded reluctantly and got up into the buckboard.  Ben, Hoss and Joe waved good-bye and watched the buckboard leave the yard and disappear around the corner of the barn.  Hoss and Joe worriedly glanced at the barn.  

“Now, boys, haven’t you got work to do?” Ben said, clapping their shoulders, trying to smile.  When neither of them smiled back, Ben gently rubbed their necks.  “He’ll be all right.  He’ll be unhappy for a few days, but he’s young.  He’ll bounce back.  We’ve just got to be here to support him, that’s all, and be patient.”

“It just ain’t fair, Pa,” said Hoss quietly.  “It’s too much for a young’un to take.”

“I know it sure seems that way, son,” agreed Ben, looking at the barn door.  

 

An hour later, Pat had finished mucking out the stalls and was finishing up spreading fresh straw.  He’d lost himself in his work, pushing all thoughts from his head and simply going through the motions.  He’d learned long ago that if he worked hard enough, focusing on each step of each task, he wouldn’t be able to think, and then he wouldn’t hurt so badly.

He heard the barn door open behind him as he finished up, and he rubbed his tired lower back as he turned around.

Ben looked around the barn.  “Hey, you’ve done a fine job, young man,” he smiled.  “You learn fast.”

Pat managed a small smile, and sighed.  “I’m finished in here.  I’ll go start on the woodpile,” he said quietly, starting to walk past his grandfather. 

Ben put out an arm, and caught Pat’s shoulder.  “That can wait,” he said quietly.  Gently, he turned his grandson around to face him, and tipped up his chin, careful not to bump his bruise.  The beautiful blue eyes were so sad, and seeing those sad eyes in Adam’s face was terribly hard for Ben.  “I’m more interested to hear how you’re holding up, son.”

At first, Pat thought he could shrug it off; and he probably could have if he hadn’t looked into his grandfather’s eyes.  But those warm, gentle dark eyes were filled with concern, and with love, and it just undid him.  Ben watched the boy’s eyes well with tears and Pat’s lips tremble. Tenderly, Ben brushed a big, broad hand through his dark hair and at his touch, the boy’s face, and his resolve, crumpled.

“Oh, Granddad,” he groaned, burying his face in his grandfather’s chest.  Ben put his strong arms around him and gently held him close.

“It’s all right, Pat, go ahead and cry,” he consoled softly, rubbing gentle circles on the boy’s back as he wept.  “Sometimes things just hurt too much.  It’s gonna be all right.  It’s gonna be all right.”

For a long time, they simply stood there together.  Ben waited until he felt the boy’s sobs beginning to slow down and then he drew out his handkerchief, offering it to him.

“Here,” he said with a gentle smile.  Shakily, Pat took it and Ben drew him over to one of the hay bales to sit down.

“Blow your nose.”  

Pat did as he was told and wiped his eyes.  He heaved a mighty sigh and leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes wearily.

“Feel a little better?”

“No,” Pat answered, wryly.

Ben chuckled, and put a hand reassuringly on his grandson’s knee.  “I know it’s hard, Pat.  Good-byes are always difficult.  I’m not trying to make this seem like less than it is, but just give yourself a little time.  Soon, it’ll hurt a lot less.”

Pat winced.  “Ma used to say that,” he said softly.

“You know, I wish I’d gotten to meet your mother.  She sounds like she was a very special woman.”

Pat nodded, shuddering in a breath.  “Yeah, she was.  Real special.”

“If you feel like you can, would you tell me about her?” encouraged Ben gently.

For more than an hour, Pat talked, sharing the joys and the sadness, the laughter and the dreams, the tendernesses… all the things he remembered about Siobhan. What she looked like, tall and slim, strong and straight, with her waist-length mane of thick blue-black hair.  How he’d inherited her eyes, and she’d said they were the same as her father’s, for whom he was named. Her stories of Ireland, the little town of Ballylynch where her family’s cottage had been. About growing up with her three big brothers, Liam, Tim and Conor. About the music and the dancing when there were weddings and marriages. And he told his grandfather about Hell’s Kitchen. Not the horrors that most people would have mentioned, but the things that were important to Pat.  He talked about his friends, his ‘troops’, about all of the different kinds of people that populated that postage-stamp sized part of New York City that had been his home. And how Siobhan Riordan had been at the center of it all for him… how she had been his everything.

Ben listened, laughed, asked questions, and shared a little about Adam, how it had been just the two of them for the first five years of his eldest’s life. But mostly, he gave Pat an outlet for the feelings that had built up in him, and let him talk about the woman he mourned so deeply. 

Tiredly, Pat leaned back against the wall again, this time with a small smile on his face. He chuckled to himself.

“What?”‘ smiled Ben.

“I can’t believe I talked for that long,” the boy replied, looking up at his grandfather.  “If I ever talked that much before, someone was sure to tell me to button my lip.”

“Talking helps,” said Ben, simply.  “It’s a lesson your father still hasn’t learned.  He always tries to keep things to himself.  I figured you were enough like him that you were likely to do the same.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to sit him down and coax him into telling me what was bothering him.  Thanks for trusting me enough to talk.”

Pat nodded and studied his grandfather.  Then, troubled, he looked down at his hands.  “I ain’t been real… friendly to you.”

“You’ve been through a rough time, Pat,” said his grandfather gently.  “We understand.”

Pat shook his head.  “I don’t get it.  You don’t even know me,” he said in wonder, looking at him again.

“You’re a member of this family.  We love you,” said Ben, smiling.  “What more do we need to know?”

Pat looked up at his grandfather, trying to sniff out any lack of genuineness, and finding none.  He nodded to himself, then pulled in a deep breath.  “Is it okay if I call you Granddad?”

“Seems to me you already did,” smiled Ben, ruffling his hair. “And I have to say… it felt real good.  I’d be proud if you kept calling me that.”

Pat managed a smile then, not a broad one, but a real one, and Ben put an arm around his shoulders.  “By the way… Nice haircut.”

Pat rolled his eyes, and Ben laughed.

 

Sunday morning
August 26, 1871

“Boys!  If you don’t get a move on we’re going to be late for church!” 

Ben stood at the bottom of the stairs, angrily glancing at his pocket watch.

En masse, four pairs of boots clattered down the stairs; first Hoss, shrugging into his suit jacket, then Joe, running a comb through his hair, and finally Adam, meticulously dressed, and Pat, grimacing as his father tried to tie his string tie while they walked down the stairs.

“Yer chokin’ me!” protested Pat, twisting uneasily.

“Hold still, will you?!”

“Can’t walk and hold still at the same time!”

“Sorry, Pa,” apologized Hoss, as he led the group out the door and into the buggy.  

“Yeah,” grumbled Ben, ” ‘Sorry, Pa’.  Get moving!”

The long ride to town was quiet, as Joe yawned, still sleepy; Hoss frankly dozed, until his father jostled him. ‘Hoss, if you fall asleep again during the sermon, so help me – ” he warned.

“I won’t, Pa, I promise,” answered Hoss sheepishly.

Adam glanced down at Pat, fidgeting uncomfortably, running a finger down between his neck and his tight collar.  He smiled fondly.  “We’ll talk to the priest at Saint Mary’s this week and find out about what time Mass is on Sundays.”

Pat sighed, sheepishly.  “Don’t matter.  I ain’t bin in a church in years.”  He didn’t say that he could remember long talks about religion with his mother.  She told him that she’d had him baptized when he was born, but that she hadn’t yet found a way to forgive God for what happened back in Ballylynch.  How she could not manage to find any peace or belief in a God that could allow such a thing to destroy a whole family. 

“Well, we’ll just have to do something about that,” observed Adam, “won’t we?”

It was a beautiful sunny day, and even though he wasn’t wearing a suit like his father, uncles and grandfather, Pat was hot with his cuffs buttoned and his collar fastened.  But what truly made him most uncomfortable was the service he was about to attend.  He hadn’t wanted to rock the boat last night when Granddad had mentioned church this morning, but he wasn’t at all sure God wouldn’t strike him dead for even setting foot in an Orangeman’s church, much less attending their worship service.  He kept his worries to himself, though, finally trusting that the God the other Irish in the Kitchen believed in would understand, even if the one his Ma had a relationship with might not.

When they arrived, people were streaming into the church building.  Swallowing hard, Pat mentally said a quick Ave Maria as he mounted the steps and followed his family in the door.

Pat was irritable and unhappy by the time the service was wrapping up.  At first he’d tried hard to listen to the pastor as he preached, but he kept waiting for the rising, the kneeling, the Latin prayers he remembered from years ago.  It was getting hotter, and he was itchy under the collar.  He’d already gotten two looks of warning from his father for fidgeting uncomfortably in the pew, and he’d sighed, feeling put upon.  He looked up with alacrity when he saw the rest of the congregation rising for what the pastor said was – Thank you, Jaysus! –  the final hymn.  His father handed him a hymnal, and Pat worriedly looked at him.  Uh oh, he thought.  Ray didn’t tell him. Oh, hell.  Desperately he glanced down at the book and hoped to God he was holding it right side up.

And then he guiltily glanced up at the stained glass window, ashamed that he’d even thought a cussword in church.

Finally, people began filing out, and Pat offered a silent Nomine Patre of thanksgiving of his own.  

 

Outside, while good friends of the Cartwrights gathered around Ben, Adam, Joe, and Hoss looking forward to being introduced to the new member of the family, other members of the community made a showy effort of avoiding the Cartwrights, some boldly glaring in disdain.  Pat squirmed under the scrutiny of so many people, but did his best to be polite as his mother had taught him.  

Ben noted with distaste the poor behavior of some of his neighbors and turned instead to his friends, including George and Mary Devlin.  George’s older sons, Mitch, Cal and Danny, had been a friends of his own sons’ for years.

“Our youngest, Micah, is about your age, Patrick,” smiled George Devlin.  “Maybe you two will get to know each other in school this fall.”

Pat nodded with a weak smile, his stomach sinking a bit.  Well, now… This is for sure gonna be a problem…

Finally, Pat was able to slip away a little bit, just to get some breathing space.  He walked around the back of the church, thinking hard about how he was going to get around this school thing.  Suddenly, he felt the back hairs of his neck rising again, and his shoulders sagged… aw, hell, not again!

Slowly he turned around and saw three of his antagonists from yesterday staring at him, mean smiles on their spotty faces.

“Wal, now, look at this, willya.  Don’t he clean up purty?” teased one of the boys.

Rolling his eyes, Pat sighed and tried to step around the three, but they shifted, blocking his path.

“C’mon, guys,” he said tiredly, “this is getting a little stupid, don’t you think?”

“Think you’re pretty smart, dontya, with them fancy clothes,” jeered one of the others.

Patrick said to himself over and over again, don’t lose your temper, don’t lose your temper, as he tried to figure a way out of this.  Of course, he could simply yell, and somebody would come over.  But that wasn’t exactly the most courageous way out.

One of the boys glanced around, saw no adult, and gave Patrick a hard shove.

“Leave me alone!  You don’t want to mess with me!”

They stared at him in surprise and then burst out laughing.  “Listen to him, willya!”

Pat’s blue eyes smoldered.  

“Big tough guy from New York City… tough guy like that, he must be used to fightin’ all the time.

“Ya know, I heard his ma worked in a brothel!  Maybe he did too?”

Their sniggers were vicious as they circled him.

“Take it back,” Pat warned, dangerously quiet.

“Stinkin’ New York City slut!”

“I said, take it back!” he shouted, fists cocked.

“Make me,” scorned one boy, and they all began to laugh at him.

Despite everything his father had tried to tell him, just yesterday, Pat lost his temper and launched his attack, driving the first punch directly into the nose of the closest taunter.

That left an opening for one of the others, and Pat suffered a mighty blow to the stomach, knocking the breath out of him and driving him back.  Drawing on reserves of strength and tactics he’d learned years before, Pat hauled in enough breath to maneuver himself out of the way of a fist that came flying at his face, and grabbed the wrist, wrenching it around and flipping the owner, who screamed in pain as he dropped to the ground. Thank you, Su Chang! he thought.

Still wheezing and blinking tears of pain out of his eyes, Pat whirled and readied himself for the next attack.

 

Several of the church going families heard the ruckus and had come quickly around the side of the church.  When they saw who was involved… they simply stood and stared.

Pat easily sidestepped a clumsy right hook to his chin, and countered while the guard was down, driving a right cross to the jaw of one of the boys, allowing his eyes to leave him for a moment, giving him the other two to contend with.

“Pa! Pa!” hollered little Daisy Canfield as she ran around the front of the church.  Taylor Canfield, owner of the Lucky 7 mine, and an old friend of Ben’s and Adam’s, wheeled around at the alarm in his daughter’s voice.

“What’s wrong?’

“They’re beatin’ up somebody back there!” she cried, tearfully.  Alarmed, Adam glanced around for Pat, then took off at a dead run with Hoss and Joe behind him.

 

Pat circled slowly, keeping his three opponents in clear view.  A few of their punches had landed, and Pat’s face was covered in blood from a blow to his nose and a cut over his eye, but he was determined to finish this.  Drawing on every dirty trick he’d ever learned fighting on the Battery waterfront, Pat dove for the one furthest away from the other two and while down, scissored his legs, upending him.  When he hit hard on his back, whooshing the breath out of him, Pat landed a vicious punch to his stomach; he struggled to haul in enough to air to allow himself to stand once more as he saw the other two charge him.

Wobbling to his feet, Pat watched in woozy amazement as his two attackers seemed to be plucked out of thin air, then he saw his father with one boy on the end of each arm.  This was simply too difficult to comprehend, so he bent over, hands on his knees, his breathing labored.  He heard yelps of pain from the boys, and protests from adults.  Then, a large, dark shape was rushing at him, but the blood running into his eye from the cut on his forehead had momentarily blinded him; he put up an arm to protect himself and ducked his head.

“Pat!”

He looked up warily and saw that the dark shape was his father.  He closed his eyes, weakly starting to topple.  Adam eased him down to the ground carefully, then whirled on the crowd, staring in shock.  “What’s wrong with your people!”  he shouted.  “We’ve just come out of Sunday worship, and you can just stand here and watch three boys beat up on one?!”

“What’re you complainin’ about, Cartwright!” yelled one of the men.  “Your brat threw the first punch!  I saw him!”

Adam looked down at Pat, who had heard the accusation and, shamefaced, turn away.  Adam closed his eyes in frustration.

“Why don’t you take your whelp and go home?” snapped a woman in a shrill voice.  “We don’t want your sinful ways in our church!”

The crowd started to bubble and foment.  Hoss, Ben and Joe looked around them in amazement.  

“Now wait just a minute!” cried Adam, furiously looking around him.  “You’re our neighbors, our friends!  What in God’s name is wrong with this town!?”

“It’ ain’t what’s wrong with us, Adam Cartwright!” jeered a townsman.

“Ain’t you got no shame, parading your sin in the house of God, before decent people!” shrieked a woman.

“Sinner!”

“Fornicator!”

Adam looked down, clenching his fists in a desperate effort to hang onto what thread of control he still held.  Nodding his head slowly, his eyes downcast, Adam set his mouth in a firm, angry line.  Scenting victory, the crowd pressed a little closer, the yelling, jeering and howling increasing.

“Well, it’s clear where you all stand,” said Adam coldly, eyes down.  Then he raised his head and his burning brown eyes seared out on the crowd, causing many to flinch as though the heat they radiated was tangible. “But if you’ve got a problem, you’ve got it with me, not him!” declared Adam, his black brows knit together in fury pointing at the bleeding boy at his feet, now struggling to stand.  “I’m the one who’s committed this sin you find so horrible, so grievous!” he snapped.  He pointed at Pat again.  “He’s just a boy!”

” ‘The sins of the father are visited upon the sons!’ ” shouted back another townsman.  

Adam trembled with anger, then flung the finger that had just been pointing at Pat out into the crowd in fury, as though impaling each and every one of them, as well as punctuating his next words.

” ‘Let him who is without sin among you cast the first stone!’ ” he declared, slowly, furiously, allowing that incriminating finger and those burning eyes to land on as many of the mob as possible.  Suddenly, the crowd began to look at each other, confused.  They looked back at Adam, who stood, feet apart, blocking Pat from them, unconsciously protecting his son, and glaring fiercely at the crowd.  As suddenly as it grew, the mob slowly, shamefully, began to disperse.  As the crowd disappeared, Adam sagged and then turned quickly to his son.  He hauled out his handkerchief, dabbing at the cuts on Pat’s face.  When he touched the one bleeding away merrily over Pat’s eye, the boy flinched, emitting a small groan of pain.

“Shhh, easy,” Adam said quietly, as he continued to clean him up.  Sighing, Adam put a supporting arm around his son’s shoulders and walked him back to the buggy.  In silence, Ben, Hoss and Little Joe followed.

 

“Ow!  That stings!” 

“Sit still,” ordered Adam as he dabbed witch hazel at the cut over Pat’s eye.  

Pat was seated on a chair in the kitchen, soaking his bruised knuckles in a bowl of ice water while Adam doctored his cuts and bruises.  Luckily, aside from some small cuts, Pat had looked more of a battered mess than he actually was.    Once the blood was wiped away, his nose looked all right—it wasn’t broken and looked like it wouldn’t even swell—although it was still pretty sore.  The cut over his eye was small and wouldn’t require stitches.

Pat felt so strange; his body was sore from his battles yesterday and today, but his spirit was balmed.  For the first time in his short life, Pat knew what it felt like for a man to protect him, shield him.  Never before had any man placed himself between Patrick and trouble like this.  Oh, Tom and Ray had always tried to help, but they were a bit removed; it wasn’t possible for them to try to turn anger, hostility and hate away from Pat and onto themselves; his shame had always been his own, and that of his mother.  And yet…that’s exactly what Adam, what his father, had done today in that churchyard.

Pat would never forget the feeling he’d experienced when his father had stood between him and crowd, throwing their sanctimonious words back in their faces.  He couldn’t describe it, he just knew it felt good.  On the other hand, he sobered as he realized he wouldn’t soon forget the look of disappointment in his father’s eyes, either, when he learned Pat had indeed been the one to escalate the violence.  That had not felt so good.

“Patrick, is it true you threw the first punch?” asked Adam quietly as he inspected Pat’s knuckles.  

“They were saying things about – ” he started uneasily.

“Is it true?” interrupted Adam.

“Well, yeah, but – “

Adam waved his hand, cutting him off.  “I thought, just day before yesterday, I told you that you had to learn to control your temper?”

Pat shut his mouth and sulked.

Adam sighed as he dropped the towel he was working with.  “Patrick, I understand how you feel, and I’m not saying there aren’t times when a man has to fight when provoked.  But you’re falling back on violence far too often.”

“I ain’t gonna stand there and let them insult my mother!” the boy said, stubbornly.

“Then walk away!” his father insisted.

“I ain’t no coward!” he shouted back, indignantly.

“No, but you are a stubborn fool,” his father retorted.  

Steaming, Pat glowered at the floor. 

“Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Startled, and reddening, Pat raised his eyes. Well, that tone’s new… and sound a helluva lot like Ma…

“Violence is not the way to turn around the opinion of these idiots in town!  All that does is confirm their worst ideas about you!” Adam declared.

“I don’t care what they think about me!” Pat snapped, sulking.

“Well, I care what they think of you!” declared Adam grimly.  “You’re a fine young man, as fine a son as any man could want, when you aren’t trying to settle your arguments with your fists!  And I’d just as soon you survived the next few months without getting your fool head knocked off in some stupid fight!”

Pat looked up at his father, surprised.

“Now you listen to me, young man,” said Adam sternly, a long pointer finger under his son’s sore nose.  “Since you can’t seem to control your temper on your own, I’m going to give you a little help.  You’re confined to the house and yard for the next two weeks.  If you can’t manage to keep yourself out of trouble in town, then I’ll just keep you out of town, period, until you’re able to demonstrate you’ve learned some self-control!  Is that clear?”

Pat stared at his father, trying to wrap his mind around all the confusing emotions he was feeling.  He could see anger in his father, no doubt about that. And Pat knew that he was being punished; he recognized that, too, from his father’s words.  But how was it then, could he also feel … what, relieved? It made no sense!

Then he remembered the words his father had just said… 

“You’re a fine young man, as fine a son as any man could want…”

Could the man be that angry with him and yet still care?  Confused, Pat tried to think back to his mother… yeah, for sure, Ma could be royally perturbed with him, but he never doubted she’d loved him and cared.  

“I asked, is that clear?!” repeated Adam severely.

Pat flinched, then took a deep breath and looked up, and nodded.  

“Yes,” he said softly, “… sir.”

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Late August, 1871
The Ponderosa

Patrick wearily dropped the whitewash brush into the bucket and stepped back to survey his work.  Thanks be t’God, it was finished.  Finally. This chore had taken nearly all day!

“Pat, I declare, I think you got more o’that there whitewash on you than on the storeroom!”

Startled, Pat turned to see his uncle Hoss, grinning, walking toward him from the house.  Pat looked down at himself in dismay and grimaced.  It had been so miserably hot that Pat decided that he might as well strip down as far as was decent to get this chore finished, and so was clad only in a now-ruined pair of work pants and the old boots Uncle Joe had given him.  What skin was showing was now liberally smeared with whitewash.

“Now, I know what you and Adam are gonna look like when you’re old and gray!” Hoss guffawed as Pat ran a whitewash-messy hand through his hair.  The boy realized that during the course of the day, he’d done the same thing many times, getting enough whitewash in his hair to age him prematurely.

The humor escaped him.  In fact, this last week the boy had found damned little to be funny, least of all the seemingly never-ending list of chores that greeted him each day.  “Oh, lemme alone!” he growled, leaning over angrily and picking up the whitewashing materials and stalking toward the barn to put them away.  

Hoss stopped laughing as he saw real anger in his nephew as he strode past. “Hey, wait a minute, Pat,” he said, concerned, “C’mon, I was just funnin’ with ya.”

Pat just glowered and shook his head, continuing his angry stalk to the barn.  Sighing, Hoss hooked his thumbs into his belt and followed him, thoughtful.

Inside, Pat was neatly cleaning up the whitewash supplies, but it was clear the boy was pretty upset.

“Aw, Pat, c’mon,” Hoss tried again to cajole him. To his surprise, a hot, sweaty, tired and thoroughly frustrated Patrick swung back around and glared at him.

“Funnin’, huh?  Yeah, joke o’ the year! I guess I figured out real quick why I’m here!” he snapped.  “Gotta have somebody around to do the dirtiest, worst jobs, huh?!”

“Hey, now,” said Hoss a little uneasily, “you just settle down.”

“I will not settle down!  Whitewashin’… scrubbin’… polishin’…weedin’… hell, I thought Lincoln already freed them slaves!” Pat snarled at him, stalking by him with the whitewash brush in hand.

Hoss scratched his head.  He’d been afraid of this.  

When Adam set down Patrick’s punishment for fighting in the churchyard a little over a week ago, making him stay close to the house for two solid weeks, a couple of days later he’d also reasoned (in his “infinite wisdom” as Joe had proclaimed, sardonically) that the ranch’s yard chores would be the most obvious ones for the boy to be responsible for.  

“Pa, I’m tellin’ ya,” said Hoss, worriedly one morning before lunch as he and Ben were watching, through the kitchen window, as Pat wearily tugged out weeds from Hop Sing’s vegetable garden, “this ain’t gonna end well.”

Ben sighed, and sipped his coffee, knowing that his wise middle son could see the trouble that was brewing as clearly as he, himself, did.  “I know Hoss, but Adam made it clear, and so did I,” he answered uneasily. “He is Patrick’s father, and how he deals with him is his decision.”

“But, Pa,” protested Hoss, watching the boy straighten up, wincing, and stretch out his lower back then use his shirttail to wipe the sweat from his face and neck, “the worst scuffles Adam and me ever got into when we was kids was when you put one or both of us on yard chores.  Worse’n a lickin’, and you know it.  Adam should’a known it, too.”

Ben’s eyebrows had raised and he sighed, a little sadly.  “Well, maybe that was Adam’s intention.  To make sure Pat keeps his fists to himself in the future and avoids having to go through this again.”

Hoss had shrugged at the time, but it still didn’t set right.  But then, he thought fairly, Pa did send Adam to Reno a few days back to work out that railroad deal.  His brother couldn’t fix a situation he didn’t know was happenin’. 

As he watched the boy angrily clean up the tools from whitewashing, Hoss also made himself remember that the incessant teasing that the three Cartwright brothers were accustomed to inflicting on each other wasn’t something that Patrick was used to.  Adam, Hoss and Joe had always teased each other out of bad moods; sometimes, Adam would deliberately rouse a reaction in a tense and angry Joe in order to give the young’un a chance to safely blow off some steam at him, kinda like a safety valve up t’the mines.  Then Joe’d be able to get through the rest of whatever he was doin’ without the extra strain of tryin’ to keep his temper.

But Patrick was an only child.  He didn’t have brothers to either devil him, or to lean on.  

“Well, now, nephew, I’m sorry for teasin’ ya, that wasn’t fair,” said Hoss softly, “But you gotta know what you said ain’t so.”

“Oh, it ain’t, ain’t it?” demanded Patrick, thrusting the brush violently into a bucket of wash and turpentine, raising a spray.  “All I know is that for the past ten days I been stuck here in this damn yard, workin’ my ass off while the rest of ya are out doin’ whatever you want!”

The heat was taking its toll and Pat’s temper, already frayed by frustration, was rapidly unraveling still further.

Hoss stood there and firmly shook his head in negation.  “We all work on this ranch, from your grandpa down to you, Patrick, and you know that fine,” said Hoss seriously. “All of us work hard.”

“Oh, yeah, my heart bleeds for ya!” sneered Pat, gesturing toward the cool greens of the meadows and fields.  “Suffering through the heat with a cool breeze blowin’ at yer back when you’re riding, taking a quick swim in the lake, when diggin’ post holes gets a little too much for ya!”  Pat stalked over to the trough and pointed at it, dramatically… unconsciously evoking a young, outraged Adam Cartwright for Hoss. “I suppose I’ve always got this!” Unfortunately, the effect the boy was shooting for was marred somewhat by the comical image of his whole body smeared liberally with whitewash.  

Hoss thought for a moment, then lowered his head, pushing his hat a little further back on his head as he walked over to the boy.  “Patrick, you bought yourself the position you’re in, boy, and you know it,” he said more gently, but very seriously.  “You know the reason you’re ‘stuck here’ as well as I do. An’ I’m right sorry ‘bout you bein’ saddled with the yard chores. But, y’know what?  Neither me, nor your grandpa, nor your Uncle Joe were the ones that got themselves into this fix. Treatin’ ever’body like you’re doin’ ain’t doin’ you any good.  It’s just getting’ yourself feelin’ more fractious.”

Pat’s jaw worked in annoyance as he listened, then he snorted in derision and angrily waved a dismissive hand at his uncle as he stormed toward the house.

 

Ben precariously balanced his coffee cup on the arm of his leather chair as he folded his newspaper and settled back to read.

SLAM!

Ben jumped, almost spilling his coffee all over himself and his paper.  In exasperation he looked up in surprise to see Pat, a furiously black scowl on his face, stomp through the living room toward the stairs… completely covered in whitewash.

“Just a minute, there, young man!” Ben barked, setting his coffee cup down on the oak table before him.

Pat, who’d made it to the half landing, closed his eyes in frustration, drew in a deep breath, clenched his fists and struggled not to snap.  Slowly, he turned back around to his grandfather, clamping his mouth shut with everything he had.

“What’s the matter?” asked Ben, trying for calmness.

“Nothin’.”

Ben frowned at the tone of voice.  “All right.  Then would you be kind enough to shut the door next time, instead of slamming it?”  

“Yeah, whatever,” Pat muttered rudely, turning to continue upstairs.

“What was that?!” demanded Ben, bounding to his feet in outrage.

Pat sighed and turned around once again, more slowly this time. Dammit…. “Sorry,” he muttered, far more quietly.

“That’s better,” growled his grandfather.  He gestured at Pat. “Now, just where do think you’re going, looking like that?”

“To get changed,” replied Pat tightly, not saying but clearly implying that the rest of that statement should be, you eejit!

“Well, just turn yourself right around and come on back down.  Hop Sing will get you some clothes,” said Ben, sternly gesturing outside.  “You go right back outside, go into the washhouse and get a bath before you track whitewash all over the house.”

“But – “

“OUT!”

Grumbling to himself, Pat stomped back toward the door as Ben settled back to his paper once again.

SLAM!!

This time, Ben missed catching the coffee.

 

Slowly, Pat eased his tense body into the hot, steamy water, exhaling contentedly.  

“God, that feels good!” he moaned with pleasure.  For a few minutes he simply lay there, letting the tension soak out of his muscles and allowing his mind to wander and relax.  He’d felt wound up tight as a clock the last couple of days, and knew he’d been increasingly difficult to live with, but he just couldn’t help it.  He couldn’t help but feel hard done by.

Here he’d been thinking it wouldn’t be so bad, livin’ out here, gettin’ to know this new family of his, and then his old man up and turns into some kinda prison warden!

Pat had accepted his punishment at first, reluctantly admitting to himself he should have found a better way than fighting to deal with those kids at the church. But he honestly hadn’t had any idea just how difficult this was going to be.  Two weeks!?  Two weeks of house, barn and yard, not one step further.  It was torture, plain an’ simple!  He’d practiced his riding in the corral, but was unable to really open up to try to gallop; woods, meadows and fields beckoned him, taunted him, but he was forbidden to go anywhere near them.  And sure as heck, nowhere near the town!  

Everything in him yearned to get into Virginia City and figure out the layout, get to understand how things worked here.  Back home, when he wasn’t working, Pat had explored the extent of Hell’s Kitchen that was in reasonable reach of their flat — and sometimes, unreasonable reach to his mother’s dismay.  He spent time learning different routes home and enjoying the smells of different cultures’ cooking, seeing the bright colors of some of the clothes hanging on the lines strung between the buildings, listening to the lilts or guttural sounds of different languages.  Cities made sense to Pat; this place didn’t yet.  He hadn’t yet been able to get a handle on how the hierarchy of a vast and wild territory like this could work.

Pat’s mother had schooled him extensively in understanding the concepts of neighborhood politics.  Siobhan had trained him by example.  She knew all the shopkeepers in a four- or five-block radius, which of them held the opinions that were sought out most, and which were avoided.  Who, among the vendors, seemed to be kinder than others to those less fortunate, and should be cultivated for any time their help was needed. Because in a relatively small community like Hell’s Kitchen, what little strength they had as a neighborhood rested in supporting each other. She knew which of the women had a gift with healing, or an understanding how to deal with a colicky bairn.  Who knew how to stretch a joint of meat to its fullest extent and fill the bellies of their families and could teach it to others.

He remembered her telling him how his grandparents, Paddy and Maggie Riordan, were the family everyone looked up to in Ballylynch, and how folks would come to ‘speak a word to Himself’ of a Sunday after Mass, to get advice on some situation or other with a landlord or even a fellow villager. She’d even chuckled to share that the parish priest had found it offensive, believing that the Church should serve that role, not some illiterate, turf-cutting croppy.

Pat had found himself starting to do that kind of assessment here on the ranch: figuring out who was responsible for what, getting to know the hands and Jake Weber, the ranch foreman.  He was a crusty old geezer, Pat had at first been irritated to note. But the boy also realized that the man had known these Cartwrights for the last twenty-some years.  While Pat worked in the barn one afternoon when a hot summer wind whipped up eye-smarting billows of dirt and sand outside, and Jake decided to do some assessment of the tack, Jake had given him some good pointers on easier ways to handle some of his work, and shared stories of Adam, Hoss and Little Joe as they’d grown up.  Pat realized that Jake’s bark was worse than his bite, and if he was respectful to the old man, he got respect in return.

Pat sank lower into the washtub of hot water, breathing deep and slow, feeling his mind begin to calm down.  Then, his jaw tightened again.

But then there were the chores…

Pat scowled and laced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back.  About a day and a half into his “prison sentence,” his father had informed him that since he was confined to the yard anyway, he would be handed the yard chores to do.  At first that didn’t mean much to him, even though he was slightly uneasy to see the glance of surprise and then worry that passed between Uncle Joe and Uncle Hoss.

After two or three days he understood, clear as glass, the reasoning behind that exchange of glances.  

He spent his mornings weeding Hop Sing’s garden, repairing loose boards in the fence by the outhouse, waxing and polishing the furniture and the staircase banister, sweeping and raking out the chicken coop, hanging out laundry, washing windows…yecch!  And that was in addition to his regular chores of caring for Blackie, his share of the morning and evening barn chores, and keeping the woodpile stocked.

And his afternoons were even worse; for at those times there was, quite simply, nothing to do.  He couldn’t go anywhere.  His father had advised him to “go read a book.”  Now there’s a suggestion, he thought glumly. 

And that thought brought him around again to the biggest secret he was keeping from this man… that it appeared Adam Cartwright had no idea that his son was an uneducated Mick who couldn’t even spell ‘Mick.’

Despite his bad temper, he could feel the hot water working its magic, helping him to unwind.  He frowned guiltily as he recalled the arguments, first with his uncle Hoss, and then with his grandfather.  He was actually grateful that his father was in Reno for these last several days.  There had been a lot of tension between them, too, before he left.  

Why does it have to be so hard to get along with people?  he wondered, a little sadly.  He missed his friends.  He missed Tom and Ray.  God forgive him, he even missed his old boss, Jimmy O’Halloran.  And, more than anyone else, he missed his Ma.  So many times, over the last week he’d seen something that had made him laugh and think how funny she’d find it. But he’d never be able to tell her now.

Sadly, Pat drew in a shaky breath, then shook himself a little, and reached down deep for his old trick of putting his mind to something else, anything else, than what was upsetting him…

Closing his eyes Patrick let the hot water lap around him, and he began to hum…

 

Little Joe rode into the yard, glad it was nearly suppertime.  He was ravenously hungry.  He’d spent the day out in the meadow, haymaking.  He and Adam were supposed to have been working together today, but Pa had sent Adam to Reno to negotiate a timber deal with one of the newer mines, and that meant Joe was stuck doing the job alone.  He was filthy and exhausted, desperately ready for a bath, supper and bed…for once he wasn’t champing at the bit to ride into Virginia City tonight to raise hell.

After getting Cochise settled in the barn, he walked toward the wash house, figuring he could yell to Hop Sing to grab him some clean clothes, when he stopped in his tracks, listening.

 

“Ah de do, ah de do da day,

Ah de do ah de day de,

  He whistled and he sang ‘til the green woods rang,

And he won the heart of a lady.”

 

Someone was singing.  He figured at first it must be Adam, but his older brother must have made one heck of a ride to get back from Reno this early!  He listened harder, and while the quality and timbre of the voice was similar to Adam’s, it wasn’t quite right…it was a slightly higher voice, rich and full, but the pronunciation was wrong.

 

“Gypsy rover come over the hill,

down through the valley so shady,

  He whistled and he sang til the green woods rang

And he won the heart of a lady.”

 

Joe’s eyes widened in surprise.  It was Patrick!  

Joe quietly came up on the porch and listened.  The sweet, haunting melody was beautiful, and Pat’s voice was really very good, with a strong brogue injected in the lyrics.  Joe closed his eyes wearily and just leaned against the porch upright, enjoying the sound.

 

“Her father saddled up his fastest steed,

roamed these valleys all over,

  Sought his daughter at great speed,

and her whistling gypsy rover.”

 

Pensively, Joe thought of how many of his earliest memories involved Adam singing lullabies to him; he sighed softly, realizing how much Patrick had missed out on, not having Adam as his father while he was a little fellow.  Joe and Adam might not always see eye to eye, it was true, but he’d been a wonderful big brother, caregiver and mentor. Joe regretted that Pat hadn’t been able to experience any of that.

Joe heard quiet footsteps behind him and saw Pa, his forehead wrinkled in confusion and listening intently, coming up quietly.  Joe smiled and nodded toward the wash house.  “It’s Pat,” he whispered.

Ben’s eyes widened in surprise.  “I thought it might be Adam,” he said softly, cocking his head to listen.  “He’s good,” Ben smiled, eyes wide.

“Yeah, he is.  Wait’ll Adam hears,” grinned Joe.

 

“He is no gypsy, my father, she said,

But lord of these lands all over,

     And I will stay till my dyin’ day,

With my whistlin’ gypsy rover.”

 

Adam slouched in his seat at the saloon in Reno, nursing a beer and brooding.  He had another couple of hours before he had to meet the two Virginia and Truckee Railroad executives to whom he’d presented his lumber proposal. He had a feeling the answer would be yes, but he had time to kill before finding out for sure. They’d been talking through projected lumber needs and hammering out details for the last four days, now, and Adam felt pretty confident he’d sealed the deal for the Ponderosa’s lumber interests to provide timber for railway ties.  It had required a lot of thinking, calculating and juggling, but Adam had always found this part of the ranch operations to be the most fun. He wasn’t afraid of physical work, but having his mind pushed hard to solve problems was far more satisfying to him.  It also had the benefit of giving his mind a bit of a break from worrying about other challenges… like the one presented by his adolescent son.

Last week’s scene at the church had been so much more intense and upsetting than anything he’d ever expected; Adam hated scenes, and, brother, that one had been a doozy.  Maybe the town figured he and Pat were targets only when they were silent and accepting, he thought wryly. Fight back and they can’t handle it.  But it sure was a dreadfully uncomfortable way to live.  It bothered him that he’d begun to avoid regular trips to town.  It bothered him even more that Pa had begun to notice.

Adam rubbed his forehead.  He was awfully glad when the letter from Douglas Brazier and Bennett Hutchinson, two of the V&T’s purchasing agents, had asked for a few days of meetings in Reno to discuss how the Ponderosa, long a supplier of timber for the mines in the Comstock Lode, might find supplying the railroad with lumber for the proposed connection between Virginia City and Reno to their advantage.  The tension at the ranch the last few days had been thick enough to cut with a knife.  This extended trip gave him a very welcome breather.

He sighed, sipping his beer again, wondering if all fathers went through this feeling of being thrown in a well, dragged back up, and dumped in again?  He was struggling, feeling unable to keep up with Pat’s mood swings; one minute the boy was cheerful, the next morose.  He’d help you out with a task one second, then disappear, avoiding his regular chores in the next.  By the time he’d left the Ponderosa, Adam had been ready to confine Pat to his room just so he wouldn’t have to look at him!

That first morning together at the mercantile he’d thought that there might be a light at the end of the tunnel; they’d laughed together and had shared a few moments of comfortable camaraderie.  Even after that awful scene at the church, Pat had been subdued but calm and had seemed to quietly accept the discipline that Adam had handed down.  But then, a day or two later he was impossible again!  Sullen and unresponsive, fresh and ornery, and Adam was at a loss to understand why.  The man sighed, rubbing at his forehead. He was making a real botch of this fatherhood experiment, he thought uncomfortably.  He and his son still had such a long way to go.

 

Friday morning was much cooler, making the tempers on the Ponderosa a lot smoother.  Ben had noticed that Pat had finished all of his yard chores, and done them well, and decided that in Adam’s absence he’d step in and give him a break.  

Ben had nearly had to bite his tongue when he heard Adam lay down the list of chores for Pat.  Ben had been a father too long not to realize what grief would lie ahead for his unsuspecting son.  He had always made sure the boys were never stuck on yard chores for more than a few days at a time, even when they’d been very naughty or disobedient, for the simple reason that they always drove the boys into moods that made them impossible to live with.  It soon became clear that Pat was no exception.  

He also worried that Adam had been too rough on the boy; in essence, assigning all those chores in addition to restricting him to the ranch house and yard was akin to punishing him twice, and he was sure that was the way Pat viewed it, though the youngster wasn’t saying a word.  To his father, anyway.  Hoss had confided in Ben the argument they’d had in the barn yesterday, concerned about the boy.  With Adam away in Reno, his oldest son hadn’t been able to see the effect the situation was having on his boy, and therefore was unable to make adjustments accordingly.

Pat had just finished bringing in the wood for the kitchen and was quietly contemplating what he had to do next when Ben met him in the kitchen.

“Morning!” his grandfather smiled.

“Mornin’,” Pat answered, quietly.  He’d done some thinking after his spat with his uncle Hoss and made some decisions in the last day or so. Uncle Hoss was right. He knew that it wasn’t Granddad’s or the uncles’ faults that he was in the mess he was in, so he’d decided he wasn’t going to inflict his moods on them any further, but it was still hard to be cheerful when he felt so danged put out.  

Ben poured himself a cup of coffee, and then waggled the pot at Pat.  “Want some?”

Pat looked up from his brooding, glanced at his grandfather and nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.  Thanks.”

Ben poured another for Pat, half-full, and handed it to him. “Put a good bit of milk in that,” Ben said firmly.

Pat resisted rolling his eyes and did as his grandfather directed. The two stood together in silence for a moment.  

“You’ve done a fine job whitewashing that storeroom, young man,” Ben smiled.

“Thank you,” Pat muttered, sipping his coffee. 

Ben almost snorted to see the boy’s eyebrows raise in pleased surprise; he could see Pat liked the flavor of café au lait.  Shaking his head, Ben smiled. Dear Lord, but it was just like trying to pry conversation out of a youthful, sulking Adam again.  He was going to have to brush up on his skills for talking with a boy who refused to communicate.

“I think you’ve earned a day off,” he said firmly. 

Pat sipped, then his eyes widened in surprise, and he looked up at his grandfather. “A day off?”

“Yep,” nodded Ben emphatically.  “You’ve finished the list of chores your father left you two days ahead of time.”

Pat’s brow wrinkled, and he thought for a moment.  He’d listened hard when his father lifted a piece of paper that outlined the chores on the list trying to commit them to memory (“I can’t look at it right now, my hands are full.  Can ya read it off to me?”), but thought he might have missed something.

“Well, all but a quick inventory of the storeroom, but that shouldn’t take longer than an hour.”  Ben put out a hand and massaged his shoulder.  “Why don’t you do that tomorrow, and take today off?”

 “What’ll he say?” asked Pat, seriously.

Ben smiled gently.  “‘He’ has a name you know.  Don’t you think it’s about time you started addressing him as your father?”

Pat shrugged, uncomfortable.  Ben allowed the seed to settle and let the rest pass.

“I’ll talk to him, tell him how hard you’ve been working,” said Ben, eyeing the boy carefully.  Pat studied his grandfather; he’d been a poker player too long not to recognize that his granddad was holding back. Could it possibly be that Granddad wasn’t planning to say anything to Adam about his rotten attitude and his bad temper?

Ben blandly looked back at the boy.  Despite himself, Pat found himself smiling wryly, shaking his head, and Ben grinned at him.

“So, what are you going to do today?” asked Ben, putting an arm around his shoulders.  

Pat sighed. 

“Nothin.  Ain’t nothin’ to do,” he muttered dejectedly.

“A bit bored?”

Pat nodded, sipping his coffee.

“Well, part of that is understandable,” said Ben seriously.  He reached out a hand and gently tipped up Pat’s chin, making him look at him.  “You are being punished, after all.  It’s not supposed to be altogether pleasant.”

Pat flushed and when Ben released his chin, looked down at the kitchen floor.

“Look, Pat,” said Ben quietly.  “I know this has been hard on you.  You’re not one to easily stay put in one place.  But try to think of it this way.  You’ve only got today and tomorrow left to go, and it’ll be over.  You’ve had a difficult lesson to learn these past two weeks and I’d be heartily surprised if you planned to put yourself through an ordeal like this again real soon, am I right?”

Pat nodded.  “I’ll say,” he sighed, with feeling.

“All right, then.  Don’t you think the wisest route to take would be to accept the rest of your punishment without a fuss, and prove to your father that you’ve indeed taken onboard the lesson he wanted you to learn?”

Pat still looked downward and chewed on his lower lip in a gesture so much like Adam that Ben’s heart tugged at him.  And, also like Adam, instead of answering the question, the boy countered with a question of his own.

“You gonna tell him about yesterday?” he asked, a little worriedly.

“Yesterday?” asked Ben, his eyes wide and innocent.  “What about yesterday?”

Pat shook his head again, smiling.  Well, if his grandfather was willing to go to bat for him, then maybe he’d better heed his advice.  “All right,” he sighed.  “I’ll try.”

“Good boy,” smiled Ben, clapping his young grandson on the shoulder.  “Now, let’s see if we can’t think up something to keep you occupied.  I don’t think I can live through another day like the last few!”

 

It had been hard, but Pat behaved himself for the rest of the day and tried his best not to inflict his bad mood on everyone around him.  Ben had come up with three or four interesting things for Pat to do that had kept him pleasantly occupied for a few hours, but the long afternoon loomed before him like a life sentence.  And even worse was the prospect of having to figure out how in the world to accomplish an inventory of that damned storeroom tomorrow. 

Pat sat on the corral fence, looking out over the fields, the toes of his boots hooked around the next lower rail.  Chewing on a length of straw, Pat thought hard about how to get himself out of this situation.  He wondered if he might be able to talk one of his uncles into helping him; maybe if he counted off the items they could record ‘em? 

He heard hoof beats behind him, and turned to see who was coming in.  He started to smile as he saw his father riding in, then the smile dipped into a frown.  He’d forgotten for a moment that he was mad at him.  Then he remembered the talk he and his grandfather had and the promise he made and sighed, forcing himself to at least look less resentful.

“Hi!” smiled Adam, swinging off Sport.  His smile faded as he saw Pat slip down off the corral fence and walk toward him, his face closed.  

“How was your trip?” Pat asked quietly.

“Not bad! Sealed the deal with the V&T,” replied his father leading Sport into the barn.  “How’ve you been?”

“All right,” Pat shrugged.

Adam continued into the barn, and turned to talk to his son again, stopping as he saw Pat not following him, but instead on the porch of the house, walking in, his head down.  Adam exhaled, closed his eyes and shook his head.  Apparently, not much had changed.

 

Pat stared at the inventory sheet in front of him, and then at the shelves.  There were some things marked there, but Pat couldn’t make head nor tail of it.  His stomach ached as he struggled to figure a way out of this mess.

He’d tried coaxing Uncle Hoss and Uncle Joe into helping him, but they were too busy with the stock this morning, preparing for the fall roundup.  There was a lot of work ahead of them, and Granddad needed them elsewhere.  Uncle Joe had suggested he ask his father, but Pat’s immediate negative reaction stopped that in its tracks.  Besides, Adam and Ben had to go to a Cattleman’s Association meeting in town.

So Pat was stuck.  The storeroom was hot and stuffy, which didn’t improve his mood.  Drawing in a deep breath he tried again, concentrating instead on trying to match up the squiggled markings on the items that were labeled on the shelves with the item names on the sheet.  The hardest problem was that not everything was labeled… and, though he didn’t realize it, different handwriting was involved, making it impossible for him to make things match up.

Three hours later, he was discouraged to note he wasn’t even a quarter of the way through and threw the list down in defeat.  I just can’t do it! He sank down on a bench, putting his head in his hands.  Upset, he finally slapped his thighs in frustration and got to his feet.  He couldn’t take it anymore.  

Angrily, he stalked out of the storeroom, out into the sunshine and strode to the barn, fetching a bridle; he strode next into the corral and slipped it onto Blackie, then led him into the barn.  Once there he tossed a saddle blanket onto Blackie’s back and hauled his saddle off the stall side wall, resting it on the horse’s back.  In no time, he’d saddled the horse and led him out into the yard.  

He was gonna be in trouble for not finishing the inventory, anyway; he might as well go whole hog and break his restriction as well.  He mounted Blackie and took off out of the yard.

 

Hop Sing was in a dither.  He’d looked all over the house, the yard, the barn, even a reasonable distance away from the house, but couldn’t find young Patrick anywhere.  Oh, Mister Adam was going to be furious.  He went ahead and prepared supper, trying to think of a way to deflect the attention off from Patrick until the boy turned up again.

While he was mashing potatoes, he heard horses approaching and peered out the kitchen window to the lane leading up to the house, and his heart sank.  It was the Boss and Mister Adam.  Hop Sing shook his head worriedly.  Trouble!  

Adam gathered the reins of both Sport and Buck.  “I’ll put up the horses, Pa. You look pretty tired,” he offered, with a smile.

“Oh, I do, do I?” smiled Ben, wearily stretching out his back.  “Well, son, I’ll have to agree with you there.  Thanks.”  He turned toward the house and saw the storeroom door open.  “Wonder how young Patrick fared with the inventory?”  

Ben stood in the center of the room, surprised.  The inventory list had been thrown to the floor, the shelves were a mess.  Ben’s face settled into a frown; he truly hadn’t expected the boy to be disobedient, and was disappointed in him… and then, his brow furrowed in thought.  Something isn’t right here…

Adam came into the storeroom, and Ben could see he was angry.  Silently, he took in the scene around him and nodded.  

“Blackie’s gone,” said Adam tightly, his hands on his hips.  “And so, it appears, is Pat.”

Ben glanced at Adam, remembering the family’s promise to let Adam raise his boy in his own way, but… “Adam,” he began, scratching an ear.

“Pa, stop trying to cover up for him!” Adam snapped.  “He outright disobeyed me!”

“Now just hold on a second, Adam, you don’t know what happened,” said Ben reasonably, holding up a hand to slow down his son’s angry words.  “Why don’t we talk to Hop Sing and see if he knows anything, before you fly off the handle?”

His mouth set in an angry line, Adam stalked out of the storeroom.  Hoss and Joe were riding in at that point and watched as Adam strode into the house.  

“What’s with him?” asked Hoss of Ben, as he dismounted and patted old Chub’s flank.

Ben sighed.  “I’m afraid Patrick’s earned himself a whole lot of trouble.”

‘Trouble’s his middle name,” scoffed Joe, dismounting and flipping the reins around the hitching rail.  ‘What’s he done now?”

“It appears he’s taken off,” answered Ben, thinking hard about the conversations he’d had with the boy over the last few days, and the efforts he’d seen the youngster put in.  

Hoss shook his head, astonished.  “But he only had until tonight,” he said in frustration.  “What in blazes is wrong with that kid?”

Adam stalked out of the house, furious.  “Hop Sing doesn’t know where he is, but says he’s been gone since before lunch.  That’s when he came out to let Pat know it was time to eat, and couldn’t find him.”

“I just can’t believe it,” muttered Ben, frowning as he shook his head. “Something’s wrong, here.”

“You bet there’s something wrong,” retorted Adam grimly.  “Or there will be when I get my hands on him.”  He strode into the barn, leaving his brothers and father looking worriedly at each other.

“Man, I wouldn’t want to be in Pat’s boots when older brother gets hold of him,” said Joe, raising his eyebrows and shaking his head.  “He’s gonna be one very sorry boy.”

Adam came back out with Sport, still saddled, and mounted up.  “You go on ahead with supper.  I’ll find him and eat later.”

“Adam!” 

At the sound of command in his father’s voice, Adam pulled up short and looked, still angry, at Ben.

“I know you’re upset and angry, but I want you to promise me something.”

“What, Pa?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders impatiently.

“Promise me you’ll listen to him.”  Ben walked up to him, his face thoughtful and serious.  “I’m telling you, there’s something wrong, and I’ll be willing to bet he just doesn’t know how to tell you what it is.  Try to be a little patient with him.  If he did, indeed, simply disobey, then you can deal with it.  But listen to him.  Hear his side first, before you come down on him like a duck on a June bug.”

Adam stared at his father for a moment, simmering, then he sighed and, looking down, nodded.  Then he wheeled Sport around and headed out at a good trot.

 

Pat had ridden for hours, with no clear direction in mind.  He found himself up by the lake that he’d heard his uncles and grandfather talk about.  Tiredly, he dismounted, loosely tying Blackie to a thicket near the sandy shore, and sank down, cross-legged, overlooking the water.

He stared out for a few moments, trying to figure out what to do, how to somehow solve all of these problems he found his life mired in, and swallowed hard.  The boy drew his knees up to his chin, crossing his arms and resting them on his knees.  No matter how he worked at it, there was just no way out of this mess he’d gotten himself into.  He closed his eyes wearily and rested his forehead on his arms, feeling defeated and dreadfully alone.

Oh, Ma, what am I gonna do? he thought, fighting back tears.  I’ve tried, Ma, really I have, but it just ain’t gonna work. Everything was easier in the Kitchen… everythin’ made sense.  I knew what I had to do and everythin’ was something I knew how to do well.  Here… here, I just keep makin’ mistakes. It’s like I can’t do nothin’ right…

Images of his mother flooded his mind, buffeted him like waves, and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly to try to block them.  

 

It hadn’t been hard to follow Pat’s tracks, but it had been time consuming.  Adam could see that he was wandering aimlessly, with no clear direction in mind.  He was grateful to notice that at no time did the tracks lead into town.  At least Patrick hadn’t disobeyed him about that!

He found himself following the tracks up to the lake.  It was beginning to be early evening. Adam was sure the boy was hungry and tired; Hop Sing said he’d been gone since before lunch.  

As he’d ridden, he’d expected to get angrier and angrier with the boy, but instead Pa’s words were echoing in his mind.  Was there something wrong, something he hadn’t picked up on?

Finally, he heard a pony nickering nearby and pulled up Sport.  Walking his horse quietly, Adam followed the sound and came to a clearing on the east side of the lake.

Blackie was tied, and he saw Pat sitting quietly by the lake, knees drawn up with his arms wrapped around them, his head down; a total picture of defeat and sadness. Adam dismounted and tethered Sport, walking over to him.

Pat heard footsteps, and spun, startled; he was on his feet in a heartbeat.  Adam put his hands out, reassuring.

“It’s all right, it’s just me.”

Pat drew in a hitching breath. “That’s supposed to make me feel better, right?” he said shakily, with an attempt at his usual sarcastic humor.

Adam studied him and saw that he’d been crying.  Under his father’s scrutiny, Pat turned away and looked out over the lake.

“So.”  Adam walked up behind his son, trying hard to do as his father suggested.  “I think you know that I’m pretty upset with you.” The words might have been stern, but his tone was calm, gentler.

Pat said nothing but continued to stare out at the beautiful, still water.

“However, I’m willing to listen if you’ve got something to say for yourself.”

Pat drew in a shaky breath.  Pat slowly leaned down and bent to pick up a stone.  He hefted it, then turned and threw it, expertly skipping it three… four… five times across the water.  “I’m sorry about the storeroom.”  

His voice had been so soft, Adam had to really strain to hear him.  He took a few steps closer to the boy until he was just behind him on his left side, then stopped, and waited.

“Why didn’t you finish the job?” asked Adam quietly, standing behind his son as he stared out over the water.  

Pat listened to the tone; no judgement, no scolding.  Like he was honestly asking, same as if he’d asked Hop Sing what was for dessert.

Pat’s lips trembled and he closed his eyes.  Siobhan’s gentle face filled his mind again and he squeezed his eyes tighter, his head down. 

Tell him… tell him the truth…

“I…I couldn’t do it.”

“What do you mean, you couldn’t do it?” demanded Adam, his hands on his hips.

Pat raised his head and stared out at the lake, winced and took the plunge.  He drew in a deep breath and swallowed hard.  “I can’t read,” he said very slowly and very softly. 

Adam’s jaw dropped; he felt as though he’d been poleaxed.  

Pat misread the silence behind him and his heart broke.  He spun around, his fists clenched and glared at him, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Go ahead, laugh!” he shouted, upset, and turned his back on his father, wishing he’d just got on that damn horse and kept ridin’….

“I’m not laughing at you, Pat, truly I’m not,” said Adam quietly, shaking his head, coming up right beside him.  “I’m sorry, son, I didn’t know.”  

The man sighed. No wonder, he thought giving himself a mental kick.  Adam winced, shaking his head as he now saw some of the boy’s behavior and responses in these last weeks in a totally different light: why he’d touch the bindings of the books on the bookshelves, but never take one down.  Why he’d pay such close attention to spoken instructions, and had a prodigious memory.  Why he would focus so much on the colors, shapes and contours of things. Why he’d do sketches, but Adam never saw any words on a page.

God, the sheer exhaustion this poor kid must feel, working so hard to keep this fact away from us, from me.  And no wonder he’d got overwhelmed by trying, desperately, to fulfill the job he’d been given, to do an inventory of a storeroom when he had no way of recording the contents!  It was no surprise he’d finally just given up and bolted!

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

The boy sniffed hard, and tried to gauge the reaction, the emotions underneath the words.  He just grunted, shrugged and turned his back a little more to his father, staring at the lake… away from any disappointment he might detect in his father’s face or voice…

“All right,” said Adam, drawing in a deep breath. “Well… so, we’ll deal with it.” 

‘Deal with it? How?” asked Pat, over his shoulder, dejectedly.

“Well, Pat, it’s not that hard, you can learn.”

“I’m too old,” he sniffed, shaking his head, uneasily.

“Nonsense,” countered Adam, smiling and walking up beside his son, his voice gentle.  “No one is too old to learn how to read.  And you’re pretty bright, you’ll pick it up fairly easily, I should think.  Now, school will be starting again in a week or two and – “

Pat whirled, fists clenched, and he backed off, his eyes wide. “No!  I ain’t goin’ to no school!”

“Now, Pat, wait a minute—“

“No!”

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Adam.  “Don’t you want to learn?”

“I ain’t never thought about it much,” he lied, backing further away, his boots splashing in the lake’s edge, “but I – ain’t – goin’!”

“Oh, come on, Pat, it isn’t that bad,” smiled Adam. “You’ll make friends, you’ll…”

“Like my friends in the church yard?” declared the boy, glaring back at his father.  

“There are other kids in town besides those three,” insisted Adam.  “C’mon, Pat, give it a chance!  You might even find it fun.”

“Fun!?” cried the boy.  “You’re daft!  I seen them kids getting out every afternoon in New York, lookin’ like they’d been released from jail!  And I seen ‘em goin’ back in the mornin’ again, like they was walkin’ the last mile!”  

Adam almost chuckled, able to clearly visualize the scene from Pat’s colorful description.  “Now, Pat—“

“And if you think I’m gonna go in there and sit with a bunch o’ little kids that don’t even come up to my knee, readin’ an’ spellin’ better’n me, you’re barmy!”

Adam was taken aback.  Pat stood there, red faced and heaving like a racehorse, fists balled, every inch of his wiry frame armed for bear,his shattered pride on the line.

“You can drag me there, but I ain’t stayin’!  I’ll run away every single time, I don’t care what you say and I don’t care what you do!” the boy insisted, becoming more agitated by the second.

“Okay, okay, settle down,” said Adam, patting the air to calm his son.  He thought about it for a moment.  “I’ll make a deal with you.”

Warily, Pat eyed his father.  “What kinda deal?” he asked, suspiciously.

“I won’t make you go to school this year on one condition.”

Pat waited, worrying.  

Adam studied him.  

Pat sighed in resignation.  “So, what’s the condition?”

“That you’ll behave and let me teach you at home.”

Pat’s eyes popped open wide in disbelief.  He stared at Adam for a moment, then laughed derisively, hiccupping a little. “You’re … you’re daft!” he declared.

Adam cocked an eyebrow.  “Well, it’s that, or the alternative.”

Again, silence, until in frustration, Pat waved a hand, irritably, and demanded, “What’s that?”

“I’ll march you into school every single day and sit there with you to make sure you behave yourself and do the work.”

Pat’s eyes widened again, in dismay this time.  With Granddad, he could tell when the old man meant what he said, or when Pat might be able to wheedle him around.  This man wasn’t as easy to read.  But Patrick had a strong suspicion that this time, if his father said he’d do it, he’d do it.

Pat frowned, feeling helpless as he struggled with organizing the thoughts that plunged through his mind.  

Adam waited patiently, letting him assimilate the idea. 

Studying his father for about twenty seconds, the boy then uneasily turned away and stared out again at the lake.  He was thinking so hard Adam thought he could literally watch the gears turn in his boy’s head.  

After a bit, Adam crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow.  “So, what’s it going to be?  Study at home?  Or at school?  One way or another, Pat, you are going to learn how to read and do arithmetic.  It’s up to you where you learn… for the moment, anyway.”

Pat eyed him, frustrated.  Then that damn image of his mother scooted into his consciousness again, and he turned away, sighing.  He remembered her saying that an education was one of the advantages his father could give him that she couldn’t.  He closed his eyes in defeat. “At home,” he said morosely.

“Good,” nodded Adam, walking up to him.  He took a chance and put an arm around his son’s shoulders, grateful that it wasn’t shrugged off.  “C’mon, Pat, it won’t be that bad,” he smiled.

“But… but what if I can’t?” Pat muttered, worried, unable to shake his fears.  “What if I’m too stup…”  Grimly, the boy closed his eyes in frustration, and looked up, angrily defensive. “What if I really am too old to learn? Then what? You still ain’t never gonna get me inside no school!”  He spit the last word out as though referring to a Dickensian workhouse.

“I really don’t believe that will be the case, but suppose we take it one step at a time, and not cross that bridge yet?”  Adam suggested, gently, giving him a comforting squeeze.  “Have some faith, Pat.  And who knows?  You just might enjoy yourself.”  

“Huh!” scoffed Pat, scowling at the tips of his boots. 

Adam chuckled.  “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m hungry.  Hop Sing’ll be ready to slit our throats if supper’s spoiled.  What do you say we get on home?”

Pat sighed and nodded.  He was hungry as well as worn out with worrying and fighting and struggling all the time.  At least… well, at least he didn’t have the weight of this secret hanging over his head anymore, ready to land on him like a hod of bricks when he least expected it.

Together, they walked back to their horses, Adam wearily thanking God for seeming to have survived another crisis.

~-oo0oo-~

Author’s note; Please forgive the anachronism.  🙂  While Irish songwrter Leo Maguire did write “The Gypsy Rover” (aka, “The Whistling Gypsy”) in the 50s, it was the 1950s not the 1850s.  However, it was a song I sang my own son, Adam, to sleep with and it just seemed right for Siobhan to sing to ayoung, rambunctious Patrick.  Thank you for your forbearance.

---

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

September 1871

The autumn afternoons flew by for Patrick in a whirl of things to do, discover, and experience.  Once the boy was freed of the confines of the house, yard and barn, Adam sweated out the days when Pat rode off on his own, exploring, usually with any of his father’s warnings of being careful impatiently nodded at and then promptly ignored.  He climbed trees and hills, he learned how to swim in the lake and pond, and poked his snubbed nose into mines, fascinated with the process and romance of seeing simple, ugly rocks and sticky blue-gray residue turn into someone’s silver bonanza.

He snitched apples from the neighbor’s trees, drove the hands crazy riding the cows and playing toreador with the bulls (though a frantic scramble for safety after one charge made him decide he’d probably better abandon that prospect as a career). He scared the wits out of his grandfather one afternoon walking the ridgepole of the bunk house, and he swung from the hayloft on the big pulley that was used to haul up hay, although he couldn’t quite figure out why Uncle Joe couldn’t manage to keep a straight face while scolding him.  His uncle just kept insisting that if he didn’t want his father or grandfather to kill him, he’d better stop. 

He learned how wonderful it felt to have the wind whip through his black hair as he galloped through the fields and meadows on Blackie, the incredible feeling of freedom represented in the thousand wide-open square miles of the Ponderosa.

His Uncle Hoss taught him how to care for the animals on the ranch and managed to infuse in him a love of the land that he never thought he’d experience.  Hoss’ kindness and gentleness smoothed many of the rough edges off his temper and he found himself with an easy-going companion, who was almost always sympathetic and friendly, answering his never-ending questions and laughing at his practical jokes…unless they were aimed at him, as they often were.

His relationship with Joe was a complex one, at times fiery and combative, and at others warm and conspiratorial.  The rest of the family was always on the lookout for a fistfight brewing between the two youngest Cartwrights and grinned indulgently at their high jinks.  Joe soon found that Pat was easily as gifted as he was in the realm of practical jokes, and it began to be a contest between the two, one trying to best the other.  It was Joe who taught Pat how to fish, and the joy of stretching out on your back on a grassy bank, bare feet sometimes dipping into the water, lazily waiting for the fish to nibble at your line.  It was also Joe who taught him, surreptitiously of course, how to handle a pistol; if Adam had known, he’d have had a fit.  It was that great fun and excitement of putting something over on dad/oldest brother that ultimately brought these two together and offered each a grudging respect of the other’s abilities.  And to Joe’s surprise, it was Pat who taught him how to really play poker.

Pat, in a very short time, found himself adoring his grandfather.  He soon learned when the older man’s bark was worse than his bite; it didn’t take him long to figure out just when he could get away with something and when there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell.  Granddad was like the mountains out there, steadfast and sure, always there for you, and Pat loved him unequivocally.

Hop Sing became a silent ally.  Pat had continued to work on his Cantonese, and learned how to cook, to a certain degree.  He’d learned more about his family from this man; and his deep respect for Hop Sing’s people which had begun in Hell’s Kitchen with Su Chang and his family, was continued on the Ponderosa as he learned a great deal more Chinese history from Hop Sing.  Little Joe would always be Hop Sing’s baby, but rapidly, Patrick was earning his own spot in Hop Sing’s heart, even if the Chinese man was the one to scold Pat more severely than any other member of the family. For every ear-blistering lecture, there was always a baked or cooked treat to ease the sting.

But his relationship with his father remained as confusing and challenging as ever.  At times they found a rare symbiosis, their similar temperaments and thinking allowing them to talk seriously about subjects that Pat had never thought about before but was now consumed by… conversations about social justice, geography, and current events were gently introduced to the boy, in ways that were age appropriate.  Adam discovered in his son a kindred spirit with a sharp, logical mind, a wry, biting, and sarcastic sense of humor that could cut a body to ribbons, and a deep curiosity for the world around him.  Despite his youth, Pat thoroughly enjoyed discussions of politics, philosophy, and history.  During these talks, the sullen, unresponsive youngster was replaced with a fireball of energy, a quick mind desperate to learn everything he could just as fast as possible. Adam loved those times.  

The first few hours of struggling through school lessons had been painful for both teacher and student, until dawn broke and, as suddenly as a thunderclap, Pat unlocked the mystery of reading.  Once Patrick realized that those individual letters, when put together in combinations, made words, and the words opened up his mind to thoughts, other people’s thoughts, Pat was insatiable.  Adam couldn’t keep up with his thirst for books. 

Pat was frustrated to discover that he couldn’t learn everything in a day. His natural impatience was whetted further with the prospect of so many new and amazing things out there, just waiting for him to soak them up. 

He was frustrated with his father having only primary school readers for him that were babyish, that both bored and insulted him, and didn’t give him any of the answers he sought.

And he was frustrated with himself… frustrated that he couldn’t learn everything immediately in order to be able to access books for older children or adults. It was these times when his short temper would cause him the most problems.

But numbers… now, there he found his feet!  He had been able to count for years, and Ray, seeing his quick mind, had taught him addition and subtraction using anything he had to hand, from dried beans in his mother’s kitchen to shot glasses behind the Witch’s Broth’s bar. Mathematics fascinated him, and Adam was delighted to discover just how bright the boy actually was.  It was exciting for Pat to realize that there were real names for the mathematical and practical ideas he’d run across in his short thirteen years; poker playing and figuring out the odds was just something called “probability and statistics.”  Figuring out how much push was needed to lift something with a pulley in the barn or a lever while repairing a broken wagon wheel was called “physics,” as well as the fact that there were actual scientific laws – wrote down some two hundred years earlier by some English fella named Newton – that explained what Pat already knew: things like how, once a beer barrel slid off the keg stands and started rolling it would eventually slow down due to things like the slope of the saloon’s storeroom floor, or how much beer was left in the barrel.

Within one or two short weeks, Pat’s mornings turned from drudgery into excitement, and Adam was hard pressed to continue to find things to keep him busy.  The boring elements of schoolwork, the studying and practice of mastering skills, were necessary but painful roadblocks to the boy, and Adam soon realized, drolly, that his son would probably never learn how to spell properly.  Pat spelled words the way they sounded, and any time he was forced to sit and practice anything in a drill, it was usually those dreaded spelling words.  Being forced to sit down and try to write essays was almost as bad, not yet having the vocabulary he needed to write what he truly thought or handwriting legible enough to be easily read.

Adam would usually come away from a morning of lessons exhausted but exhilarated.  He was proud to acknowledge the intelligence represented in those blue eyes and was pleased with the boy’s progress.

But between them still hung a difficult, wary observance of each other.  Pat was still careful to remain a little distant and aloof in order to avoid abandoning completely the safe, hard shell of obstinacy he’d nurtured all his life.  Pat was usually respectful, but the worst arguments he got into were still with his father.

His father…. Pat had spent a good deal of time thinking over his grandfather’s suggestion that it was time he started addressing his father properly.  To this point, he’d managed to avoid calling him anything.  But Granddad was right; he’d have to figure out what to call him soon.  He thought of just calling him ‘Adam,’ refusing to acknowledge his status.  He could just imagine how well that would go over.  He just couldn’t force himself to call him ‘Pa’, which seemed to be common in these parts; it was just too cornfed!  Da?  It was Irish, after all, but would sound totally foreign out here.  Dad.  Hmm…that was a thought.  But Pat just wasn’t yet ready for that big a step in their relationship.

In these weeks Pat also discovered Virginia City.  After a few sessions of arguing, cajoling, wheedling and promising to keep his hands to himself, his father finally allowed him, occasionally, to ride into Virginia City on his own, and he learned the town like the back of his hand.  Pat’s prowess as a fighter had spread through the town like wildfire and for the most part the boys respected him and left him alone.  The ones that didn’t, Pat learned quickly to avoid, since he did not want to spend another two weeks staring at the boundaries of the house and yard.  Pat would have liked some pals; he missed Jack and Seamus and the rest of the guys on Hester Street; but if he had to go it alone he would.  Mr. Jenkins at the Mercantile was always kind to him, usually tossing him a gumdrop on his way out the door.  He made friends with Frank at the telegraph office, Charlie and Tom at the stagecoach office.  The only really serious scolding from his father he’d had to squirm through during that time was for playing poker with Lafe at the livery stable. Somethin’ about a horse…

Just as Paul Martin had predicted, with plenty of sunshine, fresh air, as well as hard work,  hard play, and Hop Sing doing his best to fill the bottomless pit of Pat’s stomach, his tall, strong body filled out.  He slept at night like a dead man, harnessing in his sleep the energy he’d need to barrel through each successive day.

Yep.  Pat was beginning to like Nevada.

 

“Patrick!  PATRICK!  Dadburn your ornery hide, git yourself out here, NOW!”

Ben raised his head up from the books, startled.  Then he heard Patrick giggling and grinned to himself.  Pat must have perpetrated another practical joke, with Hoss as the target.  He shook his head, smiling.  Ben was finding it increasingly difficult to imagine life on the Ponderosa without his scapegrace grandson, and knew his sons were feeling the same way.

“PATRICK!!”

Ben sighed, and figured he’d better go and moderate, since Adam was working up on the range with Joe, riding fences to evaluate how much work was ahead of them all to secure things for winter.  Ben pushed himself up from the desk, and met Hop Sing coming out of the kitchen, also scurrying to the door.  Ben grinned at the major domo.  

“Don’t worry Hop Sing,” he laughed.  “I’ll make sure his uncle doesn’t kill him.”

“Hop Sing tired of all the time yell!” the Chinese man stated emphatically.  “Missa Patlick velly bad boy!  Make Missa Hoss mad, all the time!”

“Now, Uncle Hoss, don’t get yourself in a tizzy!” came the giggling voice of Master Pat.

“A tizzy!  I’ll ‘tizzy’ you, you dadblasted little – “

“I’ll have a talk with him,” promised Ben, struggling not to grin.  Hop Sing yammered away angrily in Chinese all the way back to the kitchen, and Ben sighed, rolled his eyes heavenward, then hurried outside.

“No!  Aw, c’mon!”  Pat was shouting, a little more worriedly at this point.  

Ben’s eyes widened a bit to see Hoss was soaked to the skin and had Pat tucked under one arm marching across the yard.

“I reckon we could both use a bath, Nephew!” snapped Hoss, as he strode toward the horse trough.

“I’m sorry!  Honest!” yelped Pat, realizing he was probably in for a dunk. 

And before Ben could remonstrate, a mighty SPLASH! found Pat sitting up to his chin in the tepid water, and Hoss howling with laughter over him.

“Just what exactly is going on here?” demanded Ben, hands on his hips, as he tried hard to keep from chuckling.

“This ornery little cayute propped a bucket o’ water over the barn door, Pa, that’s what’s goin’ on here!” countered Hoss, shaking himself like a wet dog.  Pat cackled with laughter as he tried to extricate himself from the water, until Hoss reached out and with a firm hand on his wet black head, dunked him in again.

Pat reared up sputtering.  

“How’s the water, young’un?” demanded Hoss, with an evil grin.

At the sound of hoof beats, all three turned to see Joe and Adam riding in, looking weary and glad to be home.  Joe giggled at the sight of his brother and nephew, while Adam merely cocked an eyebrow.

“Wouldn’t the pond be a little better for a swim?” he asked dryly, but with a smirk, as he dismounted.

“Too far to walk,” replied Pat, flashing his father a rare grin.

Adam laughed and slapped the reins around the hitching post.  Tiredly he and Joe walked over to the trough.  

“How’d it go today?” asked Ben, while Hoss cheerfully helped Pat out of the trough.

“Better than we expected,” replied Adam, rubbing his lower back.  “We got a tremendous amount done, and if all goes well, we should be finished tomorrow.”

“Wonderful!” smiled Ben.  

“Yeah, the fencing doesn’t look anywhere near as bad as we’d expected it to,” nodded Joe.  “There’re no more than about … what, Adam… six miles you think that might needs some work?”

Adam screwed up his face in thought and then nodded. “Yeah, that sounds like a good estimate.”

The front door opened and Hop Sing came out on the porch.  “Supper leady!  You all come eat now!”

“Dadburn it, Hop Sing, that’s the best news I’ve had all day!” crowed Hoss, starting to head for the house, waylaid a moment by his father.  

“It’ll hold until you and Master Pat here get yourselves into dry clothes…I guess I don’t have to tell you to wash for supper,” said Ben with mock severity.

Laughing, all five walked into the house.

 

Everyone was hungry that night, and there was only good-natured bantering while they decimated Hop Sing’s steak, snap beans and fried potatoes.

“Jeez, Pat, you’re startin’ to eat as much as Hoss,” complained Little Joe as Pat reached for his third helping of beans and potatoes.

“Like Granddad keeps sayin’, I’m a growin’ boy,” retorted Pat, spooning the food liberally onto his plate.

“You’re growin’ all right,” grunted Joe, goodnaturedly.  “You’ll be growin’ right into Hoss’ clothes if you ain’t careful.”

A knock on the door forestalled another comeback from Pat.  Adam, Hoss and Joe all looked at their plates with great interest, making their father roll his eyes.  Pat looked from one to the other and sighed, throwing down his napkin in disgust as he rose to his feet.  

“How come I’m the one who always has to get up?” he grumbled as he stomped barefooted to the door, while Joe giggled, and the rest of the family chuckled.

“Boy, that’s one good reason he’s here, if just that!’ laughed Joe. “I’m not the one who’s gotta get up to answer the door all the time!”

Pat opened the heavy oaken door and was surprised to see Sheriff Coffee there. The boy grinned.  

“Evenin’, Sheriff!” he smiled at his grandfather’s old friend.

“Evenin’, Pat,” smiled back the older man.  “Your grandfather and your pa at home?”

“Yeah, come on in, we’re just finishin’ supper,” Pat invited, stepping back and letting the Sheriff enter.

“Evenin’, Roy!” smiled Ben.  “Had your supper?”

“Yep, thanks, Ben.  I could do with a cup o’ coffee, though.”

“You got it.  Hop Sing!  Another cup!”

“What brings you out this way, Roy?” asked Adam, finished eating and heading into the living room with his coffee.  Ben and Little Joe joined them while Hoss and Pat sat back down to finish their meals.  Ben seated himself in his leather chair by the fireplace and waited.

“There’s been some goin’s on that I wanted to talk to you folks about,” he said easily, having a seat in the blue velvet chair. Joe perched himself on the side of the settee, his boots resting on the oaken table, and Adam stood by the fire.

“Joseph, will you please sit in that settee?  And get your feet off the furniture!” scolded Ben.  Sheepishly, Joe slid down and put his feet on the floor. Sighing in exasperation, Ben turned his attention back to Roy.  “What’s the problem?”

“Wal, there’s been some robberies in town, Ben, and some of the ranchers around here are sayin’ they’ve been missin’ things, too,” said Roy, leaning back and sipping the coffee Hop Sing handed him.  Hoss and Pat perked up their ears and rapidly finished eating to join the others.  “Ain’t nothin’ really serious, apparently, but it’s an annoyance.  The Widow Morgan has reported that some o’ them circus posters o’ hers went missin’ this mornin’ while she was at the bank.  Bill Jenkins is reportin’ little things missin’ from the store.  Nuisance things, Ben.  I was wonderin’ if you folks out here had had any problems.”

Ben, bemused, looked at his sons.  “You boys notice anything missing?”

“Nope,” replied Hoss, standing beside the settee, sipping his own coffee.  “Nothin’ gone from the barn or stockroom; I just done a check th’other day.”

Pat had found a spot on the stairs to sit and listen, wary, his face a closed book.  

Adam glanced his way and was a little disturbed at the closed expression, wondering…

“I’m kinda thinkin’ it might be kids horsin’ around,” said Roy, carefully avoiding looking at Patrick.  “And some folks in town are inclined to agree with me.”

Ben studied his friend.  “What’re you trying to say, Roy?”

Roy looked away from Ben and turned to Adam.  “I was wonderin’ if I might have a couple words with young Pat, there.”

After a moment of closing his eyes, almost angrily, those blue eyes opened, narrowed and the boy sat up straighter in tense defiance. Same ol’ story, I guess…nothin’ changes…  

Adam studied Roy.  “What for?” he asked quietly.

Roy held Adam’s gaze.  “Wal, there’s some in town wonderin’ if Pat might know somethin’ about it.”

“Now, just a minute, Roy,” began Ben, angrily starting to rise. But he stopped when Adam put out a hand to his father and turned to Pat.  

“Pat, do you know anything about what the Sheriff’s talking about?” asked Adam mildly.

“No,” snapped Pat, his face flushed.

“Now, I ain’t accusin’ you, Pat,” said Roy easily.  “I’m just askin’ if you know anythin’ about it.”

“I said, no.”  Pat got to his feet and spun on his heel to go upstairs.

“Just a minute, Pat.”

He stopped short at the Sherriff’s voice, and half-turned, obviously angry.

“Where were you this mornin’?  ‘Round eleven?”

“I was right here!” ground out Pat, turning fully, hands on his hips.

“Doin’ what?  Anybody with ya?”

“Roy, this is ridiculous!” bit out Adam, angrily.  “If you’re not accusing him, why are you questioning him this way?”

“Adam, I’m just tryin’ to establish the facts,” said Roy seriously.  “If his actions are accounted for this mornin’ there’s nothing to worry about and we can nip these rumors right in the bud.”

Adam turned to his son and walked over to him.  Pat, misunderstanding, took an involuntary step back, worried.   “I didn’t do anything!” he protested.

“I didn’t say you did,” nodded Adam, putting an arm up to gently clasp Pat’s tight, tense arm.  “What were you doing at eleven this morning?”

“I don’t know!” cried Pat. “I wasn’t watchin’ a clock!” And couldn’t tell ya what time it was if I was, anyhow…

“Just take it easy,” Adam said calmly. He thought a moment, and frowned, tipping his head.  An uneasy thought came to him.  “You were supposed to be studying. I left you with fifteen spelling and vocabulary words to learn.  Did you do it?”

Pat shifted uncomfortably.  Dammit, it figured the one morning he’d played hooky would be a day he’d need corroboration on his movements.  

Adam sighed, in irritation.  “I take it the answer is no,” he said coldly.

“Well, I was gonna do it,” Pat said uneasily, “but … “  

Adam lips flattened in frustration. “I wish to God you’d learn to do as you’re told!” he fumed.

“Dammit, I didn’t do anything!” Pat shouted, stung.  First time!  First time I didn’t do it and it’s like I ain’t to be trusted!

“You mind your language, young man!” bellowed Adam, glaring, his hands on his hips.

“All, right, both of you calm down,” ordered Ben sternly.  “Roy, you don’t seriously believe Patrick had something to do with all this, do you?!”

“Now, Ben, all I’m doin’ is gatherin’ information,” said Roy placidly.  “If the boy ain’t done nothin’ wrong, he’s got nothin’ to worry about.  I’m askin’ the whereabouts of several young’uns in the area, it ain’t just Pat.”  Roy tipped his head back and studied Adam.  “I think you’d realize it’s in the boy’s best interest to get it settled once and for all that he ain’t the one I’m lookin’ for, wouldn’t you?” he said dryly.

Steaming, Adam studied the floor.  “And I suppose the alternative is true?  If he can’t verify his whereabouts he’s automatically the culprit?”

“Now, you know that ain’t so, Adam,” said Roy, with a small smile.  “I think you’re lettin’ your emotions get the better o’ you, here.  I’m just tryin’ to clear young Pat here, so that some o’ the heat on him in town eases up.”

Pat had retreated once more behind his sullen mask.  Adam glanced at him.  “Pat, I want you to tell me the truth. Do you know anything about this?”

The mask fell away, Pat’s blue eyes filled with hurt. “I been telling you the truth!” he declared hotly. “I was here, I didn’t steal nothin, an’ I ain’t no liar!”  And with that, he spun on his heel and stormed upstairs.

“Patrick, wait a minute!”

The only answer Adam got was the loud slam of Pat’s bedroom door.  Little Joe and Hoss drew together a bit, looking worriedly at each other.  Neither could honestly believe that Pat was involved, they just couldn’t.  But they could understand why some in town would wonder.

“Look, Roy, you might have no verification of his whereabouts, but neither do you have a single bit of evidence connecting him to the thefts, at least nothing concrete you’ve mentioned,” said Adam angrily.  “Who started this rumor anyway?”

“That ain’t important—“ began Roy.

“I want to know who’s accusing my son!” shouted Adam.

“Adam, you settle down right now!” snapped back Roy.  Adam fumed in silence, and Roy tried again.  “Now, look.  I don’t really think Pat had anything to do with this.  But he has been around Virginia City on his own lately, and he can’t verify where he was this mornin’ around the time the Widow Morgan’s house was broken into.  So, it might be in everyone’s best interests if you kept an eye on him and kept him close to home until we get this straightened out.”

“I’m not going to punish him for something he didn’t do!”

“Then keep him home so I don’t have to punish him, either!”

Ben rose to his feet; this had gone on long enough.  “All right, Roy, we’ll keep an eye on him.”  His tone was clearly indicating this interview was over.  But Roy shook his head.

“Ben, I’m sorry to upset you but I got my job to do.  Now, when was the last time you could account for the boy?” said Roy inexorably.

Hop Sing had been hovering at that point, listening with dismay.  “I see him at ten o’clock, Sheliff.”

Everyone turned to Hop Sing at that point, surprised.  

“He in yard.”

“Doin’ what?”

“It doesn’t matter, Hop Sing saw him in the yard!” snapped Joe, angrily.

“Joseph,” said his father sternly.

“But, Pa, this is ridiculous!  Pat’s no thief!” stormed Joe.

“Ten o’clock…you sure you ain’t seen him no later than that, Hop Sing?” asked Roy, frowning.

The Chinese man shook his head.

“Wal, it’d be quite a ride to make it in to the Widow Morgan’s by 11:00,” mused Roy.  “But it’s possible.”  He sighed.  “Now, Adam, don’t get yourself in an uproar over this.  I’m sure it’s just a misunderstandin’.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” retorted Adam coldly, white-faced with anger.  

“Wal, I’m sorry to have disturbed you folks this way, but as I say, I got my job to do.  Now you keep an eye on the boy, and hopefully this’ll be cleared up real soon.  G’night.”

The four Cartwrights silently stared at the floor, until finally Joe got to his feet and started toward the stairs.

“Joseph, where are you going?”

“To talk to Pat,” answered Joe angrily, turning at the bottom of the steps and glaring at his older brother.  “He’s gotta be feeling pretty upset.  And it looks like the person who should be up there with him ain’t gonna go!”

Adam turned furiously on his younger brother. “I’ll thank you to let me raise my son in my way!”

Hoss quickly intervened between his two brothers, pushing them roughly apart. “Now both o’ya cool off!  You ain’t doing’ Pat no good like this!”

Ben got to his feet.  “Hoss is right!” he stormed.  “I think it’s time both of you stopped fighting amongst yourselves and started thinking about the youngster caught in the middle of all this!”  He pointed up the stairs and stared directly at his eldest son.  “Adam, there’ a boy upstairs who’s terribly hurt and upset.  No matter what you think, and whether he was involved in this or not, he needs his father right now.  And he needs him calm!”  He swung around to Joe.  “And your carrying on isn’t helping!”  Joe stubbornly stared down at the floor.  “He needs all of us to be adult about all this, not running off half-cocked.  He needs examples to follow, and your current behavior isn’t impressing me as the kind of example that should be set!” 

Ben’s angry words settled uncomfortably in the air, and both Adam and Joe guiltily glanced at each other.  Silence reigned for a moment, then Adam drew in a deep breath, squeezed his younger brother’s shoulder and trudged heavily up the stairs.

 

Pat stood at his window, staring out, the hard shutters closing in his face again.  He should have known better.  He should’ve known he couldn’t shake off thirteen years in Hell’s Kitchen, the label of bastard and having been dragged up in the slums by a mother who worked as a barmaid, no matter how good a person she was.  How could he have ever believed these people would be able to accept him?  His mother had been wrong; this wasn’t going to work.

There was a knock on his door.  He ignored it.  The door opened and he heard measured footsteps coming up behind him.

“Pat, turn around,” came his father’s voice.  ‘I want to talk to you.”

Stubbornly, Pat crossed his arms and remained staring out the window.  He was startled when his father took him firmly by the shoulders and turned him around.

“I said, I want to talk to you,” said Adam quietly.  Pa was right, Adam noted.  The boy was very hurt.  Adam drew in a deep breath and rested his hands on his son’s shoulders.  “I want you to know I don’t believe it.”

Pat continued to stare at him, then closed his eyes.  “Don’t care what you believe,” Pat muttered, turning away, the slight break in his voice belying the sullen words.  

Adam forced him back, facing front.  “Patrick, listen to me,” he said sternly.  

“Why?” demanded Pat, his eyes accusing.

“Because you need to understand why Sheriff Coffee is asking these questions.”

“I know why… blame it all on the bastard from Hell’s Kitchen,” Pat muttered, crossing his arms stubbornly over his chest and glaring at the floor.

“Oh, knock it off!” snapped Adam, startling Pat.  “I’ve just about had it with you!  No one in this family is accusing you of anything, so stop playing the wounded hero!”   With his hands firmly on the boy’s shoulders, he slammed Pat down hard on the chair next to his desk, making him wince when his backside connected with the hard wood, and leaned in close.  “Roy Coffee was trying to help you, you stubborn idiot!  He figured, rightly, that if we could get your whereabouts nailed down for around eleven this morning, you could be cleared of all of this nonsense!  So, I want you to tell me, right now, where the hell were you!?”

His eyes wide, Pat sputtered a moment. “I… uh…

“Where?!”

Pat licked his lips, and swallowed hard.  “Well…”

Adam’s patience snapped.  “The…TRUTH!” he roared, making the boy jump.

“I…I was in the barn,” Pat said, scared.

“Doing what?” 

Pat swallowed hard, remembering his Uncle Joe’s scolding.  “Uh…I was in the hayloft.”

“Doing…..what?!” demanded his father, biting out each word.

“Swingin’ on the pulley,” Pat whispered.  

Adam stared at him, his eyes slowly widening.

“Swinging…on the pulley….” Adam repeated.  He closed his eyes and sank down on the bed opposite Pat, putting his head in his hands.  He was exhausted.  He raised his head up, and saw that Pat was still worriedly looking at him.  “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” asked Adam with a tired smile.

Pat was a bit confused, but figured if his father was kinda smiling, he might not be in as much trouble as he thought.    He shrugged slightly. “Yeah…Uncle Joe said…”

“Uncle Joe?”

Pat flushed and slumped a little in his chair.  “He caught me at it a few weeks back,” Pat admitted shamefacedly.  “Told me you’d kill me.  But he was still tryin’ hard not to smile… kinda like you are now.”

Adam closed his eyes and shook his head.  He couldn’t help it; he started to laugh, hard. 

Pat looked at him warily, beginning to wonder if his old man had lost his mind.

Adam wiped the tears from his eyes and drew in a deep breath. “Oh, God….” he sighed, chuckling. He shook his head and looked seriously at his son. “Nineteen years ago, swinging on that pulley darned near cracked your Uncle Joe’s skull open,” he explained with a small smile, “and almost bought me an unpleasant session with my Pa’s horse whip.”  At Pat’s bewildered expression, Adam smiled and leaned forward, matching his son’s position. He drew in a deep breath and looked seriously at the boy.  Might as well let him know he’s not the only Cartwright boy to get into mischief! “I was supposed to have been watching him but swinging on that thing looked like so much fun…I was fifteen and Joe was three. I thought it’d be safe enough if I held onto him. But the rope slipped, and we both fell. I got banged up a bit, but Joe ended up being knocked out cold. I was scared to death I’d killed my little brother.”

Pat gaped, then shook his head, and grinned.  But then the present situation reared itself, and he sobered, the gravity of the whole mess making his stomach ache.  “I didn’t steal anything, I swear I didn’t,” Pat muttered softly, almost pleading.

“I know you didn’t,” reassured Adam.

“I thought … “The boy swallowed hard, unable to look his father in the face.  “I… thought you didn’t believe me,” said Pat softly, staring at his feet.  Adam leaned forward, resting his hands on his son’s knees.

“Patrick, I don’t know what I have to say to you to make you trust me.  You’re my son, and although you could try the patience of a saint, I love you and I don’t believe you’re a thief.  We’ll get this straightened out, and everything will be back to normal.  All right?”

The boy stared searchingly at his father for a few more moments, then sighed and nodded.  

Then Adam drew in a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and began the unpleasant chore of telling his son that except for those times when he was stuck to one of the family like he’d been glued in place, he was going to have to be remain on the ranch again for a while….

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Early October, 1871

Trying briefly to be cheerful about the situation (and failing abysmally), Pat moped around the house and yard for a few days.  He had protested long and loud when his father first tried to explain why he had to stay close to home again for a while.  Finally, Adam was able to convince him of the good sense of doing as the Sheriff had requested and that he, Adam, had asked, and Pat finally gave in, but hardly with good grace.

Pat’s orneriness escalated on a grand scale, driving everyone in the family to distraction.  Everyone tried to think up things to keep him busy, but there was always the knowledge that he was restricted hanging over his head, and he was miserable.

“But I won’t go to town.  I just want to go for a ride.” 

“Pat, I said no.”

“I’ll ride close to home, I won’t go farther than the east meadow, I promise!”

“I said no, and I meant no!”

“You ain’t bein’ fair!” 

Ben glanced up from his desk, watching the uncomfortable scene in the living room.  Pat was standing tall (Good Lord, had he grown again?) and facing his father with an open look of defiance on his face.

“You’d best tread lightly, boy, or you’ll find yourself in a major peck of trouble,” warned Adam quietly.

Pat knew that voice, and clenching his jaw, scowled at his boots.

“Now, if you’re in such an all-fired rush to go for a ride, why don’t you take Blackie up along the paddock fence line and check on those rails you conveniently forgot to repair yesterday?”

Pat’s head snapped up in outrage. “I didn’t forget!” he retorted, stung.  “It got too late!”

“Well, thenyou’ve got all morning to accomplish it today,” said Adam firmly.  “That’s your choice.  Either you get your work done, or you’ll spend the day in your room. Which is it going to be?”

Growling under his breath, Pat angrily jammed his hat on his head and stalked to the door.

“Patrick!”

The command in his father’s voice stopped him, reluctantly.  “What?” he demanded insolently over his shoulder.  

In a heartbeat, Adam was on him like white on rice, and spun him around roughly, glaring.

“You keep a civil tongue in your head, young man!”  Adam barked.

Pat tried to stare him down but couldn’t take the intensity of those brown eyes; his dropped first.  “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Damned right, ‘sorry!’ You’d better be!” Adam warned.  “I know you’re frustrated, but so help me, Pat, you go any further than that fence line, and you’re going to be in big trouble, do you understand me?” he said severely.

Pat nodded, struggling to keep his temper.  “Can I go now?” he asked, trying to keep some of his pent-up anger out of his voice.  

“May I.”

Ben winced, feeling as though he could all but see the steam coming out of Pat’s ears.

“May I go now?” he seethed, rolling his eyes.

“You may.”  

And Pat walked out, a little more sedately.  

Adam sighed, shoulders sagged.  Ben slowly walked over to him and studied him.

“Try to understand how he’s feeling, Adam,” said Ben quietly.  “He’s pretty frustrated himself.”

“I know that, Pa,” said Adam, irritably.  “But I’m worried about him.  At one point or another, he’s going to disobey me and go into town and God knows what mess he’ll get himself into.”

Ben nodded and put a hand on his son’s shoulder.  He smiled.  “It’s not easy, is it?”  

Adam smiled despite his own frustration.  “That it isn’t,” he agreed.  He looked at his father wryly.  “How in God’s name did you get through raising three of us without losing your mind?”

Ben laughed, and put an arm around his exasperated son’s shoulders, giving him a hug.  “I tried not to think about it too much,” he assured him with a grin.

 

Pat galloped out to the fence line, steaming mad.  He was sick of this!  He hadn’t done anything wrong, and he was still being cooped up like a convict!  It just wasn’t fair!

He arrived at the fence, and groaned to see it was perfectly intact.  Somebody must have covered for him and repaired it yesterday.  Must have been Uncle Hoss.  While he was grateful for the cover, he was frustrated that he had no reason now to stay out here working.  He supposed he should go back home.  He looked back the way he’d come, and his temper boiled a little hotter, his pride wounded and his self-control right out the window.

Obstinately, Pat wheeled his horse toward Virginia City.  To hell with it! he thought angrily and kicked Blackie into a gallop. Years later, he’d remember this moment and wish to God he’d not lost all sense of reason just then…

 

Pat arrived in town and glanced around, checking the lay of the land.  He knew he wanted to avoid Roy Coffee at all costs, but other than that, his cussedness had totally taken hold now, and divvil take the hindmost, as Siobhan used to say. The lamp in his brain that normally shone a light on his usual good sense had got snuffed out somehow. He rode up to the Silver Dollar, and tethering Blackie in a side street, went inside.

He’d brought some pocket money from home, not much, but enough to get himself into a poker game.  Since it was Saturday afternoon, there were several cowboys from neighboring ranches enjoying their afternoon off and were indeed involved in several games at tables around the large room.  Charlie, the bartender/owner, saw Pat come in, and worriedly stalked up to him.

“Now, young’un, you got no business in here,” Charlie started in.  Pat raised a hand to placate him and pasted an innocent look on his face.

“I’m just waitin’ here for my father, honest,” he said, eyes wide and an angelic smile on his face.  The lie didn’t bother him too much.  Hopefully, he’d get back home before anyone would realize he was gone in the first place.

Charlie peered at him suspiciously.  “Adam wanted you to wait here for him?”

“Yes, sir!” grinned Pat, hooking his thumbs in his belt, and rocking on the balls of his feet.

Charlie made a face and sighed.  “Well, all right, but you behave yourself or I’ll whale you!  I don’t want no more ruckus in my saloon, I don’t care whose son you are!  You understand me?”

“Yes, sir,” repeated Pat, respectfully.

Charlie waved his hand in disgust and went back to the bar where several men were waiting for drinks.

Pat exhaled in relief and glanced around the room again.  There was a table with an empty seat.  Circling, he strolled over and watched quietly, unobtrusively.  After about fifteen minutes he realized he could easily take some of these guys; they were casual players, rarely bluffing, and usually betting on long odds.  With a silent smile, Pat innocently asked if he could join in.

“Go home and play, little boy,” sniggered one of the men.  Pat cocked an eyebrow and grinned.  

“What’sa matter?” he asked, deliberately turning his New York accent on full tilt.  “My money ain’t as good as yours?”

As he’d planned, the accent had irritated several of the players. 

“Sonny, I told you to go home!  Your pa know you’re in a saloon?” snapped one man.

“Git out o’ here before you get yourself spanked, boy!”

Pat grinned.  “But ye see, I’m waitin’ for my old man…sort of holdin’ his place at the table, ya might say.”  

“Hey,” said another, really looking at him.  “You’re Adam Cartwright’s kid, ain’t ya?  The —“ and he bit off his words, suddenly embarrassed.

“Yeah, that’s me,” replied Pat airily.  “So, whaddya say?  Afraid a kid might beat ya?”

He had played his hand perfectly, and the men grudgingly slid aside to allow him in.  Pat carefully played modestly for the first half an hour, winning and losing, keeping his pot relatively stable, and lulling the other players into underestimating him.  After a while, they forgot he was a boy of nearly fourteen and just played the game.

Then Pat really went to work.  He coaxed the pot up, coldly thought through the odds on every hand and slowly, carefully built his stake.  After about an hour and half, he started working seriously, and the rest of the players began to notice.

He sat back, eyeing his opponents through his father’s hooded eyes, holding three kings with an ace kicker, judging the hands they held.  He was having more fun than he’d had in ages; it had been months since he’d really exercised these skills and he felt a little rusty, though his luck and his ability had held thus far.

Suddenly, one of the men jolted forward in his seat looking in alarm at the chips in front of the boy. “Hey!  You noticed the size o’ that kid’s pot lately?” he squealed, indignantly.  

Pat looked at the man with a small smile on his face.

“Yep,” he said softly.  “Been growin’ and growin’, ain’t it?”

“You little-”  began another angrily, the one on whom the table waited to declare his next move.

“You gonna call or what?” Pat asked quietly, not taking his eyes off the man.

“Yeah, Bob!” laughed several of the onlookers; quite a crowd had gathered by this time.  “Play the game!”

Now, it got serious.  Pat used every trick he’d ever learned, every ounce of intuition about people he’d ever developed, and played.  After nearly three hours, it was down to him and this drifter, Bob.  And Pat was cleaning his clock.

Charlie had started to become worried about an hour earlier.  This Bob character had been around for a couple of weeks and Charlie knew exactly what he was capable of.   He was a mean one.  Now, as it became clearer that Adam Cartwright was nowhere in sight and likely wasn’t gonna be, Charlie whispered softly to one of his bouncers; the man looked at him, nodded and slipped out through the swinging doors.

“I’ll see your ten, and raise you ten more,” stated Pat calmly, pushing the money into the pot and keeping his eyes, their blue ice cold, on his opponent.  

Bob stared at him.  He honestly couldn’t tell if the kid was bluffing or not.  But he knew that nearly every penny he had was in that pot, and he wasn’t about to walk out of the saloon without it.

“Kid, I wouldn’t push it… not if you want to live to grow a beard,” he said, seriously.   “Pull that raise out.”

“Bet’s been made.  Raise, call or fold,” said Pat coldly.

“You impudent little – you’re lookin’ for a hiding, boy,” snapped Bob venomously.

Pat leaned forward, an evil little smile on his face.  “What I’m lookin’ for is a raise… a call… or a fold,” he said slowly, distinctly.  The onlookers were amazed at the boy’s cool, poised demeanor, and it reminded all of them of his father: stubborn, implacable, immutable as rock.  He was rattling the drifter, and they all were enjoying the show.

His mouth a thin line, the drifter glared at the youngster, and glanced down at his paltry bankroll. Slowly, Bob reached into his pile and pulled out his last piece of paper money, a single ten-dollar bill, leaving him only coins.  “Call,” he said quietly, carefully eyeing the boy in front of him.

Pat’s face betrayed nothing for a good thirty seconds.  Then a very slow, small smile lifted the corners of his mouth as he carefully laid his cards down, one at a time.  “Queens full o’ deuces,” he said softly, splaying out  the full house.  Bob’s eyes widened and he stared in shock.

“I don’t believe it,” the man breathed.

“Eyesight failin’?” asked Pat softly with a cocky grin.  He reached out to pick up his pot and froze; a pistol was pointed at his chest, the drifter’s thumb cocked on the hammer.  

The crowd gasped and scattered in alarm, leaving the drifter and the youth alone facing each other across the table.

“There’s no way you could have won that without cheating,” the drifter said angrily.

Pat’s eyes widened and his throat constricted.  He swallowed and licked his lips.  “I ain’t no cheat,” he said carefully, trying not to let his voice shake, making no sudden moves and keeping his hands where the man could see them.  “A better card player, maybe, but no cheat.”  

If that comment was designed to soothe Bob’s ruffled feathers, he’d miscalculated.

“Touch that pot, and I’ll put a hole clear through ya,” warned Bob.  Pat hesitated, beginning to become frightened.  He’d faced down knife fights before, but guns were new to him.  He knew couldn’t get out of the way of a bullet.  If he survived this, he was sure his father would skin him alive.  Even knowing that with absolute certainty, he surely wished his father was here now, belt and all…

“Pull that trigger and I’ll blow you all the way to Kingdom Come,” came a cold voice behind Bob.  Now it was Bob who froze, recognizing the voice of Sheriff Roy Coffee.  “Now, nice and slow, put down that pistol.”

Bob saw that he had no choice and did as he was told.  Once the gun was on the table, Roy kept the rifle focused on the drifter but spoke to Patrick.    “Get yourself outta that chair and come with me.”

Without a word, Pat obeyed, slowly rising and reaching for his pot.  “Leave it.”

“But…”

“Leave it!” snapped the Sheriff.

“He won it fair and square, Roy,” protested one of the crowd.

“Yeah!”

“He’s a thirteen-year-old who’s got no business bein’ in here a’t’all!” snapped Roy.  “Now stay out of this, all o’ ye!”  He turned absolutely cold eyes on the boy.  “Git outside, now! And you wait for me on the walk, or you’ll regret it!”

Silent but steaming, Pat set his mouth stubbornly and stalked to the door, slapping the palms of his hands angrily on the swinging doors on his way out.

Roy hadn’t taken his eyes off Bob.   He sidled to the table and picked up the pistol, knocking the cartridges out and pocketing them.  He then handed the pistol, butt forward, to the drifter.  “Git on yer horse and get out of town.”

The drifter took his gun, furious.  “I can’t believe you’d defend a rotten little bastard, and a thief!”

“According to this bunch, he won fair and square.”

“I ain’t talking about the game!” snapped Bob angrily.  “I’m talking about all these thefts you’re supposed to be investigatin’!  Everybody knows—“

“Nobody knows nuthin’,” said Roy, coldly.  “All I know is that you pulled a gun on a child…don’t speak much for you, stranger.  Now do as I tell ya and get out. And ride.  I don’t wanna see your face in this town again.”  

Roy followed him out the door, careful to keep himself between Bob and Pat once outside on the porch.  He kept the rifle on the drifter until he’d mounted his horse and rode furiously out of town.  Then Ray lowered the rifle, and turned angrily on Pat.  The boy stepped back involuntarily, startled by the fury in the Sheriff’s eyes.

“You march your sorry bee-hind over to the jail, right now!”

“What for?!” he protested.  Without another word, Roy’s hand shot out and spun the boy around, pushing him roughly up the street.

“March!”

 

Pat sat uncomfortably in the chair in front of Roy’s desk while Roy put his rifle back in the rack behind his desk.  Nervously, he fingered the brim of his Stetson.  

“Of all the dang fool things…” Roy sputtered coming around the front of the desk and standing over the boy.

Pat peered up at him from under his long, dark lashes.  Roy almost choked with laughter remembering having this boy’s father in front of him twenty-some-odd years ago, in trouble over some fool nonsense or other and doing the exact same thing. Getting his expression back under control, the Sheriff crossed his arms over his chest.

“You’re supposed to be stayin’ put at the Ponderosa!” Roy said sternly.  When he got nothing but silence in response, he snapped, “Well, ain’t ya?!”

Pat jumped. “Yes, sir,” he murmured.

“So, your pa don’t know you’re here, is that right?”

Pat lowered his eyes, shamefaced, and shook his head.

“You know, young fella, I’m gettin’ mighty sick and tired of breakin’ up saloon brawls involvin’ you!” Roy snapped.  “You damn near got yourself killed in there, boy!  What in all of glory’s the matter with you?!”

Pat swallowed hard, trembling a little now as he realized just how close to getting shot he’d come.  He shrugged, forlornly.  “I dunno,” he answered, shakily.

Roy shook his head in exasperation.

“You gonna tell my old man?” Pat whispered, not looking up.  

Roy leaned down and firmly lifted the boy’s chin. “No.  You are,” he said sternly.

Pat’s eyes widened.  “He’ll kill me!” he protested, panicking, as Coffee straightened once more as he sternly gazed at the youngster.

“Someone else almost did that job for him!” declared Coffee.  “Now I’m tellin’ you for the last time, young’un!  You’re to stay out of town until this robbery mess is cleared up!  And, you’re gonna get on your horse, and go home and tell your pa what happened.  Or I will be tellin’ him and if I know anything about Adam Cartwright, it’ll go worse for you if he has to hear it from me.”  

It appeared that Coffee was finished with him.  Pat miserably got to his feet. But as he reached the door, Coffee had one final salvo to fire. “And I hope to God he whips your tail so hard you won’t be able to sit that horse for a month!  I could use the rest!  Now git!”

 

Pat rode home slowly, dreading the conversation he had coming.  He knew the Sheriff would tell his father if he didn’t, and he also knew Coffee had been right: it would go far worse for him if Adam had to hear about this from anyone but Pat.  

He took a different way home, trying to lengthen his ride, thinking hard and trying to figure a way out of this new mess he’d gotten himself into.  He was riding by the stream when he came around a wooded curve and was startled by someone walking along the path.  It was a girl, not much older than him, but pretty as a picture.  He stopped Blackie and stared as she continued walking towards him, lugging a heavy basket.

Pat’s eyes widened as he took in her long, white-blonde hair, her green eyes and her pretty face.  She was just about the prettiest thing he’d ever seen…

She giggled up at him.  “What’sa matter?  Cat got your tongue?” she teased.  “Better close your mouth before you catch flies.”

Shutting his mouth abruptly, Pat blushed and fiddled with the lacing on his saddle.

“Sorry.  I just… uh, I ain’t seen you around here before.”

She frowned a little, cocking her head to one side.  “You ain’t from around here, either, are you?”

Pat blushed again and looked down.  “Nope.  I’m from back east.”

She nodded.  “I heard people talk like you where my ma and I lived before.”

“Where was that?”

“St. Joe,” she answered.  She smiled up at him.  “What’s your name?”

“Pat Rior—uh, Pat Cartwright,” he answered, swinging down off Blackie, and with the reins gathered in his hand, walked over to her.

She was tiny, he noted.  He towered over her.  In guilty realization, he remembered his manners and removed his hat, holding it awkwardly in his hand.

She gazed up at the boy beside her, smiling.  He sure was handsome, she thought to herself.  So tall, and such dark, dark hair contrasted by those beautiful big blue eyes.  My land, she sighed inwardly.  

“What’s yours?”

“Hm?” she asked, preoccupied.

“What’s your name?” he asked, with a grin.

“Oh!”  Now it was her turn to blush.  “Cassie.  Cassie Yates.”

“Pretty name,” he said, taking the heavy basket from her.  “This looks kind of heavy.  Where you headed?”

“Home.  On the edge of town.  I just got these things from Mrs. Shaughnessy,” the girl answered, with a smile.  “And I’d better be getting on, or Ma’ll be worried.”

“Can I give you a ride?” he asked with smile.

“It’ll take too long for you to get back home,” she said.  Her reminder of home made him uncomfortable.  

“Yeah,” he said, soberly.  “I’m late already.  I guess I’d better get back.”  He handed her back the basket.  

“Well, it was nice meeting you, Pat Cartwright,” she smiled at him.

“Nice meeting you, Cassie Yates,” he grinned back at her.  He tipped his hat, and continued riding on back to the Ponderosa.  

She watched him go and then smiling to herself, continued on to town.

 

His stomach was in knots as he trotted into the yard, looking around nervously for his family.  The yard was empty, but he heard movement from inside the barn.  He dismounted and tried to still his jitters as he walked Blackie into the barn.

Little Joe was in there, doing chores.  When Joe turned around, he narrowed his eyes angrily.  “It’s about time you got home!” he snapped.  “I’m not about to do your chores, too.”

“I’ll do ‘em,” he said quietly.  Joe was a little surprised not to get a snarl in return, and studied his nephew while he hauled the saddle off Blackie and lugged it to the side wall.

“Where you been?”

“Around.”

“Uh huh,” said Joe sarcastically.  “Well, I hope you’ve got a story figured out because Adam’s fit to be tied.”

“Why don’t you lay off me?” snapped Pat, over his shoulder.  “I said I’d do my chores, so just leave me alone!”

Joe could see something was bothering him but decided to let it be.  They finished their work in silence and were just ready to leave the barn when Adam came in, a very angry look on his face.  Pat swallowed hard and nervously jammed his hands in his pockets.  Adam had learned over the past couple of months that usually meant he was hiding something.

“Where have you been?” he demanded.  “You should have been back hours ago. I’ve been all over this place looking for you!”

“I went for a ride,” Pat answered, softly.

“Where?”

“Down by the stream,” the boy answered, grateful he wasn’t blushing.  He just couldn’t tell his father the truth.  He couldn’t.  He’d be so disappointed in him.  At least it was true he had been by the stream, so he wasn’t really lying…well, not really…

“Seven hours…riding by the stream?” asked Adam acerbically.

“I wanted to be alone for a while,” he answered, quietly.  He sincerely hoped his father would drop it there.  

Adam studied him, unsure of where to go from here.  Pat had never responded to a scolding this quietly before.  He was pretty sure that Pat was hiding something from him, but he also knew the last few days of being cooped up on the ranch had been rough on the kid, and this morning’s argument hadn’t helped.  He wasn’t sure if he was doing the right thing, but he decided to let it ride for now.

“All right,” he said sternly, “since it appears I’m not going to get a decent answer out of you, go on into the house and get washed up for supper.”

‘Yes, sir,” Pat nodded, and walked past him, downcast, and out the barn door.

Adam studied his retreating back, then glanced at Joe. “He say anything to you?”

Joe shook his head.  

Adam sighed and scratched his head.  Then he shrugged his shoulders.  “Well, if we don’t want Hop Sing on the warpath, we’d better get in and eat.”

 

Supper was an awfully quiet meal.  A pall seemed to settle over the table, making every effort at conversation fall flat.  Pat sat quietly, not really eating so much as pushing the food around on his plate.  For a boy for whom second helpings had become matter of course, this was definitely not normal behavior.

“What’s the matter, Pat?” asked Ben.  “Aren’t you feeling well?”

Pat started to reply that he was fine, when he realized that might be the out he’d been looking for in order to escape the scrutiny of the family.  “Uh…no, Granddad, I guess I’m not,” he said uncomfortably.  “My stomach’s kinda sick.  Can I—“ he started, then glanced uneasily at his father, then back at his grandfather.  “May I leave the table?”  

At first there was silence as Ben and Adam looked at each other.  “Please?” Pat said softly.

“Of course, if you’re not feeling well—“ began Ben, but Pat didn’t wait and turned to hurry upstairs.

Adam turned to watch him go, then sighed and put down his napkin, rising to his feet.  

“Excuse me,” he said tiredly and trudged up the stairs after his son.

 

Pat stood at his window, staring out with an unhappy look on his face.  His stomach really did hurt, but he knew it had nothing to do with illness and everything to do with his conscience.  He quailed at the prospect of having to tell his father the truth before Sheriff Coffee did.  He heard the footsteps along the hallway and exhaled in frustration.  What did he have to do to get these people to leave him alone?

At the knock on the door, he hastened to his bed pulling off his boots. “Come in,” he answered, unbuttoning his shirt.

Out of his peripheral vision he could see black pants and shirt enter the room, but he didn’t look up; he continued to unbutton his shirt.

“Just your stomach bothering you?” asked Adam quietly.

“Yeah,” answered Pat, rising to his feet and walking to the pegs on the wall to hang up his shirt.

When he turned back, he started in surprise to find his father right behind him.  Adam put a hand to Pat’s forehead, making the boy squirm uncomfortably.  “You don’t seem to have a fever,” said Adam thoughtfully.  “But you are pretty pale.  When did this come on?”

“I dunno,” the boy answered, looking down.  “Sometime this afternoon, I guess.”

Adam continued to study him, making Pat shift his feet uneasily.  “Uh…can I please finish undressing?  Without havin’ t’sell tickets?” he asked, managing a small smile.

After a long moment, Adam shook his head and pointed to the bed.  Sighing, Pat trudged over and sat down.  Adam sat in the chair opposite, crossing his legs.

“Pat, what’s troubling you?” he asked gently.

“Nothin’,” the boy muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.  “My stomach aches, is all.”

Adam sighed, recognizing his own stubbornness in his son; he knew he wasn’t going to learn anything further tonight.

“Well, then, if you’re that ill, I guess you’d better get right to bed,” he said, his hands pushing against his thighs as he rose.  “I’ll be up in a little while to see how you’re doing.  If you’re still uncomfortable, I’ll see what we’ve got in the medicine chest to help you feel better.”  Pat nodded but continued to stare at the pattern in the rug at his feet.  Adam was just about out the door when he turned back.  “Can I just remind you of something?” he asked quietly.

“Sure,” said Pat, trying to be respectful, and rubbing his aching stomach.

“If you want to talk, I’m here.  Just come on down, all right?” he said gently.  Pat nodded, troubled, and looked down.  He heard the door close and he sat still for a moment.  Then sighing he lay back on his bed, lacing his fingers behind his head.

What’s wrong with me? he wondered unhappily.  But he knew the answer.  In the last weeks, he had begun to realize that despite his best efforts to keep the angry shell he’d built for thirteen long years in place, it was crumbling.  He found it mattered very much what this man thought of him.

His stomach clenched again, and he winced.  Unhappy, he rolled over onto his side, pulling his knees up in discomfort.  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shut out the world.

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The next day

The following morning Pat forced himself to eat his breakfast even though he really wasn’t feeling much better; he did not want a repeat of last night.  His father had stopped in about two hours after Pat went to bed, as promised.  Finding Pat still awake and hurting, he had forced him to swallow down a dose of something that damn near made the boy gag.  If Pat hadn’t felt sick before, he sure did after that.  The last thing he wanted was another dose of castor oil.

No, that wasn’t true.  The last thing he wanted was to tell his father the truth, though he knew he’d have to do it, and pretty soon.  

This morning, Ben and Adam were talking over the plans for the lumber delivery that had to be made later today, and Joe was absorbed in a newspaper article.  Pat was so wrapped up in his own worries that the knock at the front door didn’t register at first. Then Pat realized that he was probably supposed to get up to answer it.   To Ben and Adam’s surprise, Pat quietly started to get up, without a murmur.  

“I’ll get it, Pa,” said Hoss, clattering his way downstairs.  Pat put his attention back to his breakfast until he heard his uncle bellow, “Roy!  What brings you out here so early in the morning!”

Pat nearly choked on his bite of bacon, and both Adam and Ben turned to him in alarm.  The boy was white as a sheet.  Ben sprang to his feet and pounded the boy on the back.   The boy recovered and coughed.  “Uh…” Pat stammered, scrambling to his feet.  “Uh… I’ll go get some more hotcakes,” he said hurriedly.  He almost made his escape but, quick as a snake, Adam shot out a strong hand, latching onto the waistband of his pants.

“Hold it,” said Adam coolly, pulling Patrick back to stand beside him.  “Hop Sing can bring them out if you’re still hungry.”  He eyed his worried son suspiciously, and leaned back as Roy came into the dining room, keeping a solid grip on his son’s trousers. 

“Mornin’, Roy.”

Roy glanced at Pat and saw the boy looking downright green.  Roy sighed and shook his head.  The kid didn’t have to say a word; it was patently obvious he hadn’t owned up to his daddy yet.

“Well, Adam, I’m real sorry to have to come back out again so soon, ” said Roy grimly, giving Pat a stern glance, “but it appears that there’s been another robbery, and Pat was spotted in town at the time of the crime.”

Pat hung his head, miserably.  That’s it.  Dead man walkin’….

Adam slowly craned his neck around from Roy to his son, his eyes smoldering. Pat swallowed hard but just couldn’t meet his father’s eyes.  “What happened, Roy?”  Adam asked very quietly, not taking his eyes off his son’s face.

“Wal, Jeff Martin at the Wells Fargo office reports about $15 stolen yesterday afternoon,” said Roy, eyeing the boy.

“And Pat was in town?” asked Adam, still staring at his son sternly.  Pat glanced tentatively at his father, then hastily shot his eyes back to the floor.

“Yes, sir,” nodded Roy.  “But, ‘pears we have an alibi for him.”

Startled, Adam finally turned to the Sheriff.  “Which is?”

Roy glanced at the boy, giving him a last chance to be the one to tell his father the truth.  Pat cleared his throat self-consciously. 

“Which is?” Adam repeated, this time eyeing his son balefully.

“A poker game,” said Pat softly.  “I was in a poker game.”

Adam’s eyes widened.  “Where?  With Lafe?”

Pat shook his head.  “The Silver Dollar,” his son said quietly.  He raised his eyes, shamefaced.

Adam studied him and then looked back at Roy.  “That isn’t all of it, is it?” he asked tightly.  Once again, Roy looked at Pat; but this time, Pat dropped his eyes and stared miserably at the floor unable to continue.

“Nope, it ain’t,” said Roy inexorably.  He didn’t like to see a kid in trouble, but this one needed to have his wings clipped before he got himself killed. “I’m afraid your boy got himself into a bit of trouble with a drifter he was playin’ cards with. They had somethin’ of a disagreement over the last hand it seems, and Patrick, here, damn near got himself gut shot.”

Ben shot to his feet, alarmed. “What?!”

Joe and Hoss both stared at each other in shock, then stared at Pat, and finally nervously at their brother, whose dark eyes were wide as saucers.  

“Luckily, Charlie’d already sent one of his fellas over to the jail for me and I got there before your boy took a bullet in the brisket,” said Roy, sternly.  “Now Adam, you’re gonna have to do something about this boy o’ yours.  I got too much to do to traipse after him every time I turn around!”

“Don’t worry, Roy,” said Adam, darkly.  “Believe me, something is going to be done.”  Pat blushed, his eyes fixed on the floor.  

“Wal, as I say, it’s pretty sure he’s got an alibi for this robbery, since it’s been corroborated that he was at the saloon from right around quarter past eleven until close to two-thirty.  And then with me until around two-forty.  Unfortunately, Jeff can’t place the robbery any closer than between 11:00 and 1:00.”  He glanced at Adam.  “But, he also says he doesn’t remember seeing Pat at the office at all yesterday.”

The boy’s head shot up at that.  “I wasn’t there,” said Pat desperately, “honest.”

The “honest” seemed to fall a little flat on his audience, however…

“I’m going to finish up interviewing the folks at the Silver Dollar, and we should have a solid report by the end of the day.  Now, Adam, will you please tie your boy down for a while, until I get this straightened out?” sighed Roy, plaintively.

Adam nodded, unable to speak.  He still held the waistband of Pat’s trousers in a killer grip.

Roy, got to his feet, a bit relieved.  “Wal, I’ll keep you posted on any developments.  G’mornin’,” said Roy.  “I’ll find my way out.”

The dining room became very quiet very quickly.

Adam slowly shook his head and again craned his neck up at his son.  Pat, despite his fear of reprisal, actually thought he felt a little better.  At least it was all out in the open now.  If his father didn’t murder him, he’d be able to move on.  He hoped so, anyway.  “I’m… I’m really, really sorry,” he said softly.

“I’ll just bet you are,” Adam agreed, darkly.  He rose to his feet and transferred his grip from Pat’s waistband to his shirt collar.  He marched the boy into the living room and stood him in front of the fireplace, looming huge above him.  The rest of the Cartwrights grouped around them, Ben in his leather chair, Joe perched on the left arm of his father’s chair and Hoss, standing in front of the settee, forming a circle around them, almost as if preparing a block for an escape.

“Well, you have been a busy boy, haven’t you,” Adam said sarcastically.

“I said I was sorry!” said Pat unhappily.  “I didn’t know he had a gun!”

“Are you outta your mind?” exclaimed Joe.  “Every man that walks into the place wears a gun!”

“Joseph,” warned his father, a hand on his youngest son’s arm.

“Let’s just see if I’ve got this straight, shall we?” Adam’s voice remained ominously quiet but took on a darkly sarcastic tone as he continued to stare at his son.  “You disobeyed me yesterday morning when I sent you to check out the fencing you hadn’t finished the day before, and instead you deliberately rode into Virginia City, which you’ve been forbidden to do.  While you were there, you went into the saloon, which you know is off limits for you, and proceeded to get yourself into a poker game, another forbidden activity.”  Adam’s voice was becoming harder and colder by the moment. 

 Pat nervously began to wonder about the previously pondered murdering.  

“Are we on the same path thus far?”

Pat gulped and nodded.

“Next, you manage to get yourself involved in a situation involving a gunman, requiring a rescue from Virginia City’s Sheriff in order to keep yourself from being shot,” continued Adam, every word clipped and nailing Pat to the stone hearth with his eyes.  Pat started to protest, then decided he’d be better off to just shut up and take the lecture.

“Finally, somewhere between two-forty and six o’clock, you managed to find your way home.”  Adam stared at him furiously.  “Just where the hell were you in those three hours?”

Pat gulped again, and glanced at his grandfather for support, but found there just as stern and angry an expression as his father wore.  “I… I was riding home by the stream, just like I told ya yesterday…” he started nervously.

“Oh, yes, of course, I forgot to add lying to me to the list of offenses!” snapped Adam.

“But I didn’t lie!  I did go up to the fence line and I was by the stream!”

“You neglected to mention your visit to town in between!” shouted Adam.  “In case you’re unaware of it, my young friend, that’s called a lie by omission!”

Pat flinched.

“So, you were by the stream doing what?”

Pat squirmed uncomfortably.  “Honest, it was nothin’,” he protested weakly, wishing he could crawl up the chimney behind him.

“Out with it!” exploded his father.

The boy said something so softly that no one could hear him, and his cheeks began to get very hot.

“A little louder, mister, I didn’t hear you!”

“I met a girl!” he blurted nervously.  It was not a phrase designed to calm his father.

All four men stared at him in amazement, then Joe got to his feet and started laughing. 

“You what?!” Adam gaped.  

“Boy, you really do a job when you screw up!” Joe grinned.

“Joe – ” began Ben in exasperation.

Joe’s picking proved to be the last straw that broke Patrick’s control of his temper.  “Lay off me!  I’m sick o’you always shovin’ your nose in where it don’t belong!” shouted Pat furiously, skirting the table quick as lightning, advancing on Joe with his fists cocked.  He was upset and worried, not to mention embarrassed, and his uncle’s needling provied to be just too much for him to take.

“Oh, look at this, wouldja!” jeered Joe.

No one really saw how fast everything happened, but the next thing Joe knew, he was sprawled on his backside on the rug, a hand to his right eye and cheek and a surprised expression on his face.  

Pat stood over him, looking in shock from his uncle on the floor to his cocked fist, radiating the pain of having connected with a cheekbone.  “I… I…”  The youngster was so surprised, his mouth just kept opening and closing, with nothing of any real sense coming out of it.

His grandfather barreled to his feet, and glaring at Pat, hurried to crouch beside his youngest son.  “Joe!” 

“Whoa,” breathed Joe, shaking his head for a minute to clear it.

“I’m so sorry!” Pat breathed, trembling, wanting to go his uncle’s side, but unable to move.  “I swear, I didn’t mean to hit ya… I’m so sorry!”

Suddenly, a painfully hard grip had him by the scruff of the neck, marching him toward the staircase. Pat winced as he was propelled forward.

“I’m all right, Pa,” scorned Joe, pushing Ben’s hands away as his father fussed over him, but allowing Hoss to help him to his feet.  “Adam, c’mon, wait a minute – “

“Upstairs,” growled Adam, shoving the boy, making him stumble and painfully bark his shins on the steps.  “You go to your room and don’t so much as stick your nose out of it until I tell you, is that clear?!”

Pat turned back, his face a picture of pain and shame.  Helplessly, without a word, he turned and sped up the stairs.

“Adam, it was my fault, I was pickin’ on him,” began Joe, wincing as Ben gently probed his eye.

“Joe, so help me—” warned Adam, desperately close to completely losing his own temper.

“Aw, c’mon, Adam,” implored Hoss, “all Joe’s tryin to say is the three of us fought like that when we was kids.  It’s ain’t that serious. Don’t be too mad at ‘im.”

“Adam,” began Ben, then stopped as he worriedly watched his son’s face get redder by the moment.

“I ain’t hurt, Adam,” assured Joe, as his eye reddened and swelled, right there in front of them. 

 Adam stared at the three men in the room, then looked in desperation up the stairs, and throwing his hands in the air, swore a blue streak and stomped out the front door. 

         

From his room, Pat heard hoof beats and rushed to the window, leaning an arm against the casement and peering out.   He saw his father gallop away from the house.  Pat stared after him for a long time, his mind a crazy jumble of thoughts.  He heard rumbling in the hills; thunder.  The youngster closed his eyes and rested his forehead against his arm, his eyes squeezed shut.  

Pat felt numb, almost detached from his body, as though somehow floating above it and watching the whole scene.  His brain was working very clearly; he could vividly remember every single stupid thing he’d done since he got here, capped by the prize: landing a right cross on Uncle Joe.  How could he possibly make amends for this?  

He flopped miserably on his bed, thinking over his crimes.  For what seemed like hours, his thoughts churning harder and harder, tighter and tighter. Hop Sing delivered him some lunch, sternly ordering him to eat, but he couldn’t touch it.  

Late in the afternoon, Pat found himself sniffling, close to tears.  Every time he tried to think, he came up with the same conclusion: they would always hate him, they’d never forgive him.  And, with a typical 13-year-old’s flawed logic, decided to leave of his own accord before being kicked off the ranch.  Swiping an angry sleeve across his damp eyes, he set his mouth in a stubborn scowl, yanked some clothes out of his bureau and started bundling them into a large bandanna.

He paused for a moment, seeing the daguerreotype on his bedside table.  He drew in a shaky breath and dug his hand under his mattress, pulling out the handkerchief wrapped personal items of his mother’s.  Sniffling again, he tucked them into his bundle.

A few minutes later, while thunder rolled around the hills, Pat carefully slid the sash of his window up, wincing at the squeak it made.  He waited, scared, but heard nothing coming down the hallway.  Taking a deep breath, he tied his bundle to his belt and boosted himself out of the window and onto the shed roof.  As he’d done so many times in the last few weeks, he carefully walked the roof’s slant and swung himself down from the little porch that overhung the kitchen entrance.  He dropped like a cat to the ground, and sneaked to the corral to fetch Blackie.

His breath hitched in his chest to see that Sport’s stall was still empty.  Swallowing hard, he firmed his lips and began saddling Blackie.  The boy figured once he was gone aways, he’d think of some way to send the little horse back to the Ponderosa, before they accused him of horse-thievin’ on top of everything else.  

He stood by the barn door for a moment, watching and listening, but there appeared to be no activity at all from the house, and the twilight made it dim enough to slip out unseen.  He quietly walked the horse around the back of the barn and mounted up.  He wheeled Blackie around and started walking him down the road, then stopped a moment, hunching his shoulders.  He slowly turned around and looked back at the house. 

He gazed for a long moment, then shook his head, biting his lower lip, and kicked Blackie into a trot.

         

It was fully dark by the time Adam slowly trotted back into the yard, looking totally worn out, and cold.  He hadn’t grabbed a jacket when he took off earlier, and the wind was biting.  Granted, his temper had kept him warm for the first hour or so, but once the wind began to blow around him, it also seemed to blow the cobwebs out of his brain, and his temper cooled as quickly as the air surrounding him.

The front door opened as he slapped the reins around the hitching rail, hunching against the cold.  He looked up and saw his father walking toward him.

“Hi, Pa,” he said wryly.  Ben smiled back at him.  

“Hi, son.”

“How’s Joe?”

“Fine.  On his way to Virginia City.  Said he deserved a night off,” grinned his father.  He clapped an arm around his oldest son’s shoulders.  “Hey, you’re cold!  Come on in and get warm by the fire.”

Once inside, Adam tossed his hat on the sideboard, and unbuckled his gunbelt, dropping it there.  He walked slowly to the fire and held his cold hands out to the flame, shivering.

Ben shut the front door behind him and slowly walked over to his oldest son.  He didn’t say anything just put a hand on his shoulder.  He was relieved when Adam looked back at him and smiled wanly. 

“So, his eye’s okay?”

“He’s gonna have a beaut of a shiner, but yeah, he’s fine,” Ben smiled.  “Pat poked him a good one.  Hoss was right, you know.   You three fought worse than that when you were children.”

Adam sighed and sank tiredly onto the hearth.  Ben seated himself in his leather chair and studied his son.  “You feeling a little better?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Pa,” he muttered.  “I suppose so.  I was so mad at him, if I hadn’t left I was afraid I’d kill him.”  He closed his eyes, and shook his head.  “I’ve really done a bang up job at this father endeavor, haven’t I?”

Ben chuckled.  “Why?  For caring about him?  Worrying about him?”

“Pa, ” protested Adam, shaking his head.

“Adam, you’re doing fine,” reassured his father.  “Don’t you remember the scrapes you got into?  How about the time you lost Little Joe because you were out seeing a girl and left him with Hoss?  Or the time you and Ross accidentally set fire to the schoolhouse, trying that fool experiment?  And the time you were arrested for the murder of that miner?”

“Okay, okay!” chuckled Adam.  “So, he’s a chip off the old block.”  The smile died on his lips, and he leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, restlessly stroking the black hairs on his forearm.   “But that wasn’t what I meant.  While I was out there, I had some time to think and I realized that I’ve given him a home, food to eat, clothes to wear but I haven’t given him what he needs to trust me and come to me when he’s gotten himself into trouble.  I don’t know whether he’s afraid of me, or just doesn’t like me, or what.”

“Adam,” chided his father, shaking his head.

“No, I mean it, Pa.  Sure, I’ve pulled some stupid stunts in my time, made some really questionable decisions… and to be sure none of us looked forward to a session with your belt,” he admitted. “Still, no matter what I’d done, I don’t ever remember a time that I was so afraid of you that I couldn’t come to you and tell you my troubles.  No matter what, even when I knew you’d come down hard on me, I still could come to you, and you’d make everything okay… or help me make them okay myself.”  He hung his head.  “My son can’t make that statement, can he?”

“Adam, dadburn it, the boy ain’t known ya for but two months!” admonished Hoss, coming in from the kitchen with a plate full of apple pie in his hand.  “Give him a chance!”

Ben smiled up at his middle son, nodding.  “And give yourself a chance,” suggested Ben, warmly. “By the way, your memory is a bit faulty.”

Adam, startled, glanced up at his father, who was smiling at him tenderly.  “I usually had to pry your problems out of you, boy.  Just… like… Pat.”

Adam shook his head.  “Well, I guess I’d better go up and have a talk with him,” he sighed.

“What are you going to do, son?”

“Pa, I haven’t the foggiest.  I guess we’ll play it as it goes,” smiled Adam wanly.  And he headed up to Pat’s room.

“Pa, I swear, I don’t know which one of ’em’s more mixed up, Pat or Adam,” murmured Hoss, shaking his head as he watched his brother wearily turn the corner at the top of the stairs and head down the hall.

“Yeah, I know what you mean, Hoss,” sighed Ben.  Both were surreptitiously listening, to make sure things were going smoothly, when they jumped in surprise at the sound of a door slamming, and boot heels beating a furious tattoo as they cannoned back down the hall to the staircase, making Ben bound to his feet in alarm

Muttering under his breath, Adam stormed back down the steps.

“What’s the matter?” demanded Ben.

“What’s the matter?  I’ll tell you what’s the matter!”  Adam reached the bottom step, hands on his hips.  “That little… He’s gone!”

“Gone?!” chorused Hoss and Ben in amazement.

“G – O – N – E, gone!”  nodded Adam furiously.  “Packed a few things and climbed out the window!”

“Pore little feller,” sighed Hoss.

“What?!”

“Dadgum it, Adam, cain’t you tell he was scared?” snapped Hoss.  “You looked mad enough to rip off his arm and beat ‘im over the head with it earlier!  I’d a’ run off, too!”

“Beating him over the head isn’t my intention!” declared Adam furiously.

“Well, he can’t have gotten far,” interceded Ben, worriedly looking at his oldest son.  “It’s just getting dark now.  Why don’t we get out and look for him?”

Adam shook his head, angrily. “No, Pa, you stay here, in case he comes back. Hoss, you willing?”

“You bet, older brother,” nodded Hoss emphatically, not saying out loud that he sure hoped he was the one to find Pat first, or there’d be hell to pay.  The two brothers donned their gun belts, hats and coats and went out to saddle the horses.

    

Pat shivered in his light jacket, wishing he’d brought the heavy sheepskin coat that his Uncle Joe had just handed down to him.  He was so angry with himself; he couldn’t even make a decent job of running away from home!  He’d circled for a while, avoiding the roads to town, and a couple of hours later finally ended up at the lake.  This was a different part of the area, a place he’d never been before.  He noticed something strange sticking up out of the ground from a beautiful knoll overlooking the placid body of water, and slowly urged Blackie forward.  As he got closer, he realized it was a tombstone.  It was getting darker, and he had some trouble reading the stone in the twilight.  He dismounted and walked Blackie closer, peering at the stone-cut lettering.

“Marie D. M. Cartwright. Beloved wife and mother,” he read, bemused.  Then he realized this must be Little Joe’s mother, the one who’d died in a riding accident on the Ponderosa.  It suddenly occurred to him that had it not been for his father, he wouldn’t have had any idea what the stone had said.  Just as his mother had wanted, Pat was learning to read and getting an education.  Pat sighed, and squatted, sitting on his heels.  

“I don’t know about you,” he said gruffly, to the tombstone, “but I’m sure sorry to have to leave this place.”  Shaking his head, Pat felt a bit silly.  Talking to a tombstone!  He remembered his grandfather saying, however, that he often came up here to talk to Marie, especially whenever he was worried or troubled.  Apparently, this Marie was a source of strength to him, even now.  

Pat lifted his sad blue eyes to the lettering on the stone.  “I sure wish you was here to talk to,” he said softly.  “Everybody seems to have loved you an awful lot.  Uncle Joe sure did, and Uncle Hoss.  And Granddad.  Boy, he ain’t never stopped. Even…” and his throat closed up, making him battle to keep the tears back.  “They said you came here from a big city, too, New Orleans…  I wonder, did you find it strange at first, like me?”  Pat sank down and sat cross-legged in the grass beside the grave.  “Well, maybe you can hear me, anyhow.  I guess I made a real mess of things,” he said soberly.  “I don’t know what to do about, I really don’t.  I don’t want to leave, but I don’t see how I can stay.  I ain’t bin nothin’ but a problem for my dad.”  He raised his head and looked up at the stars beginning to wink in the sky, peeking through the heavy clouds.  “Hey, maybe you know my Ma? Siobhan Riordan? She died about two months back . . . she oughta be up there with you by now.”  Pat swiped at his nose and sniffled.  “Will ya tell her somethin’ for me?  Please… please tell her I tried.”

He shivered as lightning flashed; his superstitious Irish soul shook, as though his mother herself was scolding him, and he hung his head.  The sky opened, and the downpour was like a bucket full of water was being emptied.  Gathering his jacket closer around him, Pat shivered and set his hat further forward on his head, to keep the rain off his face.  “Oh, Ma, I did try, I promise,” he trembled, pulling his knees up to his chin and burying his face in his arms. “I really don’t want to go… It was just lookin’ like things might work out, but now… now, nothin’s the same and they’ll never let me stay.”

The rain continued, and thunder rolled around him, high up on the butte.  “Help me, Ma, please?  Please? What should I do now?”

 

    

The rain was soaking Adam and Hoss to the skin, even through their heavy mackinaws, and both were seriously beginning to worry about Patrick.  

“Look, Hoss,” said Adam, glancing around him, “I think it might be better if we split up and tried to cover more area.  He’s gonna catch pneumonia if he’s out in this for long.”

“Yeah, well, we’d better plan to meet up someplace,” said Hoss, seriously.  “Tell you what; we’ll look for about two hours and meet up back at home.  If he ain’t back yet, we’ll change clothes, get fresh horses and go back out again.  Whaddya say?” 

Adam hated the idea of losing any time by returning to the ranch, but sighed, bowing to the good sense of Hoss’ suggestion.  “All right. Two hours.”

“Yep,” nodded Hoss.  He wheeled Chub around and sidled up beside his brother, stretching out an arm.  Catching hold of his brother’s arm, he looked Adam in the eye.  “We’ll find him, Adam, don’t fret.  We’ll get everything straightened out.”

Sadly, Adam stared down at his hands.  “I don’t know, Hoss.  I just don’t know.” He looked up at his younger brother.  “I’m afraid for him, Hoss.  He doesn’t know this area well enough; he could be anywhere.”

“Keep the faith, older brother,” reassured Hoss.  “Pat ain’t nobody’s fool.”

Adam smiled wryly.  “Do you hear what you’re saying?”

Hoss chuckled.  “You go on south, I’ll go north and we’ll meet up at the house. Hey, Adam, how much you want to bet we’ll get home, both of us sick with head colds, and Pat’ll be warm and dry by the fire once we get there?”

Adam smiled, if a bit wanly.  He was grateful for the support his brother was giving him.  “See you in two hours.”

They split up and began their hunt again.

 

Twenty minutes later, Hoss closed his eyes and said a simple prayer as he let Chub have his head.  “Lord, help me find him.  He’s gotta be cold, and wet, and real scared.  Please help me find him,” he prayed.  He was surprised to feel a sudden calm, and then started as a flash of lightning lit the butte ahead of him.  It was up by the lake.   

Disbelieving for a moment, Hoss studied the lay of the land.  Then he decided he had nothing left to lose and headed for the area near the lake that he and his brothers and father had come to use often as a place of rest and respite.

The thunder and lightning were growing stronger as he headed up to the area of the lake where Marie was buried.  As he approached, another flash of lightning lit the clearing where Marie’s tombstone was as though it were midday, and Hoss saw a horse near the gravesite.  His heart in his throat, Hoss urged Chubby on.  

Pat was sitting in the pouring rain beside Marie’s resting place, his head in his arms, shivering.  Hoss quickly dismounted, grabbing his bedroll.  Pat never saw him coming, and jumped, startled when he finally heard the heavy footsteps hurrying over to him.  He started to scoot away, afraid, until he saw who it was. 

“Pat, it’s all right!  It’s just me, son, just your ol’ Uncle Hoss.”

Pat’s lips trembled, but he stayed still.  Hoss came around the side of his and wrapped him in a blanket.  “C’mon, boy, let’s get out of the rain.”

“Under the trees?  Granddad said n-never to go under the trees in lightnin’,” sniffled Pat.

“Wal, I guess you’re right there, young’un,” smiled Hoss gently, “we’ll just get a bit out of the way, all right?”  He pulled Pat up to his feet and led him toward his horse.  Pat balked suddenly and shook his head. 

“I can’t go back, Uncle Hoss, I can’t!” he pleaded.  

“Why not, Pat?” he asked gently.

“Uncle Joe’ll never forgive me for hittin’ ‘im, and Granddad hates me, an’ – ” the boy faltered.

“Now, just stop your silliness,” chided Hoss, gently.  “Little Joe’s already forgiven you, squirt.  Granddad don’t hate you!  And if you’re worried about your pa – “

Pat turned away, unable to look at his uncle.

“Pat, your pa’s out here, same as me, huntin’ for ya.  He’s worried to death about ya!”  insisted Hoss.   “You shoulda seen him when he found out you was gone, with the storm’n’all.  Now you git on that horse and come on, afore you catch your death.”

Stubbornly, Pat stepped back.

“Now Pat, you’re startin’ to git me mad,” said Hoss, narrowing his eyes.  “In case you ain’t noticed, it’s pourin’ rain out here, and I’m cold, wet and tired.  Let’s git home!”

“Is he real mad at me?”

“Who?”  Then Hoss sighed. “Oh, Adam.  Well, he ain’t pleased, that’s for durn sure.  What’d you expect?”

“How can I go back, Uncle Hoss? Nobody’ll want me around ‘em ever again, a’’ I guess I don’t blame ‘em.  You know things’ll never be okay again,” Pat stated, wearily. “It’s best if I just move on. Otherwise, my father’ll …” he choked.  “I can’t even imagine what he’ll do to me, he’s so mad.”

“Now, Patrick, you just shut your mouth and listen to me,” said Hoss sternly. “It’s a fact yer pa is mighty upset with you, but he ain’t gonna kill ya.  What the heck do you take him for?”  Hoss sighed.  “Pat, if he’s mad at ya, it’s your own durn fault and you know it full well.  Dadburn, I’m gittin’ mad at ya myself!  Whatever he does it’ll be no more’n you deserve!  What’s got into you, anyhow?”

Startled, Pat looked back up at him.  

“Patrick, I ain’t gonna stand here arguin’ with ya.  Either you git back on that pony on yer own, or I’ll hogtie ya and dump ya over my saddle! Now you behave yourself!”

Pat looked down at the soggy ground, shaking his head.  

Hoss sighed.  He, Adam and Joe had all had to face things like this in their lives, but they’d had the absolutely, unvarnished knowledge that no matter what they did, what mischief they got up to, their father loved them and would always forgive them.  Oh, to be sure, Pa’d make ‘em face up to what they done, and pay for their mistakes.  But he’d also always be there to help ‘em pick up the pieces, and make things right.  This young’un didn’t have that rock solid assurance. Not yet, anyhow.  

The big man softened his expression and came over to the boy, setting his hands on Pat’s shoulders.  “Pat, I don’t know what we have to do ta convince ya that yer a part of this family.  We love ya, ya ornery little cuss.  But yer pa can’t let yer behavior continue. You’re gonna get hurt, or into some real serious trouble.  Dadburn it, Pat, he loves you so much!  Can’t you understand that?”

Pat stared at his uncle for a moment, wanting desperately to believe him. “He loves me?” he whispered.

“’Course he does.” Hoss teasingly pulled the front brim of his hat down, and grinned.  “If he didn’t love ya, d’ya think he’d get so dadblasted angry at ya, ya durn fool kid?”

Pat stood thinking a moment, then, shaking his head, set his mouth in a hard and stubborn line.  He’d made up his mind.  Hoss worried as he watched the boy walk to his horse, wondering if he was going to have to chase after him some more.  He hurried himself to his own horse, ready to pursue the boy if he did indeed take off.

Pat mounted up, glaring at his uncle.  “Well, come on,” he snapped crossly.  “Let’s go home and get this over with!  I’m cold.”

         

Adam stared worriedly into the crackling fire, trying not to think of the harsh, driving wind and rain…or of Pat, out in it, cold and wet.  The two hours had been up for nearly thirty minutes, but he was reluctant to go back out until his brother returned, with or without Pat.

Adam remembered the times, years ago, when he, too, had been upset with his father and had stormed out of the house in a temper. But the difference was that he’d been a lot older, had known every inch of the Ponderosa, and was wise to the dangers this beautiful but wild land presented.   Patrick had courage, there was no doubt of that, but he was streetwise…what did he know of mountain lions and rattlesnakes?  

Ben peeped at his oldest son from over the top of his book, and smiled.  How many times he’d been in the same position, angry with one of his sons, and yet worried about his safety and welfare at the same time!  Ben cocked his head to one side and decided to try drawing Adam out.  He quietly closed his book and leaned forward to pour a cup of coffee from the tray; Adam started slightly at the movement and turned to his father.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, thanks.”

They stirred their coffee in silence for a moment, then Ben drew in a breath and took the plunge.

“You know, Adam, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in raising you three it’s never to assume my job is finished,” smiled Ben, leaning back with his coffee.

“What do you mean, Pa?”

“I mean that fatherhood is a learning process for both father and son.”

Adam sighed and sipped his coffee, turning back to the fire.  “I think I’ve begun to learn something about the frustration,” he said ruefully. 

“I seem to remember another youngster who had a similar problem with authority,” Ben said with a smile. Adam glanced at his father, a sheepish look on his face.  “I also remember a boy who had a hard time with apologies.”

“Pa … ” warned Adam, with a grin.

“Adam, the hardest thing you’re going to have to deal with is learning not to lose your temper over his mistakes.”

Despite his worry, at his father’s words Adam’s mouth twisted in a wry grin and he raised his eyebrows at his father.  “Pot…. Kettle….”

Ben harrumphed a little, but the corners of his mouth lifted a bit.  “All right, as I said it’s a learning process,” he agreed, earning himself a snort of amusement from his son.  Good, at least I lightened up the mood just a little bit.  “Adam, you’ve got to expect him to make mistakes.  He’s a boy… that’s how he’s going to learn.  You’ll be pleased and proud when he takes two steps forward, and you think he’s finally gotten out of whatever difficult stage he’s been struggling through, then you’ll be angry and frustrated when he takes three steps back, seeming to have forgotten every lesson you’ve taught him.  But as you two get to know each other better you’ll learn how to be ready for those mistakes.  I usually knew when you were in trouble, even when you hadn’t even done the deed yet.”

Startled, Adam looked at his father in surprise.  

Ben smiled.  “When you were behaving yourself, you were a very frank, open, forthright boy.  When you were contemplating some kind of mischief you’d find it hard to look me in the eye.  So, I’d know I’d have to watch you a little more carefully and see if you were able to talk yourself out of whatever you were planning, or if I’d have to step in and intervene.”  Ben sipped at his coffee and studied his son, once again staring into the fire.

“How do I do it, Pa?” asked Adam softly.  “How do I make him understand that I care about him, that I’m not being tough on him just to make him angry and miserable?”

Ben sighed and crossed his legs.  “Adam, that’s one of the painful parts of being a father.  There are going to be times when you’ll have to mete out the discipline he needs, to make him face up to himself.   At those times you are not going to be his favorite person.  He isn’t going to like it, and neither are you, but it’s your responsibility as his father to teach him right from wrong, and sometimes, to correct him when he makes his mistakes.  If you truly believe you’re right and the correction is necessary, you have to be steadfast, even in the face of his resentment, until he does realize it.  Ultimately, if you’ve done your job well, he’ll understand that you’re only doing it for his own good.”

“But…how do I know if I’m right?” asked Adam, worriedly.  “I mean, how do I know the best way to handle a problem?”

“I wish I had some magic formula for you, son, but there just isn’t one,” said Ben calmly.  “You have to take the time to understand him, and judge how best to reach him.  In dealing with the three of you I had to be pretty creative sometimes.  I made mistakes,” he said, looking at his oldest son, who returned a small smile, “but I tried to learn from my mistakes, too.  Like I say…it’s a learning process.”

Adam silently nodded.  He picked up his head and stared into the fire again.  “Pa, I’ve been going over this and over this in my head.  Most of the nonsense he pulled… well, I don’t say I’d just let it pass, but I can understand it. God knows I’ve smacked Joe a few times,” he said with a small smile.  “And I’ve bolted once or twice in anger, too.  For those things, I think I can think of positive ways to help him understand how to make right what he’s done.”  He sighed and rested his forearms on his thighs, thinking. “What I just can’t condone is him lying to me.  I’ve tried… I’ve tried to think through any other way, but that’s something I just can’t let pass.”  

Ben nodded to himself and leaned back. “Whatever it is you’re planning as a consequence for lying… Do you believe it’s the right thing to do?”

Adam winced a little, but drew a deep breath.  And nodded. “Yes.  Yes, I do.  He needs to understand the consequences of deceit, and the sooner he learns it here, in a relatively safe environment, the better.  Better here, than making an even deeper hole for himself outside the family.”

“Then it sounds like you have your answer, son.”

Adam nodded, his mouth in a firm line.  Ben had a feeling this upcoming session was going to be harder on Adam than on Pat.  

The sound of approaching hoof beats in the yard startled both out their reverie and Adam turned starting to hurry to the door.  Then he stopped, drew in a deep breath and stood his ground.  Ben smiled, shook his head, and walked toward the front door.

Before he could get there, it opened and Hoss came in, soaked to the skin, with Patrick coming in behind him.  Adam studied his son, trying to gauge his expression, but it was hard to see; Pat was hanging his head and shuffling in the door.

Ben glanced at Hoss, who gave his father a small smile and a slight nod.  Closing his eyes for a moment in thanks, Ben relaxed and stepped back to allow Adam to handle the situation.

“Patrick, come here.”

Swallowing hard, the youngster forced himself to walk over to stand, respectfully, in front of his father.

“Are you all right?” asked Adam, quietly.  He got a shamefaced nod as his reply.  Adam sighed in relief, then his anger took over, and he placed his hands on his hips, standing over his son with a scowl on his face.

“Where have you been?” asked Adam sternly.  

“Up by the lake,” Pat replied softly.  Finally, he picked up his head tentatively and looked to see if he could tell how mad his father was.  Pat winced to see his face.

“Listen, Adam—” started Hoss, sympathetically looking at the discomfort his nephew was in, and trying to intervene for him.

“It’s okay, Uncle Hoss,” murmured Pat, shaking his head and tossing his hat on the side table, and standing tall.  He knew he was in for it, and he was ready to face whatever he had coming to him.  “I’m sorry.  I know I shouldn’t have taken off like that, and…and I know I was wrong to lie to you.”

Adam nodded.  “I think you’d better go on up to your room.  Get out of those wet clothes and get ready for bed.  I’ll be up in a minute to talk to you.”

“Yes, sir,” Pat murmured, hanging up his coat and trudging up the stairs.  The three men watched him go, and Adam drew in a deep breath, preparing himself to follow.

“Adam, wait a minute,” implored Hoss, putting a hand on his older brother’s arm.  “I found him up at the lake, cryin’ his eyes out.  He’s real upset, Adam.”

“I know that, Hoss,” sighed Adam.  “But he’s got to learn lying has consequences.  Without trust, we’ve got nothing between us.”

“All I’m sayin’ is tread real careful with him,” insisted Hoss.  “I think he just about talked himself into comin’ back t’ face you, but he was scared.  He knows he’s done wrong. But you gotta realize… he thinks he already ruined any chance of havin’ anythin’ between ya, anyway.”

Adam looked at his younger brother in frustration.  “Well, what would you have me do, Hoss?” he demanded, frustrated.  “I’ve got to follow through on this!”

“I know it, and he knows it,” agreed Hoss.  “But try to get him to talk to ya.  He’s feelin’ awful alone right now.  He’s not so sure you really care about him, Adam.”

Adam closed his eyes, his shoulders drooping a little.  Then he sighed, drew in a deep breath, shook himself up straight, and walked upstairs.

    

Pat sat on a chair and pulled off his boots, stripped off his soaked clothes and hung them to dry on the hooks on the wall, and pulled a hated nightshirt out of his bureau.  Nervously, he fingered the thin material and contemplated getting dressed again; a stout pair of jeans would offer a bit better protection than this!  But his father had told him to get ready for bed, and he didn’t want to anger him any further.  In resignation, he slipped on the nightshirt and sat on the edge of his bed, waiting.

While he waited, his mind was in a turmoil of self-recrimination and concern.  His talk with Uncle Hoss had gone a long way to helping him get his nerves settled and his mind straight, but he still had a very healthy worry of what his father might do and say. Grimly, Pat firmly shook his head. If ye cannot even be honest with yourself, lad, there’s no hope for it.  God, how many times Ma had said that to him! 

Sighing, Pat swallowed hard, knowing he deserved whatever he had coming to him (and he had a pretty good idea of what that was going to be).  It was more the disappointment he’d seen in his father’s eyes that upset him.  That, and the knowledge that his mother would have been disappointed, too.  Here he had promised her, on her deathbed, that he’d go to his father and behave himself, and now where was he?

He heard footsteps on the stairs and coming toward his room, and he firmed his mouth, willing himself to control the butterflies in his stomach.

His father opened his door and came in, his face unreadable.  Adam slowly shut the door behind him, went over to the bureau and leaned against it, folding his arms across his chest, and looked at his son, sitting miserably on his bed.  In a fresh, snowy nightshirt, his dark head wet and his face pale, Patrick look less like a young street tough from New York City, and more like a scared, small boy.  

“Well?  What do you have to say for yourself?” he asked quietly.  

Pat flinched; he’d been braced for his father to yell and rant and rave, not this.  In the short time he’d been here he’d learned pretty quickly that that quiet voice was the one to really be worried about.

“Like I said,” he whispered, “I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t ‘a hit Uncle Joe.  I shouldn’t ‘a lied to ya.  An’ I’m sorry for runnin’ off, I just…just….”  He gave up, shrugging and helplessly hanging his head. 

Adam studied his son, sighed and slowly walked over to the bed, his hands in his pockets, a thoughtful expression on his face.  “Well, your Uncle Joe wanted you to know he apologizes for having goaded you the way he did.  He knows that didn’t help, since you were already pretty upset.  I wish you had been able to find a different way to deal with it, but I can understand how you felt. And as for running off…” Adam reached out a long arm, pulling Pat’s desk chair over and seating himself in front of the boy, trying to achieve a more even, eye to eye stance.

He nodded. “Well, I suppose even that makes sense to me, given how upset I was. I’m sorry I didn’t wait to calm down before lighting into you. Still, running off like that was wrong of you, because of how badly you worried everyone.  I want you, tomorrow morning, to apologize to your grandfather and especially your Uncle Hoss for having caused them such trouble tonight.  We’ll talk it over with them and see how you might make amends for that bad choice.”

Pat swallowed, knowing this wasn’t over yet.

Adam frowned, looking at his hands.  “But, Patrick… the worst of the bunch?”  The man raised his eyes and waited until, deeply ashamed, Pat looked at him. “You lied to me.  You didn’t just disobey.  You disobeyed and then you lied to cover it up, and son, I can’t let that pass.”

Pat nodded, and swallowed hard.

“Why?”

Patrick winced.  How on earth to explain, when he didn’t understand all of it himself?  “I dunno,” he choked out, helplessly.

Adam shook his head. “Try,” he said gently. “I’ll listen.”

Pat felt like his heart and lungs were caught in that vise-thing his father had out in the tack room… squeezed, almost to the point of suffocation.  He drew in a deep, shuddering breath and leaned forward, like his father, leaning on his forearms.  He couldn’t do this and look at his old man at the same time, he just couldn’t and hope the man would understand that.  “Ever… ever since I got here, I keep feelin’ like a part o’ me gets lost, every day,” the boy whispered. “All the rules is different… it’s like… like tryin’ t’find yer way without havin’ no directions ta follow.”  He breathed again.  “I keep tryin’ and tryin’, and sometimes it feels like I get so close, an’ the next thing I know I’ve bollixed everything up again.”  Don’t let me cry, not now! he thought fiercely.  He took a moment and worked to steady himself again. “Like…like poker.”  He raised his eyes then and looked beseechingly at his father.  “All my life, I knew there was things I’d never be no good at, but I was good at figurin’ out the odds, since I been a little shaver.  An’… an’ everybody oughta have somethin’ they’re good at, that they can feel pr…proud of.”  Pat’s breath hitched. “But you took that away from me, too.  You won’t let me play, and I don’t understand why!”  Those beautiful eyes welled despite the boy’s best efforts. “I’m good! When I’m playin’… it’s like I got a chance o’ bein’ on the same level with them other fellas.”

Adam smiled gently, realizing this was going to take some time and Pat probably needing to spew out everything that had bothered him since his arrival before the answer to the question actually was addressed. He reached into his pocket for his handkerchief to forestall Pat using his nightshirt’s sleeve to wipe his nose and handed it to him. “I know you’re good, son, I do. In fact, I happen to know you’re good at quite a number of different things. I’m sure as time goes on, you’re going to find more things that you’re real good at, things you can be proud of.”

Pat sniffed, unconvinced, wiping his nose, downcast.

“And I agree, you’re very good at poker. But I want you to really think about what happened the other day.  If Sheriff Coffee hadn’t intervened in the nick of time, you could have been badly hurt, or worse.  Playing poker with grown men is a dangerous business, Pat. You could always play here at home with me and the uncles for smaller stakes.”

Pat’s shoulders sagged.  It just wasn’t the same, and he just couldn’t seem to find the words to explain how he felt.  How could he possibly make this man understand the exhilaration, the sheer excitement of taking next to nothing for cash and then, only through skill, cold calculation and the ability to read another, turn it into healthy-sized pot?!  His father couldn’t ever understand! It seemed to Patrick that just about everything the smart and capable Adam Cartwright did was something to be proud of…

Drawing in a breath, Pat tried another tack.  “I got to do my lessons, I get no say at all in it… I got to do my share o’ chores, and I get that, I do.  It’s just…”  He rubbed the back of his neck, in frustration, then both hands splayed out the sides as he implored his father.  “I can’t just be me anymore!  I gotta keep changin’ to fit in with all o’ you!  Don’t’cha see? Ever since I came out here, I don’t even know who I am anymore!”  He swallowed.  “It just… it just got t’be more’n I could take,” he whispered.

Adam nodded, deciding it was time to direct the conversation a bit more.  “That explains the disobedience, and even the running off, to a certain extent.  But right now, we’re talking about the lie, Patrick.”

Pat squirmed uncomfortably. “I guess… I guess I was…”

Adam waited; Pat had to get this out of his system, or they were never going to get anywhere.  

Irritably, Pat started to rise, but his father firmly put a hand on his leg, holding him in place.  

“Why?”

“I was scared!” Pat ground out, red as a beet.  “There, ya happy?!  After poppin’ Uncle Joe, I didn’t think you’d ever …” he choked and couldn’t finish, though Adam heard it: …ever forgive me.

Adam nodded, and reached up, smoothing back the damp black hair from his boy’s forehead, surprising the boy with the gentleness of the touch.   He sighed a moment, searching for words, and suddenly a long-ago memory of something he’d heard his father say bubbled to the surface of his mind.  Pursing his lips for a moment, he tipped his head, and prayed: What Pa said got through my thick skull… maybe Pat’s enough like me, it’ll get through his as well…

“Pat, I’m going to say something to you, and I want you to listen to me,” Adam said seriously.  

Pat looked at him, swallowing hard.  

“There are going to be a few scrapes you’ll get into in your life, and I’ll always be there to help and guide you. And I’ll always forgive you. Now, that doesn’t mean that I won’t be angry with you or punish you when you deserve it.  But I will always be there to support you and help you figure out how to try to make things right again. I can’t do that if I don’t have all the facts.  Or if you’ve doctored the facts to reflect what you’d like the truth to be.  As hard as telling the truth can sometimes be when you’re in trouble, that’s the only basis on which I can build my trust in you.  And, son, I want you to take it from me… the pain you feel when you have to own up to something, as tough as that truth-telling might be?”  He tipped his head to the side, waiting for Pat to shame-facedly meet his eyes.  “It’ll still hurt a lot less than the pain of not telling the truth.”  

Pat squirmed uncomfortably; his father was saying things that he’d heard in some form or another in the past from his mother.  

Adam watched until he was sure Patrick had gotten his point, then reached out and, with a hand on his son’s chin, tipped it up to force Patrick’s blue eyes to connect with his own.

“Look, Pat, I’ll help and defend you as far as necessary to get a problem straightened out, but I have to know that what I’m defending is the truth.  If you lie to me, I’m licked before we even get started.  And it’d make trusting you afterwards awfully hard.  Do you understand what I’m telling you, son?”

Pat felt small and ashamed.  He drew in a shaky breath and nodded.

“Good.”  Adam examined himself once more and nodding grimly to himself, decided to follow through.  “Well, then. At the risk of creating a situation in which I’m asking the fox to guard the hen house, I want your honest opinion as to what you think you deserve as punishment for your dishonesty.  I know what my father would have done.  What about your mother?”

Pat swallowed hard.  “That’s easy.  She’d’a taken a strap to me,” he answered softly.  “Didn’t happen often, but when it did…well, ya didn’t make that mistake again in a hurry, I’ll tell ya.”

Adam nodded. “That’s what Granddad would have done, too.”  Adam mused and then glanced at the boy.  “Earlier you said how upset you were that you had all your choices taken from you when you had to come out here after your mother died.  And you know, I can understand that.  This has been a big adjustment for you; bigger than I sometimes remember.  So, I’m sure my father is going to think I’ve lost my mind, but I’ll give you back a chance to make your own decisions. There is no doubt that you’ll be punished, Pat, but I think you know that.”

The boy nodded, sadly. 

“I’m going to leave the choice up to you.  Either you accept another two weeks confined to the house and yard, or we end it tonight with a tanning, and we start fresh tomorrow.”

Pat’s brow wrinkled as he contemplated this.  A choice?! Well, that’s different, he thought a little wildly. Pat weighed the pros and cons of both options and sighed.  “I think I’d rather just get it over with… if that’s okay with you,” he admitted, looking at Adam.  “It’s been a really rough few weeks.  It’d sure be nice to feel like I can finally start  t’morrow with a clean slate.” 

 

The house was dark save for the lamp next to Adam’s chair. He had a book in his lap but had abandoned reading it hours ago. The fire crackled and held his gaze, his mind far off. It was awfully late as Ben came downstairs, tying the belt of his robe around him. He halted on the landing, smiling at his son, staring off into space.   

He quietly continued down the steps and was nearly at Adam’s side before the young man even noticed his father was there and jumped.

“Sorry for startling you,” smiled Ben, looking down at him.  “I thought you might have fallen asleep down here.  It’s almost two in the morning, son.”

Adam sighed, and shut his book, setting it on the table.  “I guess I lost track of the time.”

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Adam turned his face back to the fire and shook his head.  

Sighing, Ben perched himself on the table and patted his son on the knee.  “Adam, he’ll get over it.” 

Adam sighed. “He might, but I’m not sure I will.” He turned to look at his father. “You know, I always hated it when I had to punish Joe… those times when you weren’t around?

Ben nodded.

“Well, that feeling hasn’t changed.” He lowered his head, resuming his gaze into the fire.

Ben sighed.  “No one ever said being a father was easy.  How did he take it?”

“Without a squeak,” Adam answered with a rueful smile.  “I don’t know whether or not I was glad not to have to listen to him yell, or if I wished he would just let go and let himself bawl.” 

Ben nodded and chuckled to himself, sliding his hands into the pockets of his robe. “You were exactly the same way at his age, you know,” Ben smiled, remembering. “Oh, there were often some tears – you couldn’t help that – but you’d nearly bite through your lip before letting me hear a sound out of you. So, that pig-headed pride of his? Pat comes by it honestly.”

Adam sighed, rubbing a big hand over his face. “Yeah, I suppose so.”

“There’s an old phrase that I’ve come to understand on several occasions with you and your brothers.  ‘This is going to hurt me more than it’ll hurt you, ” observed Ben, with a sad smile. “I think I remember saying that to you once…”

Adam glanced up, questioning, seeing the distant look in his father’s eyes and the sad smile. Ben shook his head and then looked knowingly at his firstborn, a black eyebrow raised and a rueful smile on his face. “You informed me afterward – quite emphatically, in fact, and while angrily wiping your eyes – that you begged to differ with me.”

Adam chuckled, suddenly vividly remembering that occasion.  Pa was right; Pat’s reaction tonight had been very much the same to his own in years past. 

“Son, why don’t you get some sleep?  You’ll feel better in the morning,” assured Ben, clapping him on the shoulder.  Sighing, Adam nodded and got to his feet.

“Yeah, I guess I’ll turn in.  Good night, Pa.”

“Good night, son.”

    

Adam stretched on his way down the hallway to his room, feeling as though he had never, ever spent such a long, hard, miserable day.  He hesitated outside of Pat’s door and decided to look in on him. He noiselessly turned the handle and pushed opened the door, entering. 

Pat was sprawled on his bed, not surprisingly on his stomach, sound asleep. He’d obviously been restless and had kicked off his covers.  Adam smiled, shaking his head, and carefully drew the quilt up over his boy.  

Pat stirred and frowned, sleepily opened his eyes.

“Whatsa matter?” he yawned, propping himself up on his elbows.

“Shhh,” soothed Adam, smoothing the quilt and tucking him in.  “Everything’s all right.  You kicked off your quilt; I was just covering you up.  Go on back to sleep.”

“Oh…’Kay…. G’night, Dad,” murmured Pat with a drowsy smile, yawning.

Startled, Adam stared down at him, then smiled.  “Good night, son,” he said warmly.  Adam tenderly pushed a lock of black hair off his son’s forehead.  Pat sighed, contentedly, and snuggled deeper under the covers.  Adam gazed at him for a moment longer, rubbing his back as he watched him fall back into a doze.

Adam walked to the door, looked back at his peacefully sleeping son, and smiled as he quietly shut the door behind him.

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next day

Adam stretched and yawned as he trudged down the hallway to the stairs, feeling more tired than when he’d fallen into bed last night…or, rather, this morning.  He’d ended up staring at the ceiling in his room, thinking, until perhaps an hour before dawn.  

Ben was seated at the table, sipping his morning coffee and reading some mail.  He glanced up at his oldest son as he yawned again; Ben noted the circles under his eyes and tried not to smile.  He cleared his throat and put his eyes back to the letter he was reading.

“Mornin’, Pa…” said Adam, his jaw aching with another yawn.

“Good morning, son,” smiled Ben surreptitiously.  “Sleep well?”

“Ha…ha…..” returned Adam, frowning.  Ben chuckled.  “Am I the last up?”

“Yes,” smiled his father. “The boys are all out doing their chores.  They said they’d let you sleep late, and do your chores for you.  They seemed to think you’d be a bit overtired this morning.”  Ben eyed him innocently.  Adam eyed him in return.  

“Pa, if you’re looking to bait me, forget it,” he said, wearily.  “I’m just too tired to rise to the occasion.”

Hop Sing came in then and poured Adam a cup of coffee.  “Morning, Missa Adam,” smiled the Chinese man.  “Look velly tired.”

“Yeah, well…” Adam yawned again.  Ben shook his head.

“Young man, I think you’d better go back to bed,” said Ben, unable to keep from laughing.

“No, I’m all right,” insisted Adam, “I just need some coffee to wake me up.”  The front door opened, then banged closed again and Ben heard his two younger sons’ voices laughing as they walked in.

“You know, that little mare o’ Thunder’s is gonna be a great cow pony, Joe.  You sure were right about her.”

“Yep, if I do say so myself, that stallion was one heck of a good investment. We’ve gotten a real good string from him, and it’ll only get better.”

The boys came around the dining room alcove corner and, offering morning greetings to their brother and father, sat down at their places for breakfast, enjoying their banter.

Adam glanced behind them, his sleepy eyes narrowed.  ‘Where’s Pat?”

Joe and Hoss grinned at each other, and chuckled.  

“He’s comin’, Adam,” giggled Joe, flicking open his napkin and laying it on his lap. Adam winced a little at the shiner he was sporting, but sighed and let it go, since it didn’t seem to be bothering his baby brother any. Pat really does have a good right cross…

“Yeah, he’s movin’ a little slow this mornin’,” Hoss chortled, tucking his napkin into his shirt.  

Suddenly dawn broke for Adam, and he frowned, sternly. “Look, you two,” he declared ominously, punctuating his comments with an egg-laden fork, “I seem to remember two brothers in similar states in their lifetimes.”

“I seem to remember three,” said Ben, thoughtfully, not picking his head up from his letter. “And on a couple of rather memorable occasions, all three of you at once.”

 Adam shot him an annoyed look, while his younger brothers howled with laughter.

The front door banged again and Pat walked in, a bit more subdued than usual.  Not yet looking up, but murmuring a blanket “G’mornin’,” to the table at large, he pulled out his chair… and stopped dead finding a large, soft cushion resting on it.  Lips parted in a surprise, he glanced up first at Ben, who shook his head with eyebrows raised, then at his father, who wore a small, comforting smile.  Pat’s cheeks flushed, but he nodded his thanks, and then eased himself, very slowly, down onto the chair and winced.  He shifted uncomfortably, and finally scooted forward a little, resting his weight more on his thighs.  Joe and Hoss were struggling, making gargantuan efforts not to laugh, but lost it when Pat managed a weak, hapless grin, with Ben and Adam joining in with chuckles of their own. 

While the three younger family members worked on loading up their plates and passing platters to each other, Ben leaned slightly over to Adam, his eyes warm, and asked, sotto voce, “The pillow…last night? While you were down here alone?”

Adam smiled at his father and winked, nodding.  

After they all got through the first round of food, they’d settled down to plan the day.

“You know, Pa, I really think something’s gotta be done about these thefts in town,” said Joe seriously, gesturing with a biscuit.

“Well, I agree with you, there, son,” nodded Ben, laying aside his fork and knife, “but what do you propose?”

“Well, maybe I can ask around town—“began Joe, excitedly. 

“Joseph, last time I heard, Roy Coffee had won the election for sheriff,” said Ben dryly.  “And you were on the payroll of the Ponderosa.”

“But, Pa,” protested Joe. 

“There’ll be no buts, young man.  You leave the sheriffin’ to Roy, is that clear?” his father said sternly.

Pat grinned, his blue eyes twinkling over the rim of his glass of milk.  Boy, it felt good for someone else to be in trouble for a change!  

Joe caught the expression and made a sour face at his nephew.

“Joe, Pa’s right,” said Adam seriously.  “Let Roy do his job.  Perhaps without Patrick in town bollixing up the works, Roy’s investigation can learn something.”  He looked pointedly at the boy.

Now it was Pat’s turn to look sour.

 

After breakfast, Pat stood out on the front porch, leaning up against one of the porch uprights, sipping his coffee.  He’d got up very early and had finished his own chores long before breakfast, giving him some time to relax before getting started on his lessons.  Currently he was wading through memorizing his multiplication tables and practicing long division.  And his father also wanted him to practice his penmanship.  The thought of sitting at his desk was a sobering one; his hind end was still radiating a bit too much heat to make the thought a welcome prospect.

Adam came out to the porch, his own coffee in his hand, and drew in a deep breath of the crisp air.  Sipping from his cup he came up to stand a bit away from Pat, but close enough to look at him.

“You okay this morning?” he asked, staring out over the fields.

Pat glanced at him and swung his eyes out to the fields as well, a smile on his face.  “Yeah.  I’m fine.”  He tipped his head to one side and looked drolly at his father.  “How ‘bout you?”

Adam glanced at his son, noted the grin, and flushed, turning his attention back to his coffee cup.  “Why do you ask?”

Pat chuckled.  “Because from the looks of ya, I don’t know which one of us got the whippin’ last night.”  Adam blushed redder and sighed.  “Look…it might interest ya to know Ma was a pretty mean hand with a strap herself.  Last night’s …well, let’s just say she wouldn’t’a broke a sweat.”

Adam drew in a deep breath and glanced at his son.  There was arrogance in the eyes and voice, but a warm smile on his face.  He shook his head, amused, as he realized his son was trying to comfort him!  

“I promise to try to do better next time,” he teased.  He was rewarded with a slightly alarmed look on his son’s face.

“No, that’s okay.  I’d just as soon we didn’t practice again anytime soon, if it’s all the same to you.”  Pat assured him, ruefully.

Adam laughed and ruffled his son’s hair.

 

The rain held off all day, but by suppertime, thunder was rolling again in the mountains.  By the time the meal was finished, lightning flashed around the house once more and the Cartwrights settled in for a night at home.  Joe was a bit disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to ride into town.  He’d met a real nice girl at the Silver Dollar, new in town, and had hoped to spend some more time with her.  But he resigned himself to a quiet evening at home.

“Hey, Hoss, how about a game of chess?” Joe asked as his father poured after-dinner brandies.

“You reckon you can hold your own, little brother?” smiled Hoss.

“Aw, Hoss, c’mon!” protested Joe as he pulled the wooden box of chess pieces down from the bookcase in Ben’s office.  “You know I almost always beat you!”

Ben smiled and handed Adam a brandy.  Adam accepted it, and settled into the blue chair by the fireplace, enjoying the warmth from the flames, the gentle crackling soothing his nerves and letting him relax.  

Pat prowled the room restlessly, still too sore to want to sit, and too wide awake to want to go to bed.  Ben eyed the boy with sympathy, and then glanced at his oldest son, who was sitting back, his eyes closed, resting.  Ben’s eye then fell on Adam’s guitar, propped against the side of the hearth.  Ben glanced again at Pat, now leaning over the back of Hoss’ chair, concentrating on the game between his uncles.

“Adam, it’s been ages since I’ve heard you play,” he said softly. “Would you?”

Hoss and Joe looked up from their game smiling.  Joe and Ben shared a quick glance at Pat, and Joe grinned at Ben.  He knew just what his father was up to.

Adam opened his tired eyes, and looked at his father, smiling.  “Sure, Pa.  What would you like to hear?”  He leaned toward the hearth and picked up his guitar, sitting a bit forward to give the neck of the instrument clearance.  

“Anything,” sighed Ben, closing his eyes and leaning back.  Adam thought for a moment while his fingers, a little rusty, danced over the strings.  Pat’s eyes shone as he watched his father’s sensitive hands make the instrument sing.  He continued to lean on the back of Hoss’ chair, but he turned himself toward the hearth and the music.

Adam played and sang a beautiful, sad song about longing, and pine trees, and lost love that Joe’s mother had loved, and which his youngest brother usually asked him to play.  Joe leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and letting himself drift a bit along with the music.  Hoss, too, allowed his mind to wander, as he always did when his brother allowed the sensitivity in his heart to come through the music he played.

“That was real nice, Adam,” said Joe softly, his eyes sparkling a bit; as a child, he’d always asked his big brother to “sing that song, Adam,” whenever he was feeling sad or lonesome for his mother.  As he grew older, that tune always managed to settle his restless spirit and give him peace.

Adam smiled at his youngest brother and strummed a little.  Ben glanced at Pat, who had stepped back a bit and was resting his chin on his folded arms, still crossed atop the back of Hoss’ chair.  His eyes gazed into the fire, and Ben was disturbed to notice their sad expression.

“Know any songs, Pat?” Ben prompted, trying to dispel the mood.

Startled, Pat thumped back to earth. “Oh, I can’t, Granddad.  I don’t know how to play that thing,” he stammered, gesturing at the guitar.

“How about a song anyway?  You can sing, can’t you?”

Adam studied his son, seeing his discomfort.

“Well, yeah, but—“ Pat squirmed a bit, scratching his ear.  

“Hey, how about that song you was singin’ the other day?  Something about a gypsy?” Joe asked.  “It sounded real good even without a guitar.”

Pat’s eyes widened.  They’d heard!?  Oh, Jaysus…

Adam glanced at his father and Joe, puzzled.

“Well…” Pat said slowly.

“Go ahead, Pat!” encouraged Hoss, turning around and settling in to listen.  

Shrugging his shoulders, Pat thought for a moment and settled his jitters.  

He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, then began the beautiful, romantic Irish love song, and Adam gaped, then smiled in pleasure.  The boy was good!  He was young yet, but his voice promised to be a deep baritone when it changed.  Right now, it was a low tenor, but as sweet and clear and true as a church bell.  Adam listened hard and realized with a start that he remembered the tune… he recalled Siobhan singing it to him, all those years ago.  

After a few very soft false starts, he concentrated and began to accompany his son, his fingers finding the memory of the melody.  Pat’s eyes opened in surprise, but he kept on singing, smiling as his father played.

By the third chorus, Adam was singing along with him; by the last, Pat shifted to an upper harmony, allowing his father to carry the melody, to the complete delight of the rest of the family.  The chess game was left abandoned while Hoss, smiling, hung on every note and Joe shared a knowing glance with Ben.

As the last note rang into silence, father and son singing together, the lightning and thunder crashed again, startling them both out of the spell woven by the music.

“Pat…that was beautiful,” said Adam softly.  “Your mother used to sing that to me.”

In surprise, Pat looked at his father.  Adam rarely mentioned Siobhan.  “She sang me to sleep with that more times’n I can remember,” he agreed quietly.  Adam noticed the sad look that entered the boy’s eyes and watched him shake it off.  “Did she teach ya any others?”

Adam leaned back a moment and allowed himself, for the first time in years, to think back to that time.  He had wrapped that part of his memory in thick, dark swaddling, trying to keep back the hurt of losing the incredible black-haired witch that had stolen his twenty-year-old heart. But… this was his son who’d asked him.  He found he couldn’t refuse him.

“Well, I remember a couple of Brotherhood songs,” he said, with a wry smile.  Frowning in concentration, his fingers found the chords and started the introduction to a tune.  Grinning in delight, Pat immediately recognized “The Risin’ o’ the Moon” and nodding, started singing.  Adam fumbled a bit with the words but followed Pat as closely as possible.  He remembered more of “Johnny I Hardly Knew Ye”, “The Wild Colonial Boy,” “A Nation Once Again” and grinned his way through “Brennan on the Moor,” enjoying the personality Pat infused into the Irish ballad of a brash young highwayman.

 

“One day upon the highway,

as Willie, he went down,

He met the mayor of Cashel,

a mile outside the town,

The mayor, he knew his features,

 and he said, ‘Young Man,’ said he,

‘Your name is Willie Brennan

you must come along with me!’

 

Oh it’s Brennan on the moor,

Brennan on the moor,

Bold, brave and undaunted was young

Brennan on the moor!”

 

Hearing the brogue enter the boy’s deep, expressive voice, and seeing the fire and passion in his eyes as he sang the songs of Irish rebellion, brought back bittersweet memories of the boy’s mother to Adam, and he sighed.  

Pat, too, found the evening a mixture of memories.  But he decided that it hurt much less than he’d expected it to.  When Pat’s face split in a jaw-cracking yawn, Adam glanced at the clock and noticed it was an hour past Pat’s usual bedtime. 

“Time for you to be heading upstairs, young man,” he said with a smile.  Pat sighed and nodded.

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, stretching a bit.  “I’m pretty tired.  See ya in the morning, everybody.”

“Goodnight, Pat,” smiled Ben, contentedly sipping another brandy.  

“’Night, squirt,” grinned Hoss.  

“See ya in the morning, Pat,” called Joe, turning his attention back to the game.

“Goodnight, son,” Adam smiled, all the way to his eyes.  Pat turned back at the half-landing and smile,d too, if tiredly, at his father.

“’Night, Dad,” he nodded, continuing on up.

Ben, Hoss and Joe all looked up in surprise at the retreating back of the boy and then at Adam, who was studiously tuning his guitar.

“Well,” said Ben in pleased surprise, after hearing the snick! of Patrick’s door closing upstairs.  “When did that start?”

Adam continued to play with the tuning pegs, but his mouth twisted into a grin.  “After about six swats,” he replied, eyebrows raised, and with that he got to his feet, set his guitar back in its place and walked upstairs.

Hoss and Joe stared at each other in surprise, and Ben just laughed, shaking his head.

 

A few days later, Adam hitched up the buckboard to head to town for some supplies to get ready for the fall round up, now just a few days away.  Pat was hovering around the barn, not wanting to ask, but desperately hoping his father would let him come to town.  He was bored and lonesome stuck in the yard all day.  But he also knew that his father was right; if something happened in town while he was home, he’d be cleared, and they’d be a long way toward solving this nonsense in town.  So, he silently helped his father with the gear and kept his hopes to himself.

Adam wasn’t blind; he knew Pat wanted to come.  But he decided to let the boy wonder a little bit longer.  As Adam fetched his coat and gun belt, he glanced at Pat ingenuously.  

“Well?”

Pat looked up, questioning.

“Aren’t you going to get your coat?” his father smiled.

Pat, confused, stared at his father for a moment, then he grinned and nodded.  “Yes, sir!” he exclaimed, running for the house.  He was back in a flash, his sheepskin coat over his arm and his hat on his head.  He clambered into the seat beside his father, who promptly handed him the reins.

Clicking his tongue, Pat happily urged the team on.

 

At the mercantile, Adam and Pat filled the order of food supplies, ammunition and other gear needed.  

“Land sakes, Adam!” smiled Nancy Jenkins, “that boy’s near as tall as you are!  Won’t be long before he’s taller than his pa!”

Pat shifted uncomfortably, wishing he could sink into the ground.  Jeez, why did people always do that? he wondered crossly.  At least he was too big for the women to pinch his cheeks and call him “cute!”  

“Yeah, he’s growing all right,” nodded Adam, with a smile.  He saw his son’s discomfort and decided to offer him an out.  “Pat, why don’t you get that stuff loaded while I check for the mail and stop in at the bank?”

“Okay,” he nodded, grateful for the escape route.

He hauled the supplies out to the wagon, and started loading, concentrating and estimating how to fit it all in.  

“Well, hello there!”

He picked his head up in surprise and gaped.

Her green eyes teased him.  “There you go again,” she giggled.  “Catchin’ flies!”

He laughed, and pushed his hat a little further back his head. “Hi, Cassie,” he grinned.  A woman walked up behind Cassie, a tiny, sweet looking woman with tired, sad eyes.  Cassie glanced back and smiled at her.  

“Ma, this is the boy I was telling you about.  Pat Cartwright,” she smiled.

“Hello, Pat,” smiled the woman.

“How do ya do, ma’am?” he smiled, removing his hat politely.

“Pat?”

He turned and saw his father coming out of the mercantile, looking in surprise at his son and the young girl and the woman.  “Dad, this is Cassie Yates, the girl I … uh, the girl I met the other day,” he said, blushing a little.  “Oh, and this is her mother, Mrs. Yates.”

“Oh, I see,” smiled Adam.  “It’s a pleasure, ma’am, Cassie.”

“How do you do, Mr. Cartwright,” smiled Julie Yates.  

“Dad, you’re goin’ to the bank, right?”  asked Pat, staring at Cassie.  Adam studied his son and smiled.

“Yes…so?”

“Would it be okay if Cassie and I went for a walk while you finished up over there?” asked Pat, finally turning to his father. “We won’t be long.”

“Now, Pat,” began Adam, uneasily glancing at Mrs. Yates.  The woman smiled indulgently.

“Cassandra, I was hoping you’d help me with the marketing.”

“We wouldn’t be long, Ma, honest!” the girl assured her, her eyes shining.

“Well…”

“Thanks!” grinned Pat, and the two walked off, Pat’s hands still gripping his hat and Cassie’s clasped behind her.  The adults watched them go and then glanced at each other a little in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Yates,” Adam apologized, “I’m afraid he’s a little impulsive.”

She chuckled.  “Mr. Cartwright, aren’t most young men?  It was a pleasure meeting you.”

“And you, ma’am,” he smiled, touching his hat brim, as the woman continued into the store.  

Adam sighed, and glanced down the street, watching his son and the young girl, and shook his head.  God, wasn’t it ever gonna let up? he thought to himself.  Life with Pat was one surprise after another! And then a disturbing thought occurred to him.  I wonder just how much he knows?!

Shaking his head, Adam went on down the street to the bank.

 

“I was hopin’ I’d see ya again,” Pat said, strolling along, careful his long legs didn’t make her stride uncomfortably fast.  

“Me, too,” she said shyly.  “You’ve become pretty famous in this town.”

Pat glanced at her in surprise.  “Whaddya mean?”

She giggled.  “Let’s see…poker player…fighter….”

Pat groaned and put his hat on his head, the brim low on his eyes.  “Don’t believe everythin’ ya hear,” he said, reddening.

She laughed.  “I believe what I see, Pat Cartwright,” she said merrily.

“What else have ya heard?” he asked quietly.

“That you’ve just come out from New York City.”

“You know why?”

“I know your Ma died, and you were sent to live with your father,” she said carefully.  

Pat’s lips thinned.

“So ya know,” he said, gruffly.  She glanced at him, feeling sorry for him.

“It don’t matter, Pat,” she said gently.  He looked at her.  “Ma says that we should get to know people for who they are, not what they were.”

“Well, then your ma’s one in a million, let me tell ya,” he said, breathing a little more easily.  “How about you?  You said you and your Ma lived in St. Joe…Missouri?”

“Yup!” she nodded, soberly. “My Pa died and Ma didn’t know what to do.”  Pat wondered at the suddenly shuttered look on her face, a cold mask as she mentioned her father.  It passed quickly as she continued.  “So, we came out here to live with her sister, but Aunt Margie had died of the fever while we was only halfway out.  She left Ma the house, but that was it.  Ma’s doin’ seamstress work now.  We’re doin’ all right.” 

The girl lifted her head proudly, tossing her white-blonde curls.  Pat was enchanted.  Suddenly he realized that they were quite a ways outside of town, and glanced back.  “We’d better be gettin’ back, Cassie.  Dad’ll be finished at the bank by now, and he’ll be waitin’.”

“Ma’ll need me to help her, too,” she sighed.  She smiled.  “We’ll have to do this again sometime!”

“Yeah, we will,” he nodded, losing himself in her green eyes.  

 

They chatted as they walked back to the buckboard, where Adam was waiting, a foot propped up on the mud board.  As the children came up alongside the wagon, Mrs. Yates came out to look for her daughter and she smiled.

“I’m pleased you did as you said you would, dear,” she smiled.  “Now, I’m afraid you must come along, Cassie.  We have a lot of packages to carry home.”

“Yes, Ma,” Cassie nodded.  “Bye, Pat.  It was good to see you again.”

He removed his hat again, deviltry lilting in his Irish eyes.  Adam rolled his own eyes and sighed. God help me…

“It was a great pleasure, ma’am,” Pat said gallantly.  She giggled and tripped up the steps, following her mother into the mercantile.

Pat remained standing there, staring after her long after she’d gone through the mercantile’s doors.  Adam’s mouth twisted in a wry grin as he studied him.

“Should I start watering you?” his father asked dryly.

Pat continued to watch, then, startled, looked back at his father questioningly. “Hunh?”

“I thought roots might have taken hold right there in the street,” his father continued, his face serious but his eyes snapping with mischief.

Blushing furiously, Pat clapped his hat back on his head and climbed into the wagon, staring at his boots.  Chuckling, Adam flicked the reins and started the team on the ride home.

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

October 18, 1871

Joe Cartwright galloped into Virginia City, grateful for the freedom of an evening in town.  He and his brothers had just spent two long weeks on the trail, rounding up the cattle and moving them to their winter grazing.  It was the first time in ages that Joe had been able to get into town for an evening of poker, a few beers, and a chance to visit with a lady friend or two.

Joe dismounted Cochise and slapped the reins around the hitching post outside the Silver Dollar Saloon, grinning at the fellows gathered around the water trough, sharing tales.

“How’d the round-up go, Little Joe?”

“Went real well, Mr. McDonough,” nodded Joe, with a broad grin.  “Took about three days less than we expected.”

“Hey, that is real fine!” approved the man.  Jefferson McDonough was the owner of the Triple M Ranch, one of the smaller spreads to the West of town.  Mr. McDonough and his family had been friends with the Cartwrights for nearly twenty years.

“What’s been going on here in town?” Joe asked, pausing on his way into the saloon.

“Ah, nuthin’,” waved off McDonough with a small grunt.  “Dull as dust.”

“No more robberies, huh?” Joe asked casually.  At that, the other members of the group glanced at each other, and dissembled a bit.  Joe glanced around him at the other men.  “Well, were there any?” he asked reasonably.

“Yeah, there was one,” said one of them, a teller at the bank.  “I heard tell Bill Jenkins lost some pocket knives from his display at the Mercantile.”

“When?” asked Joe, interested.

“Sometime last week.”

Joe thought a moment.  Pat was in the clear!  He’d been home with Hop Sing, much to the kid’s dismay.  He’d wheedled, argued, cajoled and done everything short of throwing a doozy of a temper tantrum trying to convince Adam to let him go along on the round-up.  But Adam had been firm; Pat was to stay home with Hop Sing, continue his studying and do the chores around the yard.  He’d sulked for two days before they left, making Adam’s life a hell, and not being particularly pleasant to the rest of the family, either.  

“So…that nephew of yours go on the drive with you, Joe?” asked one of the other men, unable to look Joe in the eye.

“No.  He stayed home with Hop Sing,” said Joe, seeing the way the wind was blowing.

“You sure o’ that?”

Joe’s temper was simmering.  “Yeah, I’m sure,” he replied in a hard voice.  Joe kept his temper and turned to McDonouogh.  “Good to see you, sir.  I’ll tell Pa I ran into you,” he said quietly, and went into the saloon.

“Joe!  Why, I ain’t seen you in a month o’ Sundays!” crowed Charlie, waving at Joe from behind the bar.

“Hi, Charlie!” grinned Joe, shaking off his bad mood.

“Why, Little Joe Cartwright!” called a female voice.  Joe turned and smiled.  

“Hey, Betty!  How’s the prettiest girl in Virginia City?” he asked, leaning against the bar, picking up the beer Charlie had poured for him.

“Pinin’ away for the handsomest man in the territory,” she grinned back, putting her hand out for a shot of whiskey.

“Got a minute to talk, Betty?” Joe asked seriously.

She glanced at Charlie, and the barkeep grinned.  “Go ahead, girl.”

They walked to a table in the corner.

“So, Miss Betty, how’s life been in Virginia City?” he asked, grinning at her.

“Quiet,” she admitted, “mostly because you’ve been gone.  You and every other good-looking man in the territory!”  She sipped her whiskey.  “No new…no, wait!  That ain’t true.  I hear tell there’s gonna be a barn raisin’ on Saturday.”

“Barn raising?” Joe grinned.  “Whose?”

“Tom and Mary Fleming,” she said with a smile.  “They’re good people.  When their barn burned two weeks ago – “

“What?!” Joe exclaimed.  The Flemings’ small ranch was on the north side of the Ponderosa near Washoe Lake, and not that far from the ranch house.

“Yeah, strange fire, started from nothing they said.  Thought it might be lightning, but no one could say for sure.”  Joe stared into space for a moment, frowning.  “Anyway, there’s a barn raising during the day and dance there that night.”

“A dance!  We haven’t had a dance around here in ages!” Joe crowed, thinking of all the fun.  Then he was able to push the thoughts of swirling dresses and dancing eyes out of his thoughts and got back to his planned task.  He took a sip of beer.  “Nothing new on those robberies?” he asked.

“Well, Bill Jenkins says he thinks that two or three pocketknives were stolen from his display case last Thursday, but other than that no.  And Bill himself says he might have just lost track of ‘em.  They’d had a pretty busy time as all the ranches were coming in for provisions for the trail drives,” she said, seriously.  She gazed at him.  “Why?”

“Oh…no reason.”

“Sure,” she said with a grimace.  She, like many in town, was having trouble with the presence of a fifth Cartwright.  Here at the Silver Dollar, Vera had been working hard to turn people against Adam and his son.  Betty knew it was mostly sour grapes, but it was worrisome, just the same.

“Well, now what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” she said glumly.  She got to her feet. “I better get back to work, Joe.”

Bewildered, Joe watched her go.  Scratching his head, he leaned back in his chair, sipping his beer and thinking.

“Well, Little Joe, good to see you around again!”

Joe looked up, startled and smiled to see Roy Coffee. 

“Hey, Roy!  How are you?”

“Just fine, Joe, just fine,” nodded Roy.  “Tell me, Little Joe,” he asked, sliding into the seat next to him.  “How long you been in Virginia City?”

Joe looked at him, his smile frozen.  “About ten minutes, why?”

“Because I hear tell you’re already askin’ around about them robberies,” said Roy, eyeing the younger man.

Joe’s smile completely faded at this point.  He glanced down at his beer.  He knew full well that his father had told Roy he’d forbidden Joe to involve himself in the investigation of the robberies.  Roy smiled fondly, seeing the frustration and confusion on the young man’s face.  “Listen, Joe, I know you’re wishin’ there was somethin’ you could do—“ he began.

“There’s got to be somethin’ we can do, Roy!” he snapped, angrily.  “Even when Pat’s been home behaving himself, half this stupid town is still blaming him!  I’m beginning to think even if the Reverend Parkins vouched for an alibi for him, they’d find fault!  When are they going to realize that the words ‘bastard’ and ‘thief’ aren’t interchangeable?”

Joe angrily swallowed a gulp of beer, and he hunched over his glass.

Roy eyed him.  “You really want to help?”  he asked.

Joe rolled his eyes.  “I’d rather keep my ears from bein’ shorn off, thanks,” he said sourly.  “Pa’d have kittens.”

“Wal, there might be something you could do,” said Roy seriously.  “an’ it wouldn’t have to put you at odds with yer Pa. You could get a feelin’ from the folks in town, who’s thinkin’ what, who believes what.  That in itself might help me figger out where these rumors are startin’.”

“Well, how could that help?” asked Joe, confused.

“If I knew around where the rumors were startin’, I might have an idea what started ‘em,” said Roy, thoughtfully.  Joe concentrated on that and nodded.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” he said quietly. The friends of the Cartwrights might say something to young Joe Cartwright that they’d be less likely to say to the Sheriff.   “You serious? You want me to help?”

Roy looked at him and pointed a stern finger at him.  “Only if you promise to keep that hot head of yours under control.”

Joe sheepishly shrugged.  “Aw, Roy—“

“I mean it, Little Joe.”

“All right, I promise,” Joe said with a grin. “But…” he frowned a moment, scratching an ear.  “Roy… would you be willin’ to talk to Pa?”

Roy grinned.  “You think he won’t believe ya?”

Joe sighed.  “Oh, not really, but if you asked him, the chance of him not goin’ off like a Roman Candle might be better,” Joe admitted, wryly.

“All right then, I’ll head out to the ranch this afternoon and talk to ‘im.  But the ‘sharin’ stops with yer Pa.  Not your brothers, and for sure not that hooligan of a nephew o’ yours,” he grinned, nodding.  “Now, here’s what I want ya to do…”

 

“So, what’s all the news from town, little brother?” asked Hoss the following morning at breakfast.

“Nothing much,” said Joe, studying his plate.  

Ben glanced at him, a bit surprised.  “Didn’t you have a good time last night, son?” he asked.

Joe, startled, picked his head up and looked around the table.  “Sure.  Why?”

“You seem a little pre-occupied this morning.”

Joe had been thinking about his talk with Roy last night and the plans they’d made.  Joe glanced at his father, thinking fast..  “Uh…I am, Pa!” he covered quickly.  “There’s a barn raising on Saturday at the Flemings, and there’s gonna be a dance afterwards.  I’ve been trying to figure out who I’m gonna take.”

Ben narrowed his eyes a bit.  Joe really was the world’s worst liar…I’ll have to let him know Roy stopped by last night, before he truly puts his foot in it…

Pat raised his head at his uncle’s words, and Hoss caught the look of confusion on the youngster’s face.  He could see the wheels turning as Pat tried to take the literal translation of the words and turn them into something that made sense.

“Guess out there in the big city you ain’t never been to a barn-raisin’, huh Pat!” laughed Hoss. 

“Not many,” Pat agreed dryly, a forkful of ham halfway to his mouth.

“Usually, building a good-sized barn takes a while,” said Hoss.  “So, we neighbors all get together and the menfolk bring their tools, and the womenfolk cook to beat all, I’ll tell you…fried chicken…corn on the cob…. ham…mmmmm!  Then, when the barn frame’s up, and we’ve at least got the roof in place, we take a little break, get into our good duds, and have a dance!  Right there in the frame o’ the new barn.”

Pat studied his uncle, figuring he was pulling his leg, then glanced over at his father for corroboration.

“That’s how it works, Pat,” nodded Adam, as he liberally poured maple syrup over his hot cakes.

“I heard from the hands about the fire at the Flemings’,” nodded Ben, sipping his coffee.  “Jake seems to feel that several people are concerned it was arson.”

“Arson!” exclaimed Adam, sitting back.  “Was it that suspicious?”

“Well, you know Tom Fleming…nobody more inclined to dot every “i” and cross every “t”…I can’t imagine him leaving a lit lantern near the hay, now, can you?”

Adam thoughtfully nodded.  “Well, that’s true enough.  But I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt Tom Fleming.  There isn’t a better neighbor in the area.”

With all the conversation of the upcoming dance and the fire, no one seemed to notice that Pat had grown very quiet.  He returned his attention to his breakfast, and frowned, deep in thought.  As conversation wound down, Adam glanced over at Pat, staring into space and twirling his fork in the remains of his breakfast.

“Pat?”  It took two mentions of his name to bring Pat back from his reveries.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking himself a little.  “Got lost a little there… What’d ya say?”

“I asked if you were planning to finish eating that or if you were just playing with it?” smiled his father.

Pat stared at him blankly for a moment, uncomprehending, then glanced down at his plate.  He chuckled sheepishly.  “Oh.  Nah, I guess I’m finished.”

Adam could see something was on his mind, but decided to talk to him about it later, without an audience.  “I need to go into Carson City today, so we’ll take a day off from schoolwork.  How does that sound?”

Pat’s eyes brightened.  “I ain’t complainin’,” he grinned.  “My head’s about to burst with muliplyin’ tables.”

“Multiplication tables.”

“Yeah, whatever.”  Pat drank down a swallow of his milk. “Are we still gonna be able to talk about that book I was readin’?  There’s a couple’a things that don’t make no sense to me.”

Adam stifled a smile.  Grammar was going to be a challenge, but he wanted to be sure Pat was solidly into reading words themselves before he started making major efforts to correct his speech.  Adam had a sense that much of his speech patterns were upbringing, too, and he wanted to tread very carefully, there.  The last thing he needed was for Pat to perceive in his father a bias against pure New Yorkese. 

“Sure.  I should be back from Carson early this afternoon.  We can do that after supper tonight, all right?”

“Yep.”  Pat drank down his milk and swiped a sleeve across his mouth, stopped by a stern glance from his father; sheepishly, he picked up his napkin.  “Sorry.”  He finished the job he started with the sleeve and leaned forward towards Joe. “What kinds’a things you do at these barn things?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“Well, it’s a dance, ya said.  What kind?”

“Well, how many different kinds are there?” asked Joe, sarcastically.

Pat gave him a smug look.  “Quite a few, Joe.”   The deliberate omission of the “uncle” irritated Joe, and he scowled at Pat. 

“Ah ah—“ warned Adam, not looking up stirring his coffee, but his meaning clear to his son.

“Sorry…Uncle Joe,” said Pat airily.  With a devilish grin and very deliberately, he adopted his father’s “expository” style, subjecting Joe to a schoolmasterly, if painfully ungrammatical, lecture on ethnic cultures and dancing.  

“In New York, there was these fancy balls uptown where they did waltzes and reels and polkas ‘n’stuff.  Then, there was the block parties where whole streets got closed off and they  was dancing in the streets.  What type o’ dancin’ depends on the neighborhood.  Where all the Italians got together, they did these really com… com…”  Pat frowned a moment trying to remember the word he wanted.  It was one his father had just taught him this week and it meant exactly what he wanted to say… Suddenly he brightened. “Complex, that’s it!  Complex folk dances.  Then, over in the Jewish part o’ town, only the men danced…some religious thing, I’m guessin’, since even at their churches the men and women ain’t even sittin’ in the same place.  Now, in my neck of the woods, in the Irish part o’ Hell’s Kitchen, there was jiggin’ contests.  In the – “

Hoss, Adam and Ben surreptitiously hid their grins as Joe’s face grew redder while his young nephew pointed out his ignorance.

“I get the picture, Professor Cartwright,” snapped Joe.

Pat smirked.  “So?  What kinda dancin’?” he repeated coolly, staring his uncle in the eye.

 “Well…dancin’, you know!”  sputtered Joe, turning to Adam for help, as Hoss guffawed at his younger brother’s obvious irritation.

“Usually it’s a square dance, Pat,” chuckled Adam, setting aside his napkin and sipping his coffee.

“A who?”

“A square dance.  Four couples form a square, called a ‘tip’.  There’s a caller who is up with the musicians literally calling the steps everyone dances to.  Usually, the dancing remains within the tip and can get pretty intricate sometimes.  With reels, it’s more of a line of eight to ten people, and again, the steps are often very intricate.  Then, there’s perhaps a couple of waltzes and two-steps thrown in.”

“Oh.” Pat sat there a moment thinking, then got to his feet.  “Well, I guess I better get out there and get that wood cut.  Hop Sing was askin’ after it this mornin’.  May I be excused?”  

Adam’s hand, holding his cup of coffee, stopped halfway to his mouth in shock as he stared at his son.  Then, recovering quickly, he replied, “Yes, you may,” pleasantly surprised.  Adam smiled as the boys sauntered off for his coat.  “May I”…  and he hadn’t even had to prompt him!

 

Out in the barn that afternoon, Hoss, Joe and Pat had been put to work cleaning and mending harness used on the drive.  Pat perched cross-legged on top of an old trunk, working with a rag wet with saddle soap used to scrub harness, while Joe stood in front of a post, with one end of his braided leather tied to the post and using the tension of pulling against it to precipitate a good tight braid.  Hoss was rubbing soap into the leather of the saddles.  In companionable silence the younger Cartwrights worked, with Pat occasionally looking up as though he wanted to ask something and then backing off before being noticed.  Finally, he figured the mood was right; he’d have to find this out or suffer for it on Saturday.

“Uncle Joe?” he asked quietly, careful to remember the title, since he wanted something out of him this time.

“Yeah?”

“Uh…about this square dancin’…” he mused, deliberately casual.  “It ain’t hard to learn, is it?”

Joe and Hoss glanced at each other, slow grins coming to their faces.  

Pat scowled.  “Hey, I just asked.  No need to start in,” he said crossly, unwinding his long legs and getting up to hang the piece of harness he’d just finished cleaning and reaching for another.

“Whoa, boy!  Nobody’s startin’ in,” protested Hoss, grinning as he rubbed harder on the saddle.

“No, it isn’t hard to learn,” reassured Joe.  “Why?”

Pat glanced at him, then rolled his eyes and ‘made a face’ in exasperation.  “So’s I can go back to New York and show ‘em how Virginia City high society paints the town,” he said sarcastically.  “Why do ya think, ya moron?”

Joe refused to be baited; in fact, he was enjoying that he was getting Pat’s goat a little.  “Just wonderin’…think there might be somebody there ya want to dance with?”

Pat blushed furiously and focused his attention on the harness. 

“How ‘bout that little gal you met up with at the stream t’other day?” asked Hoss, grinning.

Pat felt his cheeks flaming.  “Well…yeah,” he grudgingly admitted. 

“Who is she?” asked Joe, deciding to ease off a little.  He didn’t want another poke in the eye, after all. His kid nephew had a pretty impressive right cross…

“Her name’s Cassie, Cassie Yates,” said Pat, pulling hard on the leather thongs to make sure the leather cleaner had reached all the nooks and crannies.  “Her ma’s does sewin’, I think she said, lives just outside o’town.”

“Who’s her pa?”

“Died, back in St. Joe,” replied Pat, scrutinizing his work and nodding as if pleased with it.  “It’s just Cassie and her mother.”

“So, what you’ve been working so hard to avoid askin’,” said Joe dryly, “is that you want me to teach you how to dance?”’

“I know how to dance!” Pat said scornfully.  “I can waltz with the best of ‘em, and I can do a jig that’d make your eyes pop.  But… well, I never heard of nothin’ called square dancin’ before.”

Joe eyed his nephew, glanced at Hoss, and shrugged.  “Okay, let’s see what we got to work with here.”  He strode over to his nephew and hauled him to his feet.

For the next half hour, Joe and Hoss walked him through the most common of the square dance calls.

“Do si do, Pat, do si do!”

“I am ‘do si do’in’, all right?!”

“Allemande left, you dummy!  Your other left!!”

“Oh, for Chrissake, this is the stupidest – “

“Now, c’mon, squirt! Ain’t that little gal worth it?” 

Pat sank down onto a bench, his head in his hands.  “I am never gonna get this straight!” he moaned.  “I just can’t go, that’s all there is to it.”

Joe and Hoss looked at each other uneasily.  “Aw, c’mon Pat, it ain’t that hard, really, and once you get in there and get started, you’ll see what everybody else is doin’ an’ you’ll – “

“Make a jackass outta myself!” snapped Pat, lifting his head.

Helplessly, Joe and Hoss sort of shrugged and scuffed at the straw on the floor of the barn.

“Would you two idiots step aside, please?”

All three jerked their heads around and looked in surprise at the barn door.  Adam stood there, a superior smile on his face, leaning against the door casing.

“How long have you been there?” demanded Pat, flushing to the roots of his black hair.

“Long enough to see these two fools will never make dancing teachers,” said his father dryly.  He straightened up and walked into the barn.  “You two are going about this all wrong.”

“Oh, really?” returned Joe, snidely.

“Really,” answered his older brother, eyebrow raised.  He swung around to his son.  “It’s a math problem, Pat.  A simple math problem.”

Startled, Pat straightened up, staring at him.  “Right,” he sighed, doubtfully shaking his head.

And in five minutes, Adam mapped out the steps in the guise of a mathematics formula, drawing the patterns on the barn floor; suddenly, Pat could see the intricate steps in his mind, one following the other naturally.  Adam made Pat shadow his movements and put Joe to work as the “girl,” much to his dismay, but Pat quickly picked up the steps, and once he relaxed, found many of the movements easy and intuitive.  He still miss-stepped occasionally, but he had the idea.  By the end of half an hour, he was actually having fun and thought he just might be able to pull this off on Saturday.

“Boys.”

At the dry-as-the-desert tone of voice, all four slowly turned to the barn door, noting the raised eyebrow and sardonic look on Ben’s face as he stood there, feet planted wide, and arms crossed over the barrel chest.  “Are we going to get any work done today, or will Cartwright’s Dance Salon be open for the rest of the working day?”

Sheepishly, all four hastily got back to work.

 

Ben drove the buckboard, containing all the tools, while Adam, Hoss, Joe and Pat rode over to the Flemings’.   Chores had been done that morning in record time, and they were on their way by seven in the morning. 

Pat was excited.  This was the first time he’d ever been to something like this.  The city boy in him grinned with indulgent delight at the concept of all the neighbors getting together to build a barn and then proceed to get drunk and have a dance in it.  He tried to imagine what the equivalent would be in Hell’s Kitchen and the best he could come up with was building a small outhouse in which to hold a good Irish wake.

When they arrived, there were already several families there, and work had begun. The Devlins and the Marquettes were already there.  Mitch Devlin teamed up with his best friend, Joe; Cal Devlin, Ross Marquette and Adam worked together, and young Micah, a friendly, bright sandy-haired fourteen-year-old, walked up to Pat and stuck out a hand.  “I’m Mike Devlin; you must be Pat. Ya look too much like Adam to be anybody else.”

“Yeah, so I’m told,” nodded Pat, quietly, but shaking his hand.

The boy smiled and nodded, gesturing over to Joe and Mitch.  “My big brother, Mitch, and Little Joe have been friends forever.  Cal’s known yer Pa for donkey’s years, too.  It’s real nice t’meet ya.”

Pat was still nervously apprehensive, though he did his best to smile and not appear standoffish; his Ma always warned him that when he was meetin’ someone new his nerves always made him look more forbidding than a parish priest walkin’ into a brothel, and it would rub folks the wrong way.

“You ever done somethin’ like this before?”

“Nope.”

“Great!  Me neither!” grinned Mike.  Pat couldn’t help it; that grin was infectious and he, too smiled, shaking his head.

More than thirty families joined the group, and the construction of the wall frames went quickly.  Ben, George Devlin and Tom Fleming were job bosses, Ben handling the roof poles, George and Tom bossing the wall frame crews.  By midday, the frames were ready to haul up on ropes and nail into place.  They broke briefly for lunch, then the younger, more athletic men swarmed like monkeys over the frame, moving the roof poles into place and hammering on shingles.  Everything went smooth as silk, and by supper time, they were nearly ready to close off the roof.

Adam was careful to note the reactions of the rest of the crowd to Pat and himself.  He didn’t want a repeat of the nonsense in the churchyard, but thus far, nothing seemed to indicate that would be.  Pat was working well with young Micah Devlin, and the boys seemed to be enjoying themselves.  Adam would look over occasionally and see Pat’s face deeply set in concentration, listening to Mike’s suggestions on how to accomplish the job they’d been set to.  They joked and laughed together, and did a good job of their work.  It made Adam feel good to see Pat enjoying himself with someone around his own age; the boy’s isolation with adults had been bothering his father.

He himself had noted some very cool looks and cold shoulders, but he shrugged it off; he was a big boy, he could handle it.  Cal and Ross were the same as ever, and they had always worked well together.  Friends for nearly twenty years, he relaxed into an easy, companionable work mode with them and forgot his worries.

Everyone cheered as the last shingle was hammered into place and the barn stood.  Tom and Mary Fleming were so pleased; Mary was teary-eyed as she urged all the men out to dinner.

A picnic supper had been laid out, and luckily the weather had held.  It was cool, but not uncomfortably so, and everyone enjoyed their fried chicken, ham, biscuits, corn, tomatoes and an outstanding assortment of pies and cakes.  

At the picnic, Adam noticed that Pat was sitting with a group of youngsters, including the little girl he’d met in Virginia City…Cassie?  Was that her name?  Ross came over, and followed his gaze.

 “So, Daddy, how’s it goin’?” he asked with a grin.  Adam turned back to Ross, smiling.

 “Great, Ross,” he said honestly.  “I can’t say it’s been all champagne and bubbles, but I think it’s all going to work out.”

 “Well, he seems like a great kid,” said Ross seriously.  

 “He is, Ross,” said Adam, smiling.

They watched the group of youngsters laughing, Pat’s face alight with humor, his tousled hair shining blue-black in the late afternoon sun; and even at twenty-five feet, Ross could see the blue of his eyes.

 “What was she like, Adam?” he asked quietly.  Ross could remember Adam’s letters to him about Siobhan Riordan.  He remembered Adam enthusiastically writing him about how he planned to build his own house about three miles from the Ponderosa main house, and bring Siobhan home to it.  Then the letters stopped for awhile, and when they resumed, almost six months later, there was not another mention of her.  After Adam got back from college, he tried once to bring the girl up, but the pain in Adam’s eyes had stopped him.  Now, nearly fourteen years later, was the first time Ross mentioned it again.

Adam sighed, staring at his son.  “She was … she was amazing, Ross,” he said quietly.  “Like a human flame, full of passion and fire, yet tender and gentle, too.  She was bright, and funny, and talented.  And God, she was beautiful.”

 “He’s got her eyes?” Ross asked gently.

Adam nodded and turned back to his best friend.  “Ross, whenever I look at those eyes, I see her.”

Ross chuckled.  “Whenever I look at him, I see the same kid I used to get into major trouble with!  Hope he’s not a chip off the old block!”

Adam grinned.  “God help me!”

 

By the time supper was cleared, the men had changed out of their working clothes and the ladies out of their aprons and the dance got underway.  Pat hovered on the sidelines for a while, studying the dancing, and mentally mapping out the moves in his head.   His father was right, it was pretty much like a math problem, with each step representing a proper numeral in a formula.  

He kept glancing at Cassie, sitting across the new barn with her mother; once or twice, their eyes had met, and embarrassed he looked down immediately, flushing in confusion.  What was the matter with him?!  He’d never had trouble talking to girls in Hell’s Kitchen!  Once he’d figured out, at about age twelve, that girls were really all right, he’d been one of the few boys in his neighborhood to enjoy ‘em.  He’d stolen a few kisses on rooftops, and this past spring one older lady had nearly taught him everything he’d ever want to know about women, but his Irish conscience, terror of the unknown and an honest worry about what his mother would do to him had stopped him.  Why was he such a wreck about this girl?

While he studied the dirt floor after one occasion of meeting eyes, he felt a hand on his shoulder and looked up at his father in surprise.

“Having a good time?” Adam asked.

“Uh, yeah…sure.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he said, an eyebrow raised.  ‘I haven’t seen you out there on the floor yet.”

Pat blushed again and looked down, uncomfortably.  “I’m gonna!” he insisted, crossly.  “Don’t push me!”

“Okay, okay, don’t bite my head off,” his father said lightly.  Adam glanced across the room and grinned.  He glanced back at Little Joe, standing ready with a young lady, and Hoss beside him similarly outfitted.  The caller had just finished one dance and was preparing for another.  Adam smiled and nodded and Joe and Hoss grinned, talking earnestly to their ladies.  Adam looked down at his son.  “Hey, do you think Mrs. Yates would honor me with a dance?”

Pat’s head snapped up so hard Adam worried the kid had hurt his neck.

“What?!”

“Well, she’s sitting there all alone and I thought she might like to dance.  C’mon, you can ask Cassie and I’ll ask her mother,” he said, taking Pat’s arm and nearly dragging him across the barn.  In an agony of embarrassment, Pat swallowed hard as he was hauled up in front of the ladies in question, unable to meet Cassie’s eyes.

“Mrs. Yates, would you care to dance?” asked Adam, with a smile. 

 She looked up, surprised and a bit uncomfortable, glancing around the big barn as though looking for someone.  Then she exhaled and smiled.  “I would be most honored, Mr. Cartwright.”

Adam kept smiling at Mrs. Yates and elbowed Pat.

“Uh…” Pat licked his lips, nervously, “wanna dance, Cassie?”

“I’d love to, Pat!” the girl beamed, bouncing to her feet.

The four couples met in the center of the barn floor, Adam smiling at his younger brothers.  The caller began and Pat soon forgot his nervousness as he made it through most of the dance without incident.

Ben stood on the sidelines with Paul Marquette, sipping punch and watching his sons and grandson with an indulgent smile.

“I just can’t get over how much he looks like Adam, Ben,” sighed Paul, shaking his head as he sipped his own punch.  “Lookin’ at that boy makes me feel like it’s twenty years ago when Adam and Ross were running around together, getting into trouble.”

“I know, Paul.  It’s really uncanny.  He’s a lot like him in other ways, too.  Stubborn as a mule,” said Ben, with a smile and a sigh.

Paul chuckled.  Then he sobered a bit.  “Has Roy gotten anywhere with that investigation?”

Ben shook his head soberly.  “Not yet, Paul.”

The other man frowned and shook his head.  “Poor kid.  I hope Roy gets this sorted out pretty soon so’s the boy can settle in here.  It’s gotta be hard on Adam.”

Ben nodded. “It is, Paul, it sure is.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the wobbling arrival of a large, drunk man weaving his way to the punch bowl.  In distaste, both Ben and Paul stepped back allowing him room.  

“Excuse me, Carl,” said Ben dryly.

Carl Rhodes, a miner at the Lucky Stiff, glared at Ben and Paul.  “Outta my way, Cartwright!” he growled.  Ben shook his head and returned to his conversation with Paul.

The man ladled himself a cup of punch, liberally spilling it all over his sleeve and turned back to watch the dancing.

 

After the square dance finished, Pat was flushed with the exercise and having a great time.  He hadn’t stepped on Cassie’s foot once, and he’d messed up the steps only twice, neither time seriously breaking down the tip since either his father or one of his uncles shot out an arm and got him rapidly back on track.  As he heard the strains of the beautiful ballad, “Lorena,” coming down from the make-shift stage, he beamed and turned to Cassie.  Now, this he could do!

“Wanta do another, Cassie?” he asked, his confidence returned.  She smiled and put out her hand.  Adam stepped back a moment and watched in wonder as his son gracefully guided the young lady into the step patterns of a two-step.  Effortlessly, Pat led her through the smooth turns and circular movements of the dance, her eyes smiling and his own confident.

“Well, he said he could dance, didn’t he,” said Hoss, in admiration.  Joe was surprised, too, and decided he and his young lady would compete.  Hoss joined in, and Adam turned to Mrs. Yates.  “One more?” he smiled.  She nodded, laughing, and they took the floor.

 

Ben and Paul had gone back to their chatting and didn’t notice the change in Rhodes’ stance as he looked out onto the dance floor.  The music had changed to a waltz, and through his drunken haze he spotted something he obviously didn’t like.  Unnoticed by the men beside him, the man watched in mounting fury as Adam Cartwright danced Julie Yates around the floor.  It wasn’t until Rhodes threw his punch glass to the ground behind him in a fury, hitting Ben in the leg, that they looked up and saw him charging onto the dance floor, straight at Adam and Mrs. Yates.

Adam had just danced Mrs. Yates around and his back was facing Rhodes as the man charged him, landing his meaty powerful hands on Adam’s shoulder and wrenching him away from Julie, throwing him hard to the ground.  Several screams surfaced and the circle of dancers scattered.  

Pat and Cassie had been on the other side of the dance floor and couldn’t really see what was going on.  Pat turned and tried to see, interested, of course, in any fight; but as the crowd rapidly retreated, his eyes widened to see his father on the ground and a huge, obviously drunken man over him, legs placed wide apart.

“Keep your filthy hands off her, Cartwright!” Rhodes bellowed, his right hand gripping Julie Yates’ arm painfully.

“Carl, please!” she begged.

“You stay outta this!” he roared, and turned back to Adam, who had recovered and was on his feet, his hair mussed and his eyes on fire.

“Aw, shit,” Pat muttered under his breath, moving in.  He was met in the middle by his uncles.

“Back off, Carl,” his father was warning.  

“Pat, just let your pa handle this,” insisted Hoss, a firm hand latched on Pat’s shoulder.  

“Listen, you stinkin’ trash, you touch her again and I’ll kill you!” roared Rhodes, wobbling a little.

“Carl, it was just a dance!” insisted Mrs. Yates, now rubbing the arm Rhodes had released.  Cassie had hurried to her side and was staring at Rhodes and back at Pat’s father.

“And you better watch who your little girl dances with, Julie!” he roared, wheeling on the woman.  “Don’t you care she’s out there bein’ pawed over by a – “

“Don’t say it, Rhodes,” warned Adam, his voice tight and his eyes ice cold.

Pat’s eyes narrowed and shook off Hoss’ grip to walk up beside his father.

“Don’t say what?” leered Rhodes.  “Bastard!  That’s the word!  That’s what he is!”

Pat was shocked as his father’s fist shot out and clipped the drunk hard on the chin, knocking him to the dirt floor.   Pat was about to join in, when he was roughly shoved aside by someone charging up from the back of the crowd, pushing him off balance and tottering him into Joe.

“That’s enough!” bellowed Ben Cartwright, one strong hand against his son’s chest, pushing him back, and facing Rhodes, a finger pointing at him.  “There’ll be no drunken brawling here, Rhodes!”

“It weren’t me, Cartwright!” sneered Rhodes, getting unsteadily to his feet.  “In case you didn’t notice, it was your bed-hopping boy over there…”

Adam saw red and lunged.  “Adam!  I said that’s enough!”  Ben roughly shoved him back, tottering him almost off his feet.  He pointed a finger at him.  “Cool off!” warned Ben.  He glanced at Hoss and Joe.  “Take your brother outside and see that he calms down,” he said sternly, his hard stare at his oldest son brooking no nonsense.

“I’m not going to stand here-” began Adam in a furiously quiet voice.

“That’s right, you’re not.  Outside, now!” ordered his father.  Their eyes locked for a moment, then Adam, flushed with anger, looked down and stalked off with Hoss and Joe behind him.

Pat watched him go and turned his wary eyes again on the drunk.  Then he looked at Cassie and her mother, and saw Mrs. Yates was shaking her head, in tears; Cassie just looked scared.

Rhodes glared blearily down at the boy.  “You keep your stinkin’, filthy hands off her, you hear?  And you tell your rotten father to do the same.”

Pat’s eyes narrowed, and his shoulders squared.  “Take a look at yourself, buddy,” he retorted, his deep voice cold.  “Pretty easy to tell which one of you two looks like stinkin’ filth!”

“Patrick!” warned his grandfather.

But Pat ignored Ben, raising his head proudly and glaring at the drunk.  “My old man didn’t come in here reekin’ o’ booze and breakin’ up the place,” continued Pat, his legs apart and his hands clenched at his sides, “you did!  It’s pretty obvious to me and everyone here who’s the better man!”

Faster than Pat would have thought possible under the circumstances, the man lunged for him.  But the boy neatly sidestepped him, keeping his hands to himself, and watched the big man fall on his face on the dirt floor.  With a wail of misery, Mrs. Yates grabbed Cassie and ran for the barn door.  Pat was ready, fists cocked, for the next attack, but several other men grabbed Rhodes by that point, and then Ben had a firm grip on his grandson’s arm.

“You Cartwrights think you own everything you see, even women!” spat Rhodes.

“Time to go home and sleep it off, Carl,” warned one of the men hanging on to him.  Rhodes shook himself free, too drunk to really want to continue.

“You tell that son of yours to stay away from Julie Yates, Cartwright,” hissed Rhodes.

“My son is a grown man, Rhodes,” said Ben ominously.  “As Mrs. Yates is a grown woman.  She can dance with whom she pleases.  I wasn’t aware you had any claim on her, or her daughter.”

They stared at each other for a moment, then Rhodes leaned down and picked up his hat.  Glaring at Pat, then at Ben, he shouldered his way through the crowd and out.  Ben relaxed a moment, then turned on his grandson.  “Young man, when I tell you to back off, I mean back off!” he scolded.  Pat stubbornly glared at the ground but nodded.

Joe came back in at that point, walking over to his father.  “Hoss and Adam headed for home,” he sighed.  

“Good.  I’m going to have a word or two to say to that oldest brother of yours,” nodded Ben grimly.  “We’d better gather our things and go ahead ourselves.”  

Joe nodded.  “C’mon, Pat, let’s go get the tools into the buckboard.”

Ben watched them go as the others at the dance milled around.  It appeared the dance was over, unfortunately.  Ben was uncomfortably surprised to note a certain amount of hostility aimed at him.

“Pity we can’t get together in this town anymore without an argument or a fight,” said one man, pointedly.  Ben’s eyes snapped up at him.

“Yes,” he said coldly.  “Isn’t it!”

And with that, Ben stalked out of the barn.

 

~-oo0oo-~

Author’s Note:  Simply because I wanted Adam to have an old friend with whom he’d have written while at college and involved with Siobhan, I made the decision to ignore canon provided by the episode “The Dark Gate,” Season 2: Episode 24, with the incomparable James Coburn as Ross Marquette.  I hope folks are able to enjoy a willing suspension of disbelief accordingly.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

later that same evening

It had been a silent ride home for Little Joe, Pat and Ben.  Pat would steal glances at his grandfather in the buckboard periodically and worry about how angry he looked.  He and Joe dropped back a bit with their horses. 

“Boy, he sure is mad,” whispered Pat, uneasily.  “I can almost see the steam comin’ outta his ears!”

“Yeah, Adam’s really gonna catch it this time,” sighed Joe.  A few years ago that would be have been a cause for a wicked grin on Joe’s part; it seemed to him Adam never got into trouble with Pa.  Now he just felt badly for his older brother, since he had considered taking the same action against Rhodes himself.

“Yer kidding!” whispered Pat, aghast.  The concept of his father taking a dressing-down was more than a little unnerving.

Joe glanced at his nephew and grinned. “Trust me, if Pa sees fit to yell, he yells.  Doesn’t matter if it’s Adam or Hoss, me or you.”

They arrived in the yard and saw a light on in the barn.  Hoss was in there finishing putting up Chub and Sport for the night.

“So, he couldn’t even be bothered to take care of his own mount?!” demanded Ben, glowering, his hands on his hips.

“Now, Pa, that ain’t it at all,” said Hoss uneasily.  “It’s just he was real upset, so I told him I’d handle it.”

Ben harrumphed and stalked toward the door. When he reached it, he stopped and turned back to his sons and grandson.  “Joe, you and Pat unload the buckboard and then help Hoss put the horses up.”  And with that he continued into the house.

His eyes wide, Pat looked at his uncles for a read on the situation.  Joe and Hoss were exchanging troubled looks as they sighed and got to work.   “C’mon, squirt, let’s get the buckboard unloaded,” sighed Hoss. “It appears Pa wants some time alone with Adam.”

 

Ben opened the front door, standing there for a moment looking around the large great room.  Adam was standing in front of the fireplace, weight primarily on his left leg and his arms crossed over his chest, staring into the flames.  Setting his mouth, Ben hung up his hat and coat, and unbuckled his gunbelt, setting it on the sideboard.  Adam hadn’t moved.  Drawing in a deep breath, Ben walked around the settee and chairs and stood beside his oldest son.

“Well?” he demanded.

Adam slowly turned and looked at his father; Ben could see that the anger was still there, though under a bit more control.

“Well, what?” asked Adam, coldly.

‘You have anything to say for turning that dance into a riot?”

Adam, annoyed, turned away.  “Oh, Pa, please…”

 

Pat hauled the food baskets into the kitchen through the back door and set them on the table.  He heard the loud voices arguing in the living room, and despite knowing that it was bad manners to eavesdrop, he tiptoed to the entrance to the dining room and listened.

 

“I’m not a child, Pa!”

“No, but less than two weeks ago you punished a child pretty severely for exhibiting the same kind of behavior!  Unfortunately, you’re a little too big for a tanning or to be confined to the ranch!  Don’t think I didn’t consider it!” snapped Ben.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Well, then, young man, how do you justify your performance tonight?”

“It wasn’t the same thing at all!” retorted Adam

“Oh?  Just how was it different, hm?” demanded Ben.  “Patrick got himself into a fistfight over some name-calling.  You got into a fistfight over some name-calling.  Have I missed something, here?”

“I wasn’t about to stand there and let a fool like Rhodes decimate my son!” shouted Adam. 

 

Pat had no idea what the word ‘decimate’ meant but the context was clear.  He sighed and hung his head.  Ain’t this never gonna end?  It seemed like since birth, his status had been a cause of pain… for himself, for his mother, and now for his father.  

 

Adam was hanging onto his temper by a thin thread.  “Good night,” he bit out, nearly pushing past his father, but Ben grabbed his arm and held him fast.  When he tried to pull free, his father just gripped him harder, making him wince.

“Adam, it’s not just you, now!” Ben declared firmly.  “You’ve got to realize that every move you make, every word you say, is an example to that boy!  You’re the one he looks up to!”

Adam seethed, unwilling to meet his father’s eyes.

“You’re telling him not to behave in a certain way, enforcing it with discipline, and then you turn around and do the same thing!  You’re confusing the boy!” shouted Ben.

Adam lifted his eyes at that one and glared at his father.  “Pa, I don’t want to be rude, but – “

“And by the way,” interrupted Ben coldly, “your young son managed to display far more self-control than you did!  And defended you, to boot!”

“Defended me?!”

“That’s right,” nodded Ben emphatically.  “Never cocked a fist but managed to rip Rhodes apart with that smart mouth he inherited from you. So, you can at least be pleased he learned his lesson, even if you didn’t!”  

Ben released his arm, then, and without another word, Adam stalked to the stairs, stomping his way up.  Ben sighed as he heard Adam’s bedroom door slam shut. 

 

Troubled, Pat slowly walked back to the barn.  Joe and Hoss were just finishing untacking the animals, and trying to decide when it would be safe to go in. 

“It’s okay,” said Pat quietly, “the fireworks are over.”

Joe glanced at his older brother.  “Adam okay?”

“No, he’s not,” said Pat worriedly.  “Granddad was pretty rough on him.”

Hoss came around to his nephew and put a reassuring arm around his shoulders.  “It’s gonna be all right, Pat.  Adam’ll cool off.  Trust me, he and Pa have had these go-’rounds before, and they’ve survived.”

“I never seen him like that, Uncle Hoss,” said Pat, sadly.  He’d seen his father angry, he’d seen him devilish with mischief. He’d seen him pensive and thoughtful after reading something that made him think, and preoccupied when puzzling out a contract for the ranch.  But Pat had never seen him… hurt?  Was that it?  Pat couldn’t settle it in his mind, and that worried him. “You think I should go talk to him?”

“I dunno, squirt,” said Hoss shaking his head, and glancing at Joe.  “Most times, ol’ Adam wants to be alone when he’s in a mood like this.”

“Give him some time, Pat,” suggested Joe, handing him a brush.  “Let’s put the horses up.  By the time we’re done, it’s likely both he and Pa will have calmed down.”

Sighing, Pat accepted the brush and set to work brushing down Blackie, feeling thoughtful and wondering what, if anything, he could say to his father…

 

Adam lay on his back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, the lamp on his desk turned low.  It had taken awhile, but he had now calmed down enough to feel guilty and upset with himself.  It had been a long time since Pa had felt it necessary to give him that severe a talking to.  He managed a small smile.  Sure set a good example for my son, haven’t I?

When a quiet knock came at his door, he sighed again.  Apparently Pa hadn’t finished yelling at him yet.  “Come in,” he said quietly in resignation.

To his surprise, Pat sauntered into the room, a cocky grin on his face.  “You cooled off yet, or should I wait another day or two?” he asked sardonically.

Adam sighed and closed his eyes.  “Yeah, I’m all right.”

“Good, ‘cos I just got two things to say to you.”  Pat stood over him, and Adam opened his eyes again and looked at him, questioning.  ” ‘Next time, learn to control your temper,” he said with a grin, “and check the odds before you start swinging.'”

Surprised, Adam stared at him, then started to laugh.  Pat grinned and sat down on the bed beside him, bring his long legs up and sitting cross-legged.  “Granddad’s royally hot at you, ain’ he?”

“Yeah.”  Adam laced his fingers behind his head.  “I’m pretty hot at me, too.”  He eyed the boots meaningfully, then raised an eyebrow at his boy.

Pat flushed a little, but grinned and simply pulled the boots off, set them on the floor, and once again wrapped his long legs under himself.  Adam chuckled, shook his head and lay back, drawing in a deep, sad breath.

Pat studied him a moment, frowning, trying to think of what he could say.  It bothered him, bothered him a lot, that all of this … his dad’s argument with Granddad, and the breakup of what had been a fun gathering… all of his had been because of him.  Oh, he knew it wasn’t his fault Carl Rhodes was a drunken eejit, nor was it his fault that Adam Cartwright turned out to have as short a fuse on certain subjects as his Uncle Joe… or he, Pat, himself.  But the weight of responsibility for the situation overall rested heavy on the boy’s shoulders, and he felt determined to try to fix what he could.

“Look, Dad,” said Pat, exhaling, and fiddling with a hole starting in the toe of one sock, “you gotta stop letting this bastard thing bother you so much.”  When he was met with silence, he glanced up at his father.  “Really, it ain’t worth it.  Beatin’ the crap outta whoever says the word isn’t going to change the situation a bit.”

Adam studied his son.  “Your mother and I really let you in on a wonderful life didn’t we?” he asked grimly, closing his eyes.  “I’m sorry, Pat.  I wish things could have been different.”

“But they aren’t,” the youngster said seriously, and something in his tone made Adam study him.  It wasn’t anger, it was absolute rationality.  “Ma used to tell me that I deserved better, too.  Well, I seen a lot o’ things in Hell’s Kitchen.  Including some animals that the law called ‘fathers.’  Now, in my humble opinion, some of ’em were a hell of a lot worse bastards than I was.” 

 Adam smiled sadly and looked back at the ceiling, as Pat continued.  

“When it come t’fathers, , I got lucky.  I had Ray, and I had Tom…and I got you.”  

Adam looked back at his son, finding his throat closing a little and his eyes burning.  

” I guess what I mean is … well,  it just don’t matter what some eejit calls me.  I know what I am.”  Pat drew in a deep breath and the fiercely independent way he unconsciously squared his shoulders almost broke Adam’s heart.  “Life deals ya a hand.  Sometimes it’s pat, sometimes it ain’t.  You gotta play the best ya can with what ya got.  Me, I’m one hell of a poker player.  So don’t worry you about me.  I’ll be okay.”

In silence, Adam stared at him, then sat up.  He put out a hand to his son’s shoulder.  “I hope you know how proud of you I am,” he said brokenly. 

Pat blinked a couple of time and flashed his cocky grin, albeit a trifle damp.  “You oughta be!” he countered.  

Adam ruffled his hair then abruptly gathered him into his arms, giving him a hug.   And he was gratified to feel the intensity with which it was returned.

“Just do me a favor, okay?  I don’t wanna be an orphan, so don’t get into any more fights.”  Pat sniffed a little, pushing himself back upright and managing a small grin.  “I was kinda worried Granddad was gonna kill ya.” 

Adam gazed at the boy and remembered something.  “Hey, you.  Pa said you defended me in there.  Thanks.”

Pat blushed, caught.  He honestly hadn’t known why he had stood there in the middle of this crowd of people and did that, and the confusing waterfall of thoughts and feelings that little tirade of his had brought on during the ride home had surprised him.  It was another thing that was gonna take some ponderin’.  Pat got to his feet and walked to the door, then turned back to his father.

“Yeah…well…. Let’s not make it a habit,” he said gruffly, and left the room, leaving his father with a sad smile on his face.

 

The next day found Pat hunkered down inside his suit jacket, shivering a little in the cold dampness of the church, letting the soothing sound of the rain pelting the building’s roof lull him into a kind of semi-alert doze.  He’d seen his grandfather nudge Uncle Hoss more’n once for starting to snore through the Reverend’s sermon (for which the boy had great sympathy, if he was honest… that man could put a colicky baby to sleep with his drone…), and didn’t want to have that attention come his way.

Pat daydreamed about how at one time his father had said they’d find out when Mass was held at St. Mary’s in the Mountains, just down the street from Jenkins Mercantile… a beautiful church with a big white bell tower.  But since Patrick’s churchyard scuffle and the nastiness that had ensued, Adam hadn’t been to church of a Sunday with the family at all, much to Granddad’s chagrin.

Everyone in the building was startled when a sudden gust of wind blew open the church doors, and all the congregation turned.  Tommy Sanders was sitting in the back row with his family, and his father nudged him to go shut them again.  Once Tommy rose (visibly annoyed at his father’s request) and did as he was bid with bad grace, everyone once again turned back around, striving to pay attention to the clergyman at the pulpit.

After what had felt like hours, the last song was sung, the last prayer uttered, and everyone began to file toward the cloakroom near the backdoor.

Frowning in annoyance, Pat hurried to the hooks where ladies hung their damp cloaks, and men their hats and gunbelts before entering the sanctuary, seeing his beloved hat half-flattened on the floor.  It even looked like somebody had stepped on it!

“I must have blown off the hook when that gust of wind came through,” observed Ben, reaching for his own hat and gunbelt.  

“But…” Pat sadly looked at his battered hat.  “Look!  There’s one… no, three o’ the studs missin’!”  he showed his grandfather angrily.  “And it looks like he-”

“Don’t,” warned Ben.

“… heck,” the boy finished, pouting.

Ben fought to keep the smile off his face.  “Hop Sing will be able to brush it and spruce it up, you’ll see.  You’ll never notice the difference.”

“But what about the studs?” demanded Patrick as they headed out the door, Joe and Hoss following, talking together.

“I don’t’ know, but we’ll figure something out,” reassured his grandfather.  “In the meantime, put that hat on.  Three missing silver pieces aren’t going to stop that hat from keeping you dry on the way home.  C’mon, now, let’s get going.”

 

Things calmed down for a few days after the barn raising and all of the Cartwrights got to work readying the ranch for winter. They worked at getting salt licks out to the pastures; making sure winter snow fencing was in place; doing the final haying and laying in the storage for the cold months; stocking the line shacks with supplies.  There were many long hours put in those crisp days of October.  Pat found himself getting up at dawn, working hard all day after doing his lessons, dragging himself home to supper and falling into bed exhausted at night, but happier than he’d been in years.  The only dark moments came either when nightmares of that horrible day in July would crowd his dreams, or the days when the image of his mother filled his mind and found himself feeling crushed with sudden grief.  Those didn’t happen as often as they used to but happened enough.  He missed her.  He missed their talks, he missed her humor, how she could make him laugh.  He missed talking about Ireland.  He just plain missed his mother.

Getting used to the quiet and open spaces had been difficult at first for the city-bred boy, used to looking over his shoulder at the least unexpected or out-of-the-ordinary sound, but he acclimated quickly to his new environment, and found himself loving it.  He obeyed his father and stayed away from lone trips to Virginia City, instead riding to the Devlin’s to visit with Mike, going for long rides by the stream and up to the lake, and traveled to town only with his father, grandfather or one of his uncles.

He also found time to meet Cassie in the fields when she was able to get away from helping her mother with the dressmaking that kept them afloat.  Cassie worked hard, stitching button holes, basting and the easier preliminary work that made the finished work go more quickly.   Pat found himself drawn to her openness and friendliness, and her easy, open nature allowed him to share with her many of his quietest thoughts and feelings.  The loss of her father and his mother gave them common ground, and allowed both to help each other over the hurdles of facing life without a parent. 

After a few meetings, Pat tentatively broached the subject of Carl Rhodes.  “I guess I’m kinda wonderin’ why your Ma would want to have someone like that around,” he said gently.  “He’s a pretty violent guy.”

“Only when he’s drinking!” she assured him, though clearly uneasy.  For the first time in their conversations, Pat found a subject other than her father that Cassie wasn’t comfortable talking about.  And it reminded Pat about some of the other odd ways Cassie referred to her father, or didn’t refer to him at all.  Pat had spent nearly fourteen years in Hell’s Kitchen, five of them working in a saloon.  As a consequence, he’d learned much in his short life about men, particularly men who drink to excess, and he worried about what usually happened to the people around them; in this case, what it could mean for Cassie and her mother.

Old memories from the Kitchen nudged at him, reminding him of similar conversations with friends.  He remembered Dermot O’Hara, a boy a bit older than himself, who worked like a navvy to make sure his mother and three younger sisters had food on the table and a roof over their heads while his drunk of a father made little to no contribution a’tall.  And little Jenny MacNamara, a sweet girl who lived in the same tenement Pat and his mother did, who had learned the enviable trick of literally fading into the background when her father became violent and beat her mother and older brother.

Pat began to wonder just what exactly had killed Mr. Yates, and just what exactly he’d done to his wife and daughter.

“Does your mother like the guy?” he asked seriously, as he and Cassie walked along the stream, Pat walking along with Blackie following.

Cassie shrugged uncomfortably.  “I don’t know, Pat.”  She looked down as she walked.

“Look, Cassie, maybe I’m outta line, but I gotta tell ya, I seen guys like him before.  I dunno if you really oughta—”  Pat started.

“Pat, don’t!” she said, holding up her hand.  Her eyes were sad.  “Ma’s gonna do what she wants, and I don’t think it’ll matter what I say.  When he’s sober, Carl’s real nice to us.  Ma just figures she’s doin’ something wrong and that his drinkin’ is her fault.”

“Oh, man….” sighed Pat, shaking his head.  This was worse than he’d thought.  “Cass, don’t you see that that’s just what he wants her to believe?  Somewhere along the line he figured out she was somebody who would take the blame on herself for his behavior!  Drunks are like that.”

“You don’t know him, Pat!” she said hotly, turning away.  “He’s real nice…”

“When he’s sober,” he finished off for her dryly.  She stopped walking abruptly, and looked at him.

“If Carl’s all you’re gonna talk about, then I think I’d better go home,” she said, her voice trembling.

Sighing, he shrugged. “Okay, Cassie, I won’t push ya.  But…please, be careful?”

She couldn’t meet his eyes, but nodded.  They walked on along the stream in silence.  Though he didn’t say it, Pat decided that it was time for someone to keep a close eye on the Yates household.  He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to manage it, but manage it he would. Cassie was one of the few friends he had… he wasn’t going to let anything happen to her if he was able in any way to protect her.

 

“Adam!”

Adam was heading toward the barn, hunched in his coat to keep the wind from whistling around his neck and down his back, and turned back to see his father trotting toward him, holding the small leather folio they used for the ranch’s bank transactions.

“Yes, Pa?”

“Any chance you might be able to get into the bank to get this deposited today?”

Adam exhaled with frustration.  “Pa, why can’t Joe take care of that?”

Ben inhaled carefully, choosing his words.  “Because… well, because he’s not around and you are.”

Angrily, Adam shook his head. “Pa, what exactly is going on with him?!”

“What do you mean?” asked Ben, careful to keep his voice neutral.

“He’s never around when he’s needed!” barked his oldest son, angrily.  “Oh, he gets the work done that he’s assigned, but if anything comes up, he’s like dust in the wind!  When is he going to learn some responsibility?”

Ben struggled to keep a grin off his face and studied the grain of the leather folio in his hand. “Adam… when you first got back from college, and you were twenty-three… just how ‘accessible’ were you?” he asked innocently.  

Adam flushed a little as he remembered that first year of freedom after the heavy responsibilities of working hard to finish his degree, placing in the top three of his class.  Like Joe, he’d done his work, but blew off a lot of steam with Ross Marquette and Cal Devlin, raising hell in the rapidly growing mining town of Virginia City, or the newly-minted Carson City, formerly a trading post known as Eagle Station.

Ben smiled at him, hoping fervently he’d deflected Adam’s sharp mind from trying to suss out what Joe was up to.  “He’s young, Adam, just like you were.  As long as he’s getting his work done, I’m content to let him safely sow a few wild oats.”

Adam shook his head and exhaled in exasperation. “Well, he’s your son, not mine.  And speaking of mine…. PAT!”

Ben grinned.

“I’m going to head out with Pat to check that last stretch of snow fencing.  We’ll be back by suppertime.  All right?”

Ben nodded.  “All right.  And thanks for making the deposit for me, I appreciate it.!”

“Will do.  Patrick!  Let’s go!”

Pat hurried out, buttoning his coat and carrying the saddlebags holding lunch Hop Sing had prepared for himself and his father.  “Sorry, Hop Sing was tellin’ me about something,” he said with a naughty grin on his face.  

Both Ben and Adam glanced at him, then at each other. “What something might that be?” asked Adam, curiously.

“Oh, just something about you takin’ off with a girl and leavin’ Uncle Hoss to babysit Uncle Joe and him endin’ up in a duck pond,” grinned Pat, taking off for the barn.  “I’ll saddle the horses!”

Adam groaned. Two reminders in one five-minute stretch that Joe and he weren’t that much different.   “I see I’m going to need to have a little chat with Hop Sing…”

Ben chuckled.  “I challenge you to keep those two from talking.  After all, Hop Sing can tell him all about you in Chinese and you wouldn’t have a clue!  Not to mention the fact that when your son is determined to do something, it’s pretty hard to deter him.”

Ben laughed and clapped his son on the shoulder, while Adam merely looked worriedly out at the retreating figure of his son.

 

The ride together was quiet and the silence that accompanied it was uneasy.  Adam wanted to talk seriously with Pat about something and was surprised to note the amount of discomfort he was feeling.  Good Lord, but this was ridiculous.

Adam gazed over at his son in wonder, this handsome, cocky youngster who was two steps away from being a man.  And he thought again, for perhaps the three hundredth time, about the way he had looked at that young girl dancing in his arms at the barn dance.  Adam steeled his resolve and drew in a deep breath.

“So, it looked like you and Cassie had a good time the other evening.”

Startled, Pat’s eyes came off the fencing he was studying for defects and swung around on his father.  Bemused, he nodded.  “Yeah, we did.”   

“Have you seen her since?”

Pat blushed a little.  “Couple’a times…why?”

“No special reason.”

Yeah, right, thought Pat, in mild disbelief.  Buddy, you don’t do or say nothin’ without a special reason!  I’ve never known anybody more calculatin’ in all my life!

It was quiet again for a moment, then Adam was grateful to see a stretch of fencing that needed some refitting, with a pile of replacement rails beside it.  He gestured to it and he and Pat drew up their horses and swung down the tool belts and nails.

While hammering and refitting, Adam went over his thoughts in his mind.  Pat noticed his preoccupation and left him alone but grew increasingly uneasy. What the hell’s on his mind, anyhow?

“Pat, you’re going to be fourteen years old in a few weeks,” began Adam, his voice a little quiet.  “I think it’s time we had a little talk.” 

Pat paused in his hammering and looked up at his father.  “Yeah?”

“It’s obvious that you’ve grown up enough to discover that young ladies are something a little more pleasant than you might have thought before…” said Adam, studiously examining the last nail he drove in.

Pat, surprised, stared at him for a moment, then a small smile touched the corners of his mouth.  Inside, he was roaring with laughter!  Now I know what this is all about! he crowed to himself.  Oh, Jaysus…

“Yeah, girls are all right,” he said in a very normal voice.  His evil sense of humor decided to have as much fun with this ridiculous situation as possible.  “Don’t know what changed my mind though,” he said thoughtfully, holding the hammer in his hand.  “I mean, just a couple years ago I thought most girls was pretty useless…”

Adam shifted his feet and sighed.  This was worse than he thought.  “Well, there are things happening to you that makes your…well, your reactions…a little different.”

“What kinda things?” asked Pat innocently.  It was a good thing his father couldn’t manage to meet his son’s eyes, or he’d have seen the evil laughter in those blue beacons.

Uncomfortably, Adam hammered in a nail to gather his thoughts.  “When you started noticing girls were okay, did you notice other things about yourself changing?”

“Like what?”

Aw, c’mon, God, help me out here, would you please?!  Adam groaned to himself.  “Like, getting taller, and your voice getting a little deeper, other …um… body changes…things like that.”

“Well, jeez, I been gettin’ taller all my life…” said Pat slowly, feigning thoughtfulness.  “What other things?”

“The way you feel about things, for one thing.”

“Huh?”

In mounting discomfort, Adam hit a nail he’d already pounded below the wood line a bit harder.

“Pat, when a boy starts maturing, starts growing up, his mind tells him so, and his body, too,” said Adam quietly.  “As you get older you’ll start to notice your body…changing…”

“Y’mean, like I’ll start havin’ t’shave?” asked Pat.  I really oughta let him off the hook soon, but this is way too much fun…

“Well, that’s one manifestation, yes,” said Adam, beginning to blush to the tips of his ears.  “Others will come along, too.  Your shoulders will get a bit broader, you’ll start noticing hair on your upper lip and chin, and.. .and….”

Pat eyed him innocently.  “…And…?” he encouraged.

Adam shook his head, frustrated.  “Well, we can talk about that later.  The important thing is that your feelings are going to be changing, too.  You’re going to start feeling differently about girls.”

“But I already do.”

“So how do you feel?” pounced Adam.

Pat glanced up at him, and grinned.  “They’re pretty special.”

Apprehensively, Adam took the plunge.  “I can only go on my own experience, here, Pat.  I know that when I was about your age, I started feeling very differently.  Inside.  The way I looked at girls changed…I started noticing things like perfume…the way they wore their hair…the clothes they wore…the way they looked at me.  Those things suddenly started to matter.”

Pat looked at him thoughtfully.  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said quietly, thinking seriously about his father’s words.  Cassie’s white-blonde hair had been haunting him now for weeks, and the way her green eyes snapped when she laughed. 

Adam felt like a desperate drowning man suddenly thrown a lifeline.  “So, you’re beginning to notice things like that?”

Pat nodded, getting his shoulder under another rail, and hammering it into place.  

“You’ll also start to notice your temper’ll get a bit shorter,” his father said slowly, “and there’ll be … uh…. urges you’ll start to experience.”

Pat was grateful he was turned away; he couldn’t help silently chuckling.  “Urges?”

“Pat, look,” said Adam finally, blushing to the tips of his ears. “This is hard for me talk about.”

“Why?”  grinned Pat suddenly, driving a final nail into the rail he was stabilizing, and turning around.  “I’m livin’ proof you know all the moves.”

Startled, Adam whirled around and stared at his son, leaning against the fence upright, and grinning from ear to ear.  “Why, you little – “

“C’mon Dad!” laughed Pat, shaking his head and straightening up, “what d’ya take me for?!  I couldn’t let a chance like that go by!”  He tossed his father a bag of long nails, which Adam caught awkwardly.  “Let me cut this short, ‘kay?  I’m beyond the point of wonderin’, believe me.  I know exactly how it feels to kiss a girl, and short of actually doin’ the deed, I know exactly how it feels to…. Let’s see, how do I say this?” he mused, staring into space.  “Well, the Church calls it ‘consummatin’ ‘.”

“What do you mean?!” demanded Adam, alarmed.  “You’re only thirteen!”

“Well, jeez, you’re the one who told me I was…uh…what was it you said…. oh, yeah.  Precocious.”  Pat cocked an eyebrow and grinned. 

Adam’s eyes narrowed.  “You little…you let me go on and on like this and all the time you… you…!” he sputtered.

Pat laughed merrily, getting back to work.

Adam shook his head and sighed.  “Pat, wait a minute.  I want you to look at me.” 

Caught by the serious tone in his father’s voice, Pat stopped and turned around.  

“You’ve said that you haven’t completely discovered women, is that correct?”

Pat blushed a little and looked down.  “Yeah,” he nodded.  “I had the chance to find out this past spring, but… well….”

Adam waited patiently.

Pat sighed again, giving his father a wry smile.  “Let’s just say Ma was real good at makin’ sure I had a conscience.”  His brow wrinkled a little as he sought the words he wanted to explain how he’d felt. 

Becky was one of the chippies that worked the upper floors of the ‘Witches Broth,’ the youngest of the group, maybe a year or two older than Pat himself.  And one rainy afternoon in April, she’d innocently asked Patrick to come upstairs to help her with moving a heavy trunk.  It became obvious within minutes that Becky was looking for some enjoyable diversion on a boring day rather than the brute strength needed to shift a heavy trunk.

Siobhan had forbidden the boy to place so much as toe on the floor where the prostitutes worked, threatening to skin him alive if he disobeyed her.  But Ma was in with the Fenians, it was pourin’ rain and nobody was downstairs in the bar, an’… well, and there was Becky in her pink ribbon-trimmed corset, and lookin’ so… so…

“It was … fun, and it felt…well, it felt good, but Ma’s face kept swimmin’ in front of my eyes, and I kept thinkin’ about what she’d do to me if she found out.  I guess I just wasn’t ready.”  He flushed deeply, then turned away and picked up the other satchel of nails.  “So, you can relax.”

Yeah, sure, sighed Adam.  Relax!  The boy had to be kidding!  “Did you and your mother talk about it?”

Pat swung on him in shock.  “Is it daft y’are?!” he exclaimed.  “It ain’t exactly somethin’ you’d talk to your ma about, would ya?!”

Adam felt a sharp ache at that one.  Pat was right.  It was something you’d talk about to your father…and he hadn’t been there.  “Do you want to talk about it now?” he asked gently.  “It must have been a bit confusing for you.  I know it was for me, the first time.”

Suddenly the tables were turned, and Pat was the one feeling uncomfortable.  He was quiet a moment, thinking. As always, instead of answering, the boy countered with a question of his own. “How old were you?” he asked quietly.

“Older than you,” said Adam dryly.

Pat nodded, with a small smile.  “Confusing?  Yeah.  I’d never felt anything like that before. I thought it was somethin’ I wanted more than anythin’ in the world, but I was scared, too.  I dunno…it was more than I wanted to deal with at the time, I guess.”  

Adam nodded.  He hesitated a moment, then decided there was no time like the present to make it clear to his son that he was willing to talk about anything with him.  Anything.  Including the circumstances of the boy’s own existence. 

“Pat…” he said quietly, turning to him and leaning on the rail.  “You’re old enough now to start thinking about consequences.”

Pat’s brow wrinkled and he glanced at his father. He, too, stopped working and leaned against the fence himself, looking up at his dad.  “I just said I did… I toldja I thought about what Ma would do t’me,” he protested.

Adam smiled.  “I wasn’t referring to protecting your own hide,” he said gently.  “If you’re old enough to start think about having relations with a girl… you’re old enough to realize that she could end up with child. Not just consequences that you have to live with, but that she would as well.  And the child.”

Pat straightened a moment, and he opened his mouth to reply, but stopped, thinking, then looked up at his father, a new expression, a new awareness on his face and in his eyes.

“Pat, understand me,” said Adam seriously. “I will never, ever regret that you’re here, that the love your mother and I felt for each other made it possible for you to be here. Never.”

Pat’s intense blue eyes gazed into his father’s, looking for any lack of honesty, any dissembling, and found none.  Only truth, and love.  He swallowed, and nodded, starting to look away, until Adam reached out and put a hand on his arm.

“But what I do regret was not exercising more self-control.  I was young, but I knew I could have stopped what was going on,” he said quietly. “When you’re sixteen… eighteen… twenty… well, those ‘urges’ I was talking about can get pretty strong, and …”  Adam shook his head, not knowing exactly what else to say.

Pat’s mouth firmed a little, and he frowned.  Here was Adam Cartwright putting to voice exactly one of the accusations, of the angry recriminations Patrick had had with him ever since he was old enough to understand exactly what sexual relations were, how ‘babies were made.’

“You wasn’t the only one in that bed,” the boy grunted, staring down at the dirt at his feet.  “Ma wasn’t one to mince words. She could’a said no.”

“She could have.  But she loved me as much as I loved her. And according to her, girls get those urges just as strongly as we do.”  Adam sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.  “Still, as the man, I had the responsibility to protect her and I didn’t, and for that, I am sorry.”  Adam could see the troubled expression on his son’s face.  “Your mother, and you, learned the hard way what one moment of giving in to temptation can yield, son.  I honestly don’t think she ever regretted having you, Pat, either… not from everything Ray and Tom said.”  Adam smiled tenderly.  “Tom said … well, the way he put it, you and your mother were a team, an unbreakable bond between you.”

Pat flinched at that, remembering, and a flash of pain crossed his handsome, young face.  He nodded.  “Yeah…”

“I just wish we could have had you in a way that would have caused her, you… and me, too, less pain.”

Pat frowned, then looked up at his father.

“Pat, all I’m saying is, think about not just your own life and how it can be impacted by the choices you make, but also of others who might be involved.’  He reached out and gently squeezed the boy’s shoulder.  “And anyone who might ‘come along’ as a result of them.”

Pat drew in a deep breath.  This little conversation had gone way afield of what he’d planned on and he was feeling a bit overwhelmed.  He shifted his body a little, needing to move.  He looked up at his dad, glad to know that they could talk about anything, even something as uncomfortable and awful as this, and still be all right..  “Can we put off any more o’ this conversation for a while?” he asked, gruffly.

Adam smiled sadly at him and nodded.  “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea to me.  Maybe about ten years.”

“God forbid!” Pat said, honestly shocked.  Adam shook his head, chuckling, and they got back to mending fences.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

October 28, 1871

Little Joe guided the buckboard around the corner of “C” Street and Taylor, lining up with Jenkins’ store, and wrapped the reins around the handbrake.  He grinned at Pat, who’d already leapt down off the wagon excited to be in town once again.  Joe had taken pity on the bored youngster this morning, moping around the barn and corral, and asked Adam for permission to bring the boy with him into town to fetch needed supplies.  Joe also needed to check in with the Sheriff to share what information he’d been able to garner after talking to several families.  As they’d expected, several of the men had been more forthcoming to Joe than they had been to Roy.

On the way into town Joe and Pat talked about a lot of things… some of Pat’s memories of riding beside the head barman of the ‘Broth’ as they headed to the waterfront to pick up kegs of beer and cases of whiskey.  Pat’s descriptions of the tough longshoremen and the street toughs that were part of his daily life from the age of about eleven made Joe feel sad for the boy’s missed youth.  There were no tales of playing hooky from school, or getting into fairly innocent mischief, things that were the stories of his own boyhood, and Joe felt both amazing lucky at how Pa and his older brothers had made sure his childhood had been as happy as possible.  And yet, he was heartened by the fact that Pat wasn’t embittered by it.  In fact, Joe was a little humbled by the equanimity in his nephew, wishing he possessed some of it himself… 

Once they arrived in town, Little Joe wrangled an excuse to get over to the jail, though having to dance some pretty quick steps to keep Pat unaware of his activities; he put him to work under Bill Jenkins’ watchful eye loading supplies while he went over to touch base with Roy about their plans.  

The ride into Virginia City with his Uncle Joe had yielded Pat a little time to come home in freedom, although he wasn’t sure he was looking forward to it.  He’d already done most of the errands himself, and his “freedom” ended up being the freedom to the do the rest of it himself, too.  Pat had no idea what his uncle was planning to do, hadn’t even had an idea what he’d been doing earlier in the day; The boy just knew he was beginning to resent the absences and the offloading of chores.  Sighing, Pat resigned himself to his new status as “youngest Cartwright,” and finished gathering the mail and supplies while being closely watched by Jenkins, and that rankled.  The easy relationship Pat thought he’d started to build with the store owner felt sullied with suspicion.  

The boy had no idea that Roy Coffee had spoken to Bill, requesting that he do his best to account for Pat’s times at the store in order to make sure they could clear him of future issues. Jenkins had readily agreed.  For Bill Jenkins liked the boy; Bill felt Adam’s boy was a good kid who’d been hard done by all of his life, and for whatever reason, Bill didn’t feel the youngster was at the bottom of these thefts.  Young Pat Cartwright might be a bit wild, might not be the kind of kid the good mamas of Virginia City wanted around their precious little princes and princesses, but Bill sensed in the boy a code… a sense of ethics and honor that he felt sure the boy wouldn’t cross when pushed.  But… Patrick didn’t know that.  All Pat knew was that he was being watched like a hawk while he was in the store and loading supplies… watched like a convict freshly sprung from prison and under suspicion of falling back into bad acts.

 

Joe and Roy had narrowed their list of suspects to one…the drifter, Bob Wade, with whom Pat had tangled in the poker game not long after arriving.  Though Roy had ridden him out of town, he’d been spotted several times since then, not making trouble, but obviously not riding off either.  He’d even been seen in the vicinity of the Flemings’ ranch around the time the fire was started in their barn.

As much as they wished it to be true, they really had no evidence to link Wade directly to the robberies or the fire, though slowly but surely they were getting to a point where they might be able to pull him in for questioning.  

“So, what do you want me to do next, Roy?” Joe asked, glancing out the window of the jail to watch Pat lug the supplies over and into the wagon.  

“Time to start thinkin’ about how we’re gonna lay for this fella, Joe.”

He turned back to the Sheriff, his green eyes gleaming.  “A trap?”

Coffee nodded.  “I’m thinkin’ on it.  Should have something by tomorrow or next day, maybe.  In the meantime, the Marquettes and the Devlins are the only ones I ain’t talked to, or you neither.  Any chance you could get out to their spreads and see what they know?”

“You bet,” Joe nodded.  “I could send Pat on home and go from there.  He’ll have the wagon so he won’t take off too far, especially if I tell him to go straight home.”

Roy smiled.  “Boy’s come around a lot, ain’t he Joe?”

Joe nodded with a grin.  “He’s a real good kid, Roy.  He’s just so much like Adam I forget sometimes, and I feel like it’s twenty years ago and I’m the little kid.”

Coffee laughed.  “Yeah, I guess.  Pat’s a good few years younger than Adam was when I first met ‘im…still, ol’ Adam was gettin’ into plenty enough scrapes of his own!”

Joe laughed, remembering only some of that time just before his oldest brother left for college, but Hoss had filled him in.  Adam had been hanging around with a couple of guys that weren’t individuals Pa considered good companions and had gotten himself into a lot of trouble that spring; being arrested for murder certainly hadn’t been the least of them!

And so, Joe had done just as he and Roy discussed, and at the crossroads between home and the Devlin place, had told Pat he had some other errands to run.  “Listen, I need to go see Mr. and Mrs. Marquette about something.  You go on back to the house with the supplies, okay?”

Pat eyed his uncle, irritated, and shook his head, sighing. “Yeah, fine.  Whatever,” he grumbled.  

Joe raised an eyebrow.  “What’s the matter with you?”

Pat first shrugged, then allowed his annoyance at the situation to shine through.  “I woulda liked a little help unloadin’ all this stuff, since I loaded it all by myself!”

Joe sighed, realizing that he’d been a bit unfair about that part of it all.  “Sorry, Kid, can’t be helped.”

Pat’s eyes flashed.  “Don’t call me kid.”

“Hate to tell ya, ‘Kid’,” teased Joe with a grin, wheeling Cochise around toward the Marquettes’.  “But to me, you’ll always be the kid!”

Pat snorted and flicked the reins in irritation, urging the team on. 

 

As Pat guided the team onto the west road leading to the Ponderosa, he was surprised to see a shine of white-blonde hair a little distant in the field.  Squinting, he made out that it was someone sitting on a fallen log, head down.  Worried that it was Cassie and something was wrong, he urged the horses as far across the rocky field as he dared, then got down and sprinted over to her.

Sure enough, it was Cassie, and long before he got to her, he could hear her weeping.  Alarmed, he ran faster until he startled her with the sound of his approach.

She leaped up and started to run away, despite his calls to her.  She was no match for his long legs, however, and he caught up with her, grabbing her arm and turning her around.

“Cassie!” he gasped, his eyes widening as he saw the ugly bruise on her cheek and eye.

“Don’t!” she begged, turning away.  Determined, he gripped her arms and turned her to face him.  

“Who did this?” he demanded, studying her bruises.  When she didn’t answer, he shook her but very gently, repeating the question.

“Carl,” she groaned, weeping.  

Pat shook his head angrily, knowing he should have done something about this situation long ago, and eased his grip on her arm, then, feeling a little awkward, he drew the girl into his arms and held her close as she cried.  “Cassie, it’s okay… it’ll be okay…” he murmured, comforting her.  Then an awful thought occurred to him, and he tried to surreptitiously see the condition of her clothes.  “Cassie… Cassie, did he…did he hurt you besides the shiner?”  he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

There was a frightening moment of no response.  Then, her face still buried in his shirt, Cassie shook her head, ‘no.’  He closed his eyes in thanks, then hugged her again.  “Cassie, you gotta tell somebody about this.  Your ma know?”

“I don’t wanna talk about this any more!” she cried, pushing back and planting both palms firmly on his chest. “You gotta promise you won’t tell no one!” 

His eyes widened.  “Cassie, for God’s sake!” he breathed.  “You been hurt!  He hit ya hard enough ta leave a black eye!” 

She shook her head again.  “He…he was drunk.  Told me to do somethin’.  I.,.I guess I didn’t do it fast enough,” she said brokenly, brushing her tears away.

“Son of a—“swore Pat furiously.  He drew in a deep, steadying breath and looked down again at the girl.  “Cass, you gotta tell somebody.  This can’t keep happenin’!”

“No, Pat, please, promise me you won’t say anything!” she cried.

“Why the hell not?!” he demanded, his hands on his hips.

“Because…because…” she turned away miserably.  “Because he’ll hurt me and Ma if you do,” she said, very softly.

Pat closed his eyes in frustration and shook his head.

“Pat, I’ll deny everything if you tell!  I’ll tell everybody I fell down!  I’ll swear I bumped into a door!  I’ll – I’ll – I’ll say you did it!” she cried hysterically, stepping back from him.

“Cassie – “he began, alarmed, reaching out to her.  In her hysteria she slapped his hands away.

“I mean it!  Everyone in town hates you anyway!  They’d believe me in a minute!” she shouted, her eyes wide.  “You can’t tell, you can’t!”

Pat was enough aware of her state of mind to know most of what she was saying was her terror talking, but it still hurt.  “Cassie, cool down,” he snapped firmly, his blue eyes staring her down.  When it appeared her nerves were so shot that she couldn’t calm herself, he sighed and grabbed her arms, drawing her slowly, fighting, into his strong arms and hugging her close.  After a few moments of fighting him and crying hysterically, she sagged against him and just sobbed.  And Pat let her, his eyes squeezed shut in pain for her, because he understood what she was going through…  because he’d had to do this before.

Back in Hell’s Kitchen, the miserable reality of drunks and beatings were a very real companion.  Sometimes it got better, usually it got worse. He had always considered himself amazingly lucky that Siobhan, Ray and Tom had been so good to him.  His understanding of “fathers” had been pretty tainted by his acquaintanceship with parents of his friends in the Kitchen.  He had considered himself lucky and grateful more than once that he hadn’t been born a girl; horrible things, worse than beatings, had happened to young girls he knew, only to be swept under rugs and lied about and conveniently forgotten in order to hide the truth.

He remembered a young girl—a dear friend whose family lived in the same tenement as he and his mother—who had finally died after nothing was done about her situation for several months.  His face hardened in white-hot fury as he remembered how everyone had comforted the “bereaved” parents at her funeral.   Right now, Cassie had that same terrified, lost, and helpless look in her eyes that this young girl had had just before her death. And with that realization, Pat understood… Cassie and her mother had lived through this before.  That was why they wouldn’t go to Roy Coffee; when it had been Cassie’s pa, everyone had blamed it all on Mrs. Yates.  God knows he’d seen enough of it growing up,   “Blamin’ the victim,” his mother would say grimly.

“Cassie,” he said firmly, looking her in the eye, “this has gotta stop.”

“But, Pat—“she whimpered.

“Cassie, Sheriff Coffee isn’t—” he began.

“NO!” she screamed, pushing away from him.  She tried to run but he grabbed her again.  She fought like a wildcat, and he had to struggle to keep hold of her.

“Okay, okay! I won’t tell!” he shouted to reach her.  “Now, will you calm down!?”

She hiccuped as she studied his face to see if he meant what he said.  When he nodded again, she relaxed.  Her crying was softer as she crept into his arms.  God, what am I gonna do? he thought wildly.  Name o’ God, how do I keep her safe without tellin’ nobody?

 

Whish, THUMP!

Whish, WHUMP!

Whish, CRRRAACK!

Thunk!

Pat leaned over and picked up the split logs, piling them into his strong arms and walking them to the woodpile.  He stacked them neatly in the checkerboard pattern his Uncle Hoss had taught him and walked back to the woodpile, hefting another good-sized log onto the block, and withdrew the ax from the stump.  

Whish, THUMP!

Whish, WHUMP!

Whish, CRRRAACK!

Thunk!

Adam watched Pat from the kitchen window, worrying.  Pat had been working hard at that woodpile for nearly two hours now, and hadn’t whistled a tune, hadn’t sung a note as he usually did.  For the past three or four days, Pat had been very preoccupied, as though something was bothering him.  In true Patrick form, he’d simply slammed down the window sashes and locked the shutters of his face, effectively shutting out everyone around him.  Adam had been surprised by the change; when pushed even a little, Pat would become as ornery and difficult as he had been back in August. 

Lately he seemed overtired, too; he had dark circles under his eyes, and his temper was short.  The energy with which he had bounced through his days was depleted; he dragged himself through his chores and barely managed to perform up to his capabilities in his schoolwork.  And any attempt on Adam’s part to try to coax the reasons out of the boy were met with an impenetrable brick wall.

His boy was completely shutting him out.  It had been hard for Adam to accept; he’d thought they had progressed far enough in their relationship for Pat to trust him.  It hurt him to realize they really weren’t there yet, and Adam wondered how many other things would still be out of his grasp with his unpredictable son.  Adam sighed and sipped his coffee, then set it to the side.  Pat… talk to me…

 

Pat, himself, was totally unaware he was the source of Adam’s disquiet that morning.  He had enough of his own worries to be concerned about.

As he mechanically plowed through the stack of wood to be split and stacked before the winter snows set in, Pat allowed his mind to work overtime on the problem at hand.  There really was no other way; tired as he was, he’d have to continue sneaking out at night to keep watch over Cassie and her mother. Carl Rhodes had appeared at their house on the outer edge of Virginia City around 10 o’clock each night after getting thrown out of the Silver Dollar, or the Bucket o’ Blood or one of the other saloons.  He’d stand there, yelling up at Mrs. Yates’ window, banging on the doors, and finally wobble his way back down toward the tiny “D” Street cabins where miners lived and some of the whores plied their trade.  Pat would observe, perched high up in the big tree next to their house, keeping a weather eye on the situation, ready to shin down the tree and intervene if he had to.   So far there had been no need; Rhodes would always leave not long after arriving, since he had to be up for the early shift at the Lucky 7 the following morning.  But Patrick was taking no chances. He was bound and determined that he wouldn’t leave Cassie and her mother unprotected.   Hopefully he’d soon be able to think of some way around this mess, somehow without breaking his word to Cassie, but also without putting her into further danger by not breaking it.

 

Adam pushed aside the paperwork that had been keeping him occupied all evening; he’d made his preliminary reports on the most recent timber deal for his father and their potential buyers, now he had to draft them into solid numbers.  Normally, this was meat and potatoes for Adam; he loved crafting the numbers into a solid picture that told the story of a potential deal.  Even Ben had, in the last six or seven years, realized that Adam was far better at this than he himself was, and what’s more, enjoyed it.  After the first few weeks of feeling old and as though control of the Ponderosa was slipping from him, Ben had taken himself in hand, scolding himself for a stubborn old fool.  Ultimately, he realized that he was losing nothing.  Instead, he was gaining the business acumen of a bright, educated son.

Unlike other nights, Adam had found it difficult to concentrate on his work this evening. He’d had a difficult discussion with his young son earlier that had gotten neither of them anywhere beyond irritated with each other.

Pat had refused to say what was troubling him.  At first, he tried hard not to be sullen about it, and had made an effort to say as respectfully as he could but clearly that what was bothering him was quite frankly none of his father’s business.  Unfortunately, Adam didn’t heed the potential warning and had pushed Pat into recalcitrant stubbornness that threatened to escalate into a shouting match.  It was a chance entrance by Hop Sing that kept the argument from getting out of hand.  Pat had jammed his hat onto his head and stalked out to the barn to get to work on his chores, leaving his father behind, steaming.

Pat had eaten in silence, not participating in any of the supper table discussion, and had been fairly preoccupied in the early part of the evening.  Far earlier than usual, Patrick had said his goodnights and gone to bed.  Now, Adam glanced at the clock and, seeing it was after midnight, decided it was long past time to turn in himself.  He’d stop by Pat’s room, on his way by, and make sure he was all right.

Adam yawned as he walked around the great room of the ranch, blowing out lamps and tidying the room.  Joe’s boots were still by the settee, where he’d pulled them off to stretch out after supper; Hoss had left a length of braided halter draped over the blue chair when he and Joe had gotten into a checkers game.  Adam smiled as he placed a worn bookmark in the book his father had been reading when he dozed off in his leather chair by the fireplace.  As he made a last-minute sweep with his eyes, he suddenly froze, listening.  His sharp ears picked up the quiet whine of the barn door’s hinges.   Normally those doors squealed like mad; he’d been after Pat last week to oil them.  Adam realized, somewhat surprised, that he hadn’t heard that door squeal in… what, it must be three or four days now.  Frowning, in the room’s half-light he slipped toward the window behind his father’s desk, getting there just in time to see a figure walking gingerly toward the house.  

Adam was reasonably shaded from sight, swathed in the darkness at this end of the room, and was able to clearly see the figure of his son practically tiptoeing toward the porch, stopping to look at the house, assessing the situation, shaking his head and tiptoeing around the back of the house.  

Adam shook his own head, seething, and did some hurried tiptoeing of his own up the stairs and into Patrick’s room.  His mouth was set in an angry line to see what must have been a mound of clothes artfully arranged to represent a body sleeping in Pat’s bed.  The little monster… he planned this pretty well.

Pat’s room was big and had a small alcove in the corner where he had moved his desk.  Pat had found quickly that keeping his desk in front of the window had spoiled his concentration too easily when trying to do his lessons and had moved it to keep the beautiful outdoors from distracting him while studying, “or it’d take hours to get them spellin’ words learned!”  Adam silently set the desk chair further back into the shadows and sat down to wait.

It didn’t take long.  Adam heard the quiet scuffling up the trellis at the side of the house, and then the catlike scurrying over the roof to the window.  He watched as slowly, quietly, Pat’s window sash slide up and one long leg come through followed by the other and the rest of Pat’s lean, tall body.

The boy sat on the windowsill, pulling off his boots to make his re-entry even quieter and slipped to the floor.  He silently set his boots against the wall under his clothes hooks and hung up his coat.  Adam’s eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness quickly and he watched the utter exhaustion in Pat’s face as he turned around, unbuttoning his shirt.

Pat was so sleepy his usual acuity betrayed him; he didn’t sense the other presence in his room.  Until a cough brought his heart right up into his throat.

The boy’s eyes were already acclimated to darkness, and he saw a figure in the shadows near his desk.  Pat gulped and nearly groaned.  

“Patrick, when people enter the house from outside, they usually enter through the door.  Unless, of course, they’re trying to hide something.”

Pat silently watched his father rise to his feet and walk slowly toward him. It was times like these he wished his father wasn’t such a big man. Adam stopped just before his young son, and his height and size intimidated Pat into looking up a little nervously at him.  Pat wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he was given a beating for this little escapade; frankly, he’d take it without a word if accepting it would keep him from having to explain where he’d been, but Pat wasn’t too hopeful on that score.  

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself this time?” Adam asked coldly.

Pat gulped again and looked down.  “Nothing, sir,” he said softly.  “I… I mean…”  Tiredly, the boy just shook his head, spreading his hands slightly.  “…I’m sorry.”

“You’re going to be even sorrier tomorrow.  It’s twelve-thirty and I have a long day ahead of me.  We will discuss this in the morning.”  Adam continued to the door, opened it, then stopped on the threshold.  He turned back to his unhappy son.  “Suppose you tell me now if you’re planning to take off again to escape punishment?  If so, I’ll go ahead and nail that window sash shut.”

Stung, Pat blushed but remained calm.  “I’m not gonna run,” he said, his voice filled with a hurt, but quiet, dignity.  

“Well, thank God for that, anyway.”

The door shut.

Pat sank to his bed and put his head in his hands. 

 

“Things will look better in the morning.”   

Wasn’t that what everyone always said?  

Pat couldn’t honestly say he agreed.  He dragged himself out of bed, still awfully tired, when Hop Sing came up, threatening to pull him out forcibly.  Not surprisingly, sleep hadn’t come easily to Pat after his father left, and he’d gotten no more than an hour or two of shuteye.  

This morning looked just as bleak.  No matter how hard he tried, Pat simply couldn’t think of a decent explanation that would satisfy his father.  He couldn’t tell him the truth without betraying his promise to Cassie; even if he did tell the truth, his father wouldn’t be happy with him, either.  He’d been sneaking out for three nights in a row, now; getting out again would be much harder.  He sat down on his bed, yanking on his boots, using a little more force than was necessary.

Pat’s dilemma over whether to hurry up dressing and get downstairs to get it over with or dress slowly and put it off as long as possible was solved for him as his father came into his room.  Adam shut the door firmly behind him and walked over to his son.

Pat gulped and tried to avoid looking at the brown leather belt around his father’s waist.  The memory of his last encounter with that belt flashed into his mind unbidden, making him squirm a little on the bed.

“Well, young man?” asked Adam sternly.  

Pat swallowed hard and, as he’d been taught to do here when an adult entered the room, he rose to his feet and forced himself to look at his father respectfully.  He decided he’d be as positive about this as possible and just take what came.

“What do you have to say this morning?”

“Nothing, sir,” he said quietly.

Adam studied him. “Nothing.”  It was a flat statement.

Pat remained silent, struggling to keep eye contact.  He watched the steam rise in his father’s eyes and braced himself.

“Patrick, how many times this last week have you sneaked out of your room?”

Pat’s eyes faltered, and he looked down uncomfortably.  “Uh…a few.”

“How many?” The words weren’t yelled, but the sternness in them compelled Pat to pick his head up again.

“The last three,” he answered softly.

“Where are you going every night?” 

Pat sighed.  “I… I’m sorry, Dad, but I can’t tell you that,” he said quietly.

Adam stared at him in shock.  “Can’t? You mean won’t!” snapped Adam.

“Whatever ya want to call it, I can’t.”

Adam was flabbergasted.  The boy wasn’t rude in his tone, not at all, but …   He walked over closer to his son, standing over him with his hands on his hips.  “Patrick, I’m not playing games.  I want the truth!”

“I’m not lying to ya, Dad, I just ain’t saying where I was,” said Pat quietly.

“Patrick—” warned Adam, finger raised and pointing at his son’s nose.  

Pat snapped his head up, his own eyes hot and angry. “Look, I made a promise!  I ain’t goin’ back on my word!”

“Young man, I want an answer and I want it now!”

Pat remained silent, looking down at the floor, thinking, then raised his eyes to his father’s.  He tried so hard, he made sure his expression wasn’t angry or rude or disrespectful.  “Dad… I gave my word,” he said sorrowfully, steeling himself to face the anger he saw there.  “I know you’re angry, and I’m real sorry about that, truly I am.”

Frustrated, Adam paced a moment, then forced himself to calm down.  Sighing he sank down on the bed, gesturing to Pat to sit down beside him. 

“I swear to ya, I ain’t done nothing wrong,” said Pat earnestly as he did as he was told. 

“That’s not good enough, Pat,” said Adam seriously.  “I want to know where you were.”

The boy sighed, his shoulders sagging. They were getting’ nowhere awful fast…

“Don’t make me beat it out of you, Pat,” said his father quietly.  

Shocked, Pat slowly raised his eyes to look up at his father, in total disbelief.  

“Whatever promise you made, whoever swore you to secrecy…Patrick, I can’t allow this to continue.”

Pat bounded to his feet, and turned angrily on his father.  “You Cartwrights are always spoutin’ off about truth and honor!” he declared.  “Ain’t it honor to keep your word to somebody?”

“Not when you put yourself into danger to do it!”

“But I ain’t in no danger!”

“How can I know that since you won’t tell me where you were!” demanded Adam, rising to his feet himself.

“You know it ‘cos I’m tellin’ you I ain’t!”

“Ah, Pat,” chided Adam, raising his hands in frustration.

“Why don’t my honor count as much as anyone else’s in this family?” cried Pat, beseeching, his own hands out, pleading.  “If it was Joe or Hoss that was tellin’ you this, you’d respect it and let them handle it wouldn’t’cha?”

“Neither Joe nor Hoss are thirteen years old!”

“Since when does honor have an age attached to it?!” demanded Pat, realizing he was pushing his father but desperate to try to make him understand.

“I’m not going to argue with you!” snapped his father.  “You have until tonight to make up your mind.  Either you tell me where you were on your own, or I’ll see to it you do, one way or another!”  Adam stalked to the door.  “You’ve got until supper to make up your mind.  In the meantime, you’re not to set foot out of this room, understood?  And that window stays closed!”

“But—” protested Pat.

“Enough!” roared Adam.  

Both were startled when a knock came at the door, and Joe poked his head around the edge of the door, apologetically.

“Joe, I’m talking to Pat right now,” began Adam angrily.

“I know, Adam, and I’m sorry, but Roy’s here,” he said worriedly.  “He wants to talk to you and Pat.”

Pat looked at Joe in alarm.  “What about?”

Joe shrugged but looked concerned.  Adam sighed and shook his head.  “Did you get into trouble on your little nightly sashays?” he demanded, turning angrily on his son.

“No!” insisted Pat, “I toldja I didn’t do nothin’ wrong!”

Adam studied him, then pointed toward the door gesturing his son in front of him, nodding grimly.  “Let’s go on downstairs and find out what’s happened.”

 

Roy sat at the dining room table, a small cloth bag sitting on the table beside him and, oddly, Pat’s dove gray hat beside it, talking seriously with Ben.  Adam followed Patrick downstairs, right behind him, as though he were afraid the boy would take off.

Roy started in immediately, no preamble.  Just right to the point.

“Adam, I seem to be sayin’ this a lot, but I’m sorry to have to be out here again,” he said quietly.  “There’s been another robbery.”

Adam reflected his style.  “What’s in the bag?” he asked tightly.

“Evidence,” replied Roy.  “Found at the scene of the crime.”  He reached over and drew out three distinctive bits of silver, all polished to a gleam and embossed with a starburst pattern.  

Adam closed his eyes and shook his head.  Pat’s eyes widened, as he stared in amazement at the pieces of silver in the Sheriff’s hands.

As everyone watched, Roy deliberately picked up Patrick’s hat and held one of the little bits of silver to an empty spot on the buckle set of the hat… one of the three empty spots Pat had noticed after that Sunday in church when his hat had, everyone thought, just been blown to the floor.

“But…but…” he sputtered, absolutely confounded.  How could those pieces have got anywhere near a robbery?!

“Sure looks like one o’those bits go on your hat, don’t it, Pat?” asked Roy quietly.  He looked at Adam.  “I did some askin’ around town, and Billy Jenkins remembered ‘em.  Said he’d only ever had two hats with etched studs just like these, a black and a gray, that he carried in the store.  The black hat was still there on the shelf, and he said he sold the gray to you back in August… for young Patrick there.”

“Well, they look like it, that’s fer sure, but I didn’t steal nothin’! I swear I didn’t!” Pat said, fearfully looking up at his father and the Sheriff. “You gotta believe me!”

“I do believe ya, Pat,” nodded Roy.  “I did find these at the scene of the crime, but I also know it ain’t possible for you to have committed this robbery.”

Pat closed his eyes and sank onto the settee, exhausted.  “Thank you, Jaysus…” he muttered, putting his head in his hands. He felt his heart slowly start to move back down into his chest where it belonged …

“What’s going on here, Roy?” demanded Adam angrily.

“Somebody tried again at the Widow Morgan’s, Adam, three days ago.  The day Pat and Joe were in town getting supplies.  Thankfully, too.  Because it’s absolutely beyond doubt that robbery happened between 11:00 and 11:30 in the morning.  Pat was busy loading the wagon under the watchful eye of Bill Jenkins that whole time.  He’s in the clear on this one.  And when I found these at the Widow’s, real strategically placed,” said Roy, dryly, lifting up the small studs from Pat’s hat, “I knew we could turn off the heat on young Pat here; someone’s been setting him up.”

Adam’s eyes burned with anger.  “And you’re just now figuring this out?!” he snapped.  Roy studied Adam and nodded; this Cartwright was even smarter than he’d thought.

Hoss, puzzled, looked from Roy to Adam in confusion.  “What do you mean?  Ya mean you knew that Pat was bein’ framed?” he demanded of his brother, who nodded emphatically, his mouth in a tight line.

“Think about it, Hoss,” said Roy seriously.  “Every single robbery happened at a time when we haven’t been able to nail down Pat’s whereabouts or when he’s been spotted in town.  There’ve been major efforts made by whoever’s behind this t’be sure that Pat’s name is mentioned right after the robbery occurs, indicatin’ they’re tryin’ to pin the robbery on him and some folks in town are willin’ to believe it.  Even now, even though I told folks I got me proof that it ain’t Patrick, that there’s no way it could be him, they’re still circulatin’ rumors that he’s to blame for this one, too.”

Adam dropped his head, his temper beginning to boil again.  He turned around and lost control, slamming a hand down hard on the top of the newel post of the staircase.  “What in the name of God do we have to do to clear him, Roy?” demanded Adam, whirling on the sheriff furiously.

“Catch the thief,” answered Roy calmly.

Pat looked up, following the conversation silently.  His grandfather had quietly come around and sat down on the settee beside him, a gentle arm reassuringly around his shoulders. He glanced up at his grandfather and managed a wan smile.

“I got me an idea how to accomplish it, Adam,” said Roy quietly.  “I should be able to get this under control by the end of the week, but that’s all I’m gonna say, so don’t push me,” he said, shaking his head as Adam started to speak.  “Just wanted to reassure you that as far as I’m concerned, young Patrick here is totally in the clear.  He’s behaved himself this month,” said Roy, unaware of Adam’s mouth settling into a frown and an eyebrow raised, making Pat squirm a little on the settee, “and I know he ain’t the one I’m lookin’ for.”

“But the town doesn’t agree,” said Adam darkly, turning toward the hearth.  Ben sighed; this label of “pariah” the “good people” of Virginia City were thrusting on Patrick was obviously beginning to sour his oldest son.

“Now, Adam, you just keep ahold on your temper for another few days and I’ll have this all cleared up,” reassured Roy.

“Until the next incident,” snapped Adam, whirling back on Roy.  “And after that, they’ll figure out something else to blame on him!  Another name to smack onto him, besides ‘bastard’!”

“Adam,” chided Ben, squeezing Pat’s shoulders.

“Pa, I’m sick to death of it!” growled Adam.  “I think it’s time Pat and I thought about moving on.  Maybe back east.” 

Ben narrowed his eyes, angrily.  He’d seen this coming for weeks.  Adam had avoided trips to town like the plague since the incident at the church.  He and Hoss had been commenting on the subject just last night.  

Joe and Hoss looked at each other in alarm, but Pat’s head snapped up in shocked surprise.  This, he thought, his blue eyes narrowing dangerously, was news to him!

Uncomfortably, Roy got to his feet.  “Well, I guess I’d best be going, Ben.  I’ll talk to you all soon.”  He started for the door and turned back.  “Adam…don’t be hasty.  Think long and hard before you make any big decisions.”  

Ben got to his feet and walked to Adam, hoping to calm him down enough to think rationally.  “Adam,” he began.

As the door shut behind Roy, Adam turned on his father, his eyes still burning with fury.  “I mean it, Pa.  I’ve had it.  It’s clear that neither Pat nor I will ever be able to build a life here.  Maybe in San Francisco, or back east we’d have a chance.”

“Well, you have yourself a great trip.”

All the Cartwrights turned in surprise at the bitterly cold tone of those words coming from Patrick.  The boy had walked over to the hearth, hands on his hips in a remarkably familiar stance. The fire crackling behind him matched the heat in the boy’s angry eyes.

 “Pat,” warned Adam.

“Oh, no.  Nothin’ doin!  I ain’t goin’ anywhere!” spat the boy.  “I am sick and tired of having everybody else makin’ decisions about where I go, what I do and where I stay!  Well, no more!  Not this time! This one’s up to me!!  And I ain’t goin’ no place!”

 “Patrick, listen to me,” began Adam, coming toward his son, struggling to keep his temper under control. And to the surprise of everyone in the room, the boy strode to meet him. 

“No, you listen to me!” snapped Pat, poking his father in the chest with a blunt finger, startling him.  “It ain’t just your name involved here, buddy!  It’s mine too!  And my name ain’t just Cartwright!  Padhraig Riordan was called everything under the sun, but no one ever ran him out of Ireland!  They had to hang him to get rid of him!  There ain’t never been a Riordan yet that backed down from a fight, and I ain’t gonna be the first just because you’re developin’ a yella streak!”

“Watch it!” warned Adam, furiously, gripping his son’s arm.  He was shocked when Pat violently wrenched free and backed up, his fists cocked.  

Hoss started forward, but his father grabbed his arm.  Hoss looked back in amazement at Ben, who shook his head, without taking his eyes off his young, fiery grandson.  Ben wanted nothing to stop this.  It appeared Pat was the only one who might be able to reach Adam, making him think the situation through.  It was clear his stubborn oldest son wouldn’t listen to him, or to his brothers, but he just might listen to this youngster.  Ben had never felt prouder of his young grandson than he did at this moment, as he angrily went toe to toe with his father.

“Well, you go right ahead!  Turn tail and run if you want!” the boy shouted, his voice breaking and angry, hurt tears welling in his eyes.  “But if I leave now, everyone will always call me a thief!  I already got one rotten name, one I had nothin’ to do with, one you and my mother managed to dump on me!  I’ve had to live with that damn label for almost fourteen years!  I ain’t gonna pull on another one I didn’t earn, just because you ain’t willin’ to stick it out!”

Adam’s eyes widened as Pat’s words hit him like a slap in the face.

“Coffee says by the weekend he thinks he’ll have this robbery thing solved.  I won’t ever be free until he does.  So, you can go to San Francisco, you can go back east, you can go to hell for all I care, but I ain’t budging!  I didn’t have a say about comin’ here, I was forced to come here.  But now that I am here, this is my home, and here I stay. I’ll be damned if you or anybody else is gonna force me to leave!” 

Adam regarded his tall young son with both outrage and pride.  Pat was trembling with emotion, but his head was proudly high, his shoulders back and squared.  Adam glared at his boy, then found himself running a hand over his face hard in weary amusement.  

Surprised, Hoss swallowed hard and glanced at Ben, worried.  That young’un’s got a death wish, he thought.  But Hoss noted that Pa’s own mouth had a smile tucked in the corner.

“Well, mister,” Adam finally sighed, shaking his head, “you do beat all.  And I suppose you’re right.  Giving in now would be a mistake.  All right, then, we’re in this together, you and me.”  

Pat drew in a deep breath and closed his eyes in relief.  Then his mouth flattened again stubbornly, and he raised hard eyes once more.  “Am I still stuck in my room for the day?” he demanded, crossly.

Adam started with bewildered surprise, then frowned, remembering.  He looked down for a moment, then raised his head, a stubborn expression of his own on his face.  “Yes, you are.  The same conditions apply.  You have until supper to tell me the truth.”

“You can wait until spring, I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’.  See you after supper,” retorted the boy, rudely, as he stalked past his father and his grandfather and hurried up the stairs to his room.

“What the heck was all that about?” demanded Hoss, upset by the scene that had just transpired.

His only answer was his older brother stalking out the front door, leaving the front door wide open in his wake.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Later that evening

It was another silent meal in the Cartwright home.  Hop Sing fussed around the table, wringing his hands and scolding that no one was eating his fine dinner.  Well, no one but Hoss.  Otherwise, it was true:  Adam merely pushed his food around his plate. Joe was distracted, picking at his supper more than eating it, and Ben was frankly too upset to lift his fork.  Haunting them all was Pat’s empty place at the table.  

All day, Pat stubbornly sat in his room, just staring out the window, waiting.  Joe had gone up, tried to coax him into telling him what was going on, but his efforts were met with a stone wall.  Hoss brought a sandwich and glass of milk up to him which he tried to eat but almost vomited back up.  The boy stalled out any attempt by his dearest Uncle to open up and talk to him, either.

The worst time he had was in the late afternoon, lying on his bed on his back, his stomach growling and aching uncomfortably with hunger: It had been months since he’d gone without food this long.  Back in the Kitchen, it happened once in a while, but that had been long ago and he wasn’t used to having to cope with it any longer.  Worse, he was unable to find something to do to distract himself.  As the sun began to go down, his stomachache was heightened by nerves about what surely lay ahead.  He didn’t doubt in the least his father meant what he said.  He’d beat the truth out of him if he had to… or he’d try.

He crossed his arms over his eyes, miserable.  A quiet knock came at his door, and he sighed.  “Come in,” he said softly.  To his surprise the door opened to his grandfather.  Pat started to respectfully get to his feet, but Ben shook his head, waving him back and walked slowly over to the bed, sitting down beside him.

“Pat, don’t you think this has gone on long enough?” he asked gently.  Pat looked at his grandfather sadly.

“Granddad, I made a promise.  I can’t go back now,” he said brokenly.  “I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“But, son, no, Pat, listen to me,” insisted Ben as Pat started to fuss.  Pat looked at his grandfather and frowned, his arms crossed over his chest.    “Patrick, you’re risking a great deal with this stubbornness of yours.  I understand you’re feeling a need to keep a promise.  But a promise like the one you’ve made is dangerous, son.  You’re a boy, still, and until you’ve grown your father is responsible for you and your actions.  Deliberately keeping him in the dark about your midnight visits to wherever it is you’ve been going is not only wrong, but foolhardy.”

“Granddad, I swear to ya, I wasn’t doin’ nothin’ wrong,” said Pat softly, imploring his grandfather to believe him.

“That’s not the point, son,” sighed Ben, shaking his head in frustration, running a hand through his white hair.  “Dear God, but you’re just like your father!!”

“Then he oughta be able to understand,” said Pat unhappily.

“He does understand, Pat,” said his grandfather tiredly.  “Understanding isn’t the problem.  He’s worried, and he’s scared and you’re giving him no choice.  He’s your father, Pat.  And he’ll do what he has to do.  You know that, don’t you?  Don’t imagine he’s bluffing, son, because he’s not.”

Pat winced, and drew in a shaky breath, nodding.   “…I know,” Pat whispered.

“Then can’t you tell me what’s going on?  Can’t we work together to straighten this out?” pleaded Ben.  Pat’s lower lip trembled, and it looked like he might capitulate.  Then his resolve kicked into gear once again and he shook his head. 

Ben studied him for a moment, then asked him sternly, “Who are you protecting, Patrick?  I can’t believe you’d let yourself in for this much misery without a good reason. And I’m also guessing you’d do this less for yourself than for someone else.”

Pat flushed, looking away.  “I thought so,” Ben said severely as he nodded in grim satisfaction. 

Pat rolled to his side, facing his grandfather, raising himself up on an elbow and looking at Ben with a kind of desperate pleading.  “Granddad, if I tell, someone’s gonna get hurt.”

“And if you don’t?” demanded Ben.  “Are you so sure that they won’t be hurt anyway?  Son, this sounds like a serious problem, one that’s too big for you to handle alone!”

Pat shook his head, miserably.  “That may be… but I gave my word.  An’… well, it’s about all I got left that’s mine,” he said softly, nearly breaking Ben’s heart.

“Talk about it, to me, or your father, anyone!” said Ben, gently, putting a hand to his grandson’s shoulder.  

Pat struggled for a moment, then sagged, closing his eyes.  “I can’t.  I just can’t. I gave my word.” 

Sighing, Ben nodded.  His assessment had been right; the boy was just like his father.  When he believed he was in the right or if the situation involved a matter of honor, nothing would make Adam back down, not threats of punishment as a boy, nor threats of being ostracized by friends and neighbors as a grown man.   “Then I’m afraid you’re in for a long, painful evening, son,” he observed sadly, tenderly stroking a lock of black hair off the boy’s forehead. 

“I know.”

Ben sadly nodded, and rose to his feet.  “I hope this friend of yours is worth it, Patrick.”

Pat said nothing and closed his eyes.

 

He heard supper being served, smelled the delicious food, making his stomach growl even worse, and heard it being cleared away.  He listened hard, apprehensively, and his heart stopped momentarily as he heard boots on the stairs…coming down the hallway…stopping momentarily in front of his room.

The door opened.  Slowly, his father came into the room, his eyes downcast.  Nervously, Pat sat up and respectfully rose, reviewing in his mind again the pros and cons of telling the truth.  He licked his lips and looked up at his father.

“Pat,” said his father softly, “I’m begging you, don’t make me do this.  Tell me where you’ve been the last three nights.”

Pat’s lower lip trembled, as he shook his head.  “I can’t, Dad,” he whispered sadly.  “I just can’t break my word.”

Adam shook his head, sighing.  “Neither can I,” he said sorrowfully.

 

 

Pat lay stretched out on his bed, face down, his face screwed up in discomfort as he valiantly tried to squelch his tears.  Sharp throbbing alternated with a vicious, burning sting as his tail felt as hot as a fresh-brewed cup of coffee.  

His father had really whipped him good this time, especially when he continued to refuse to tell him the truth about his late-night travels.  As hard as he’d tried, he hadn’t been able to stop himself from crying.  But he hadn’t spilled the beans, either; he’d kept his word.  At the moment, that knowledge gave him precious little comfort, though.

Down the hall, Adam lay stretched out on his own bed, his stomach in knots. What was he going to do?!  Pat had refused to tell him where he’d been, despite a pretty harsh thrashing, and the threat that he’d stay in his room until he did tell.   Adam had never felt so ineffectual and beaten.  How in God’s name do I get through to him? What the hell am I going to do?!

“I’m going into town,” said Joe abruptly, getting to his feet.  “I need to get out of here for a while.”

“Joseph,” sighed Ben wearily.

“Pa, I won’t be late, I promise.  I just need to get out for a bit,” he said quietly, strapping on his gun and shrugging into his warm coat.  “G’night.”

Ben watched Joe trudge out of the house and shook his head.  

Hoss rose to his feet and sighed.  “I’m gonna go out and bed down the stock for the night.”  

Ben walked over to his sensitive middle son, and gripped his arm.  “Hoss…”

“Pa, I’d never’ve believed Adam could be so cruel,” Hoss muttered, unable to look at him.

“Cruel?” echoed Ben, with a very sad look.  “Pat stubbornly refuses to tell Adam where he’s been for the last three nights, out until after midnight, without permission.  Adam has no idea where he’s been, what he’s been up to, or who he’s been with.  No way to know if he’s in any kind of really serious trouble.  Tell me, son…what would I have done if any of you had pulled this at the age of thirteen?”

“Aw, Pa,” sighed Hoss, looking back into the hearth’s flames, reluctant to admit his father was correct.  Pa would have skinned us alive if we’d pulled a stunt like this.

“Hoss, try not to let this upset you too much.  We’ll get through this,” murmured Ben, though his expression didn’t quite match his words.  

“I sure hope so, Pa, ‘cause this nonsense is tearin’ us apart,” said Hoss, dully.  He pulled on his own coat and left the house for the barn.

 

Around eight o’clock, Pat mustered what little courage and resolve he had left, and pushed himself, wincing, to his feet and looked out the window once again.  Moving hurt, hurt really bad, even just that little bit, making him hiss in breath through clenched teeth.  His resolve faltered as he thought of what could result from this; he sure didn’t want to be punished again, but he had no choice. He had to get to Cassie’s, and soon.  Rhodes would be leaving the Silver Dollar, drunk as usual, in just a couple of hours.

At least his coat was still here in his room on the hooks, where he’d hung it up last night.  He pulled it on and listened intently for noise from downstairs.  Nothing.  Luckily his father’s room was on the other side of the house, so his tiptoeing around on the roof wouldn’t be heard, at least not by Dad. He hoped. Fervently.

He noiselessly eased up the window sash, and prepared to climb out, then stopped.  A hard look covered his face as he quietly turned once more and limped over to his bureau.  He pulled out a bone-handled knife in a worn sheath with a leather calf strap from one of the drawers.  It was sharp as hell, one of the few things he’d brought with him from Hell’s Kitchen.  He carefully secured the strap around his right calf, letting the little 4-inch knife rest comfortably inside his boot. It was a familiar feel, and Pat felt steadier just sensing it there. The boy remembered a year back when Old Bob Trahern, a teamster that often worked the wagon for the ‘Broth’, had given it to him, after a scuffle with some roughnecks on the waterfront.  

“Don’t ye be comin’ t’the wharf wi’out a blade, lad.  And be keepin’ yer head about ye, aye?!” the old longshoreman had warned him, sternly.  “You pay attention! Or yer ma’ll be buryin’ a bairn, so she will!”

Then he legged it out the window, nearly yelping out loud as his buttocks connected with the sill.  This is gonna be a long ride, he thought unhappily, groaning softly as he climbed out and lowered the sash once more.

 

Joe and Roy sat in the jail, making their plans.  Joe had been grateful to learn that Roy had begun setting things for their trap into motion.

“So, I’ve already carefully planted word around town that I’d heard tell from some o’ the young’uns that Pat was comin’ into Virginia City tonight to play poker, puttin’ one over on Adam,” said Roy quietly, polishing his rifle.  “I also had Doc Martin agree to let us use him and his office.”

“Doc?” asked Joe, raising his eyebrows.

“He likes the boy, too, and wants to see this over with,” nodded Roy, seriously, as he thoughtfully twirled the gray Stetson he’d had to keep as evidence.  “He’s gone around tellin’ everyone he knows’ll talk that he’s got a hundred dollars sittin’ in his office desk waitin’ til the bank opens tomorra.  Also, that he’s gotta go to Mrs. Canfield’s ‘cos she’s havin’ a baby. She is havin’ a baby, mind you, but she don’t know she’s havin’ it tonight,” he grinned.

“You think Wade’ll bite?” asked Joe.

“Don’t know if it’s Wade,” mused Roy.  “This last little theft…he just don’t seem right to me, somehow.  Well, hopefully we’ll know soon.”  He glanced at Joe.  “Adam cooled off yet?”

Joe made a face and shook his head.  “He gave Pat one hell of a hiding tonight; the kid wouldn’t tell him where he’s been the last few nights.  Sneakin’ out, you know.  Cooled off isn’t exactly the mood I’d use to describe my older brother right now.”

Truer words were never spoken.  Adam was fit to be tied.

He’d risen from his bed around ten, determined to go to Pat and apologize.  Adam was wracked with self-recrimination and shame.  If Pat felt so strongly that he had to keep his promise, he should have trusted him and tried to help.  Instead, he’d allowed his own anger and worry to take over, punishing the boy far more severely than necessary.  He’d also come to the conclusion that just because Pa would have worn him out with his belt for pulling a stunt like this, Adam didn’t have to make that the way he handled Patrick.  Adam wasn’t his father, and Pat sure as hell wasn’t Adam!

Steeling his resolve, Adam marched to Pat’s door and knocked.  No answer.  Wondering if the boy might have fallen asleep, Adam opened the door quietly and looked in.  

The room was empty.  The bed was mussed; obviously the boy had stretched out there for a while, but there wasn’t even a faked body in there this time.  Adam’s eyes swept the room and noted the coat was gone from the hooks as well.  The window was shut, but Adam knew that it must have been Pat’s escape route.  His heart pounding, Adam entered the room and glanced through the boy’s bureau, then closed his eyes in relief.  As far as he knew, nothing was missing.  He hasn’t run off for good, then. As he looked around one more time before heading out to find him, his eyes fell on a daguerreotype on Pat’s bedside table, propped against the lamp.  He didn’t recall having seen that before in the boy’s room…

Curious, he walked over to it, and his heart caught painfully.  My God, he thought, shocked… It was the picture he and Siobhan had had taken just three weeks before she left Boston.  His breath caught in his chest as he picked up the picture and looked again at the beautiful young girl he’d loved so desperately.  Even in the darkened daguerreotype, he felt as though he could see the blue-black gleam of her hair, smell the lavender and rosemary soap she used on her hair, and see the shine of her light sapphire eyes.  And himself!  God, had he ever been that young?!  This picture felt like a bridge between himself and Patrick; what Pat might look like in six or seven years … and who he himself had been all those years ago.

“Oh, Siobhan,” he whispered, squeezing shut his eyes in pain.  “Why didn’t you tell me?!  Why couldn’t you let me help?  You can’t have believed I wouldn’t have helped you and our child!  Why couldn’t you have just let me love you?  Together we could have been there for him! And… and I don’t think I can do this alone…”

His hand shaking, Adam replaced the picture on the table and drew in a wavering breath. Steely resolve kicked in. He had to find his boy. He had to find out what was going on and do whatever he could to help.

Downstairs, Hoss had just come in from the barn, ready for bed; he was mentally and physically exhausted.  He was just about to tell Ben that it looked like the leg of one of the mares was ulcerating when Adam pounded down the stairs, stalking toward the doorway.

“What’s the matter now?” demanded Ben.

“He’s gone,” said Adam darkly, reaching for his gun belt and strapping it on.

“Oh, Lordy, not again!” sighed Hoss. “I didn’t even notice Blackie wasn’t in the corral with the others!”

“Adam, take it easy. If you find him in this mood – “began Ben, worried.

“Pa, I’m angry at myself, not him,” snapped Adam, his dark eyes flashing.  “If I’d been more sensitive to what was going on, none of this would have happened.”

“You don’t know that!” countered Ben, sternly.  

Adam ignored him and reached for his coat.  Hoss set his lips and did the same.  

“Adam, listen to me!” Ben insisted.

“Pa, I know, but I’ve got to find him.  Hoss?”

“I’m with you, brother,” replied the big man, a serious look on his face.

“Pa?”

“Yeah, I know,” grumbled Ben, jamming his hands into his pockets, annoyed.  “Wait here in case he comes back.”

“I’ll find him Pa, and I’ll bring him home.”

“C’mon, Adam, let’s go,” urged Hoss, uneasily.  “I got me a bad feeling.”

 

Pat was perched in a tree beside the Yates place, yawning.  He’d tethered Blackie back in the fields and was half-kneeling in the tree.  He was right; it had been an awfully long ride.  His legs were dead tired from standing in his saddle nearly all the way into Virginia City.  He guessed it must be close to ten o’clock.  Carl Rhodes would be here soon, for sure, drunk and mean and God only knew what else…

He had thought back hard over the events of the day and could honestly say he wasn’t even mad at his old man.  He knew full well his own behavior had pushed Adam to the limit.  He didn’t want to think about what would be waiting for him when he got home tonight.  

Maybe he wouldn’t go home.  Maybe Granddad was right. The heat and the wicked sting still radiating strongly from his backside made Patrick realize this situation had gone on long enough. Way past, really.  This was more than he could handle alone. This time, he’d stay until morning and force Cassie to tell her mother and her mother in turn to tell the Sheriff.  Then he’d present himself to his father for whatever else was coming his way.  It was the best he could do, and if Cassie was mad, then she’d just have to be mad.

While Patrick struggled with these thoughts, Carl Rhodes was thrown out of the Silver Dollar, drunk and mean.  He’d lost nearly everything he had in a poker game and was ready for a fight. With somebody. Anybody.

He staggered down the street toward Julie Yates’ house.

 

“Adam, what about the lake?  That’s where I found him the last time.”

“No, Hoss, I don’t think so.  He’s protecting somebody, and they wouldn’t be at the lake.”

“Dadburn it, Adam, it’s cold out here!  Is he dressed warm enough?”

“He brought his coat with him, the sheepskin-lined one Joe passed down.”

Silence.

“Adam, what about that little gal?  Cassie somethin’.”

“What about her?”

“She’s about the only one besides Micah Devlin that Pat’s been friends with.  Think it could have somethin’ to do with her?”

Silence.

 “It’s possible…and if it does…”

“What, Adam?”

“Then it might have something to do with Carl Rhodes, too.”

 “Aw, Lordy…”

 “C’mon!”

 

Rhodes tottered his way up the street, muttering to himself.  Pat heard him coming and leaned both hands on the tree limbs, alert, ready to act if needed.  Drunk, for sure, he thought, seeing him stumble his way toward the little clapboard house.

“Julie!  Julie Yates!  Open the damn door!”  The voice was slurred by whiskey and mad as a hornet.

Pat tensed, watching closely.  He saw lamp light appear in an upper bedroom and prayed hard that Mrs. Yates would keep that damned door shut and locked.

“Carl?” A frightened voice, the words laced with disbelief and dread.

“Julie, let me in!”

“Carl, you’re drunk!  Dear God, let us be!” came the whimpering cry of Cassie’s mother, sounding like she was near the end of her rope.

Rhodes stared at the door, and suddenly erupted, kicking in the wood frame.  Pat jumped, startled, and then grimly sped down the tree, his own discomfort making him hiss in pain, but not slowing him down an iota.

Mrs. Yates screamed and Pat could hear doors slamming.  He could hear Cassie’s voice crying out, ‘Ma! Ma!” and he pelted off around the front of the house.

By the time he raced in the shattered front door, the scene had rapidly escalated: Cassie was crumpled on the floor in the corner where a backhanded slap from Rhodes had thrown her, her cheek reddened from the blow.  Now, the big man was manhandling Mrs. Yates who was fighting back but losing.  It was almost as though she simply didn’t have the strength left to even try fighting him off any longer.

Without thinking, Pat lowered his head and charged, knocking the man off Mrs. Yates, who tumbled away from the recoil.  Pat was on his feet in a heartbeat, his sharp eyes watching the drunken man carefully as he slowly lumbered, wobbling, to his feet.

 “You!” barked the man, incredulously.

“Yeah, me!” snarled Pat.  He rapidly glanced around and saw that Cassie was moving and mewling weakly.  Mrs. Yates looked, too, and started to fly between Pat and Rhodes to get to her daughter, but the man slapped her away as well, slamming her into a wall painfully.

Rhodes then charged at Pat, startling him and making him wait a split second too long.  The boy and man tumbled over the back of the settee, clinched together in a grip.

Pat knew he didn’t have a prayer wrestling with this man; he had to have distance in order to move.  He groaned as the drunk squeezed his chest tightly, and Pat fought desperately to get loose.

 “I’ll kill you, you little bastard!” hissed Rhodes, squeezing viciously.  Pat gasped in pain as his ribs protested, and frantically brought his hands up, gouging at Rhodes’ eyes.  The drunk screamed and released him immediately, allowing Pat to roll away. Heaving in breath that made his chest ache, Pat tried to scramble to his feet, shying away from the fist he saw coming, but wasn’t fast enough to avoid it completely.  

Blood spurted from Pat’s mouth as Rhodes landed a vicious punch, knocking him flying backward into the wall, smacking the back of his head and his shoulders hard enough against the plaster to make his head swim.  Pat ducked more from instinct than actual sight as the fist came at his face again, and this time Rhodes’ hand connected with the wall, making him howl.  Quickly Pat landed an uppercut to the drunk’s gut.  But he was weakened by the previous attack and the punch did little more than irritate the big man.

Legs…I gotta use my legs, Pat panted to himself as he circled the man, trying desperately to keep himself between Rhodes and the women.  Mrs. Yates had made it to Cassie’s side; both were terrified and huddled together in the corner.

Pat watched Rhodes carefully, and neatly sidestepped him as he charged again, but this time gripped his hands together and viciously hammered the man in the kidneys on his way by.  Once the man was down, Pat threw himself to the floor and scissored his legs around his neck in a choke hold.

 “Cassie!” Pat panted, scrunching his face in effort to choke the man.  “Cassie! Get help!”

Terrified, the girl clung tighter to her mother.  Frustrated, Pat took his eyes away from the maniac caught between his strong legs for just a split second to try to make eye contact with the girl; it was a mistake.  Drunk as he was, Rhodes caught the shift in Pat’s stance, and worked it to his advantage, slamming his fist into Pat’s thigh, making the boy’s leg muscle scream and spasm in protest.

Pat howled, rolling away, grabbing his leg in agony.

Rhodes hauled himself over and viciously began pounding the boy.  Pat’s face was a bloody mess, his ribs aching where several hard punches had caught him, places Rhodes had already damaged when wrestling the boy.  Finally, Pat managed to land a hard knee to Rhodes’ face, buying him a moment of time.  Desperately, he reached down and pulled the bone-handled knife from his boot sheath, and the two began to circle again, Pat limping but leading them away from the women.

Cassie stared in horror at the knife’s blade glinting in the moonlight shining through the window, and her brain finally kicked into gear.  She jumped to her feet, pelting out the destroyed front door.

 

Hoss and Adam had ridden hard, neither able to shake the feeling that there wasn’t much time, that something was terribly wrong.  As they reached the outskirts of Virginia City they saw a white-blonde wraith running, screaming “Help!” at the top of her lungs.  

Adam kicked Sport into a gallop, with Hoss close behind.  

“Cassie!  Cassie!”  The girl stopped abruptly, nearly getting herself run down by the horses.  Adam threw himself off of Sport and grabbed the hysterical girl in his arms.

“Oh, God, Mr. Cartwright!” she cried.  “Come quick!  Rhodes is gonna kill him!”

“Who!?”

“Carl came after me and my ma, and now he’s gonna kill Pat!  Hurry!” she screamed again, grabbing Adam’s hand and dragging him down the street.

 

Pat tried, he tried desperately to keep away from the crazed man, but he was too depleted from his already painful injuries.  One mighty slap both knocked the boy nearly senseless and the knife out of his hand.  Rhodes scrambled for it and, scooping it up, his eyes gleamed and his mouth twisted into a feral grin as he advanced on the boy.

“Carl, no!”  Julie Yates gasped, rushing him.  He slashed at her, cutting her arm badly.  She cried out, then went white as a sheet, and slumped bleeding to the floor in a faint.

Pat saw him coming and rolled once more, moaning in agony as his injured ribs protested the movement.  Rhodes was on him in a minute, but Pat had quickly brought up a knee between them; his hands gripped Rhodes’ wrists, especially the one with the knife, and his trapped leg, while feeling as though it was going to break from the strain, kept enough distance between them to keep the knife at bay.  With the last bit of effort he had, his leg almost numb, Pat gave a mighty shove and pushed the man off him, and the knife went flying.  He struggled to his feet, trying to find something to use to protect himself as Rhodes charged again.

Suddenly from behind him he heard feet pounding and furniture overturning as someone rushed in, and he was aware of someone huge stepping between him and Rhodes, landing a mighty haymaker to the animal’s jaw, dropping him like a felled tree.

He felt himself gathered gently into someone else’s arms and shook his head to clear it.  His knees buckled and whoever was holding him supported him around his chest, making him cry out in pain from the pressure on his ribs.  He opened his eyes— well, one eye, anyway—and blearily noted it was his father, white-faced, terrified.   Pat hitched in a painful breath to speak.

“Aw, hell…I coulda taken ‘im!” he mumbled, crossly, through his bloodied and smashed mouth. And promptly passed out in his father’s arms.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

November 3, 1871

Paul Martin’s office was dark and silent as Roy and Joe waited in a storefront across the street.

 “I don’t know, Roy,” Joe was saying softly.  “It’s nearly 11 o’clock.  Didn’t you say all the robberies happened in the daytime?”

“Yeah, but we spread the word that Pat would be in town tonight,” said Roy, pensively.  “It may not work, Little Joe, but—-”

“Sh!”

A curtain in the window of the office had stirred.  “You sure Doc’s out at the Canfields’?” whispered Joe.

“Yep,” nodded Coffee, his eyes gleaming. “I think we got ‘em, Joe.  C’mon.”

Silently, the two men circled the building, Coffee gesturing to Joe to go around the back while he took the front.  Joe was grateful Doc was careful to be sure his hinges were oiled as he slowly opened the back door leading into the kitchen.  Softly, Joe inched his way into the house; he heard talking in the office area, where Doc’s desk stood.  More than two by the sound of the whispering.

Out front, Roy carefully brought his head around to peek in the window of the office and nodded his head in satisfaction.  Just as I suspected! he thought to himself, drawing his gun and silently entering through the front door.

Three figures were in the office, one standing near the door to the kitchen, and the other two ransacking the desk as quietly as they could.

“Nothin’!  There ain’t nothin’ here!” one hissed.

“There’s gotta be!  You just ain’t lookin’ good enough!” snapped back one of his partners.

“Actually, he’s right; there ain’t nothin’ there,” said Roy, grimly, as he stepped into the office.  “Hold it right there, fellas!  Hands up!”

Two did as they were told but the third, by the kitchen door, attempting to make his escape and tumbled right into Joe Cartwright’s path.  Joe stared hard at the thieves, his pistol trained on the one trying to run, who now saw the sense in standing still, putting his hands up, his eyes wide and scared.

Surprised by their identity, Joe looked in shock from the thieves to Roy, who was grinning from ear to ear.  “Just the way I figgered it, Little Joe!  Just exactly the way the I figgered it!”

 

Adam paced downstairs in front of the fireplace, his face a black thundercloud.  Ben sat quietly in his leather chair, and Hoss leaned against the back of the blue one, waiting as well for Doc Martin to come downstairs.

“Adam, you’re going to wear out a path in front of that fireplace,” said Ben gently.  “Come sit down.”

“I can’t sit down!” snapped Adam, continuing his pacing.  He stopped a moment, and drew in a shaky breath.  Then, exhausted, he walked to the blue chair and sank into it, defeated, covering his eyes with a hand.

“Stop beating yourself up, big brother,” consoled Hoss, patting his older brother’s shoulder over the back of the chair.

“I certainly did a good job beating up my kid, didn’t I?” he muttered, shaking his head.  ‘If I had just listened to him—”

“But Adam, he wouldn’t talk to ya!” reasoned Hoss.  “You can’t have a conversation with a body that ain’t talkin’ back with ya!”

“Adam, you had no way of knowing what was going on in his mind,” said Ben quietly.  “Pat made it all a lot harder than it had to be, though for an honorable cause.”  He drew in a deep breath and sighed. “So… it was Cassie Yates that Pat made his promise to?”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Hoss.  “There was a lot goin’ on after Adam and me got there and put that trash down, but while Adam was getting’ Pat settled into Billy’s wagon t’come on back here, Cassie managed to tell me that that Rhodes has been comin’ night after night to the Yates place, drunk and yellin’.  Cassie said that when Miz Yates first told him she didn’t want nothin’ more to do with him after the dust-up at the Flemings’, he smacked her around pretty good.  The little’un, too.  When Pat found out about that….”  Hoss shrugged.

“He turned into Sir Lancelot,” smiled Ben, sadly, thinking of the pressure the boy had been putting himself under, trying to both protect a friend, and remain true to his word.  

Hoss offered a sad smile. “I guess so.  Anyhow, up until tonight, it was just yellin’ and swearin’ to let him in, but he never broke nothin’ or tried anythin’ more.”

Ben shook his head, thinking about the greater tragedies that could have occurred tonight. He glanced at Adam, who’d been silent through Hoss’ story.  “Adam…Just remember, he’s still so young… he hasn’t had enough life experience yet to put two and two together and really understand all that can happen in situations like this.”

His eldest son sighed and glanced at him. “I know, Pa.  His sense of honor is strong, but his sense of self-preservation needs a little assistance,” he said with a weary smile.  “I just hope he…”  but the man couldn’t finish, and he swallowed hard, glancing toward the stairs again.

“He’s young, and he’s strong,” said Ben, firmly, willing his belief to become reality.  “He’ll pull through this, Adam.”

Silence fell on the room as the three men waited, on tenterhooks, listening for movement from the boy’s room upstairs.  

Hoss and Adam remembered the craziness of the scene immediately after Pat lost consciousness in Julie Yates’ front room…

 

People at that end of town had heard Cassie’s screams for help and were running toward the Yates place.  Bill Jenkins was first, and saw Adam cradling Pat in his arms, the boy a bloodied mess, and his father a nervous wreck.

 “Somebody get the doctor!” yelled Adam, easing his boy onto the floor.

 “Doc’s out at the Canfield place!” someone called.

 “I’ll go!” shouted someone else.

 “What the hell happened here?”

 “Mrs. Yates! You’re hurt, bleeding!”

Confusion reigned for a few minutes while things got sorted out.  Weeping in terror, Cassie explained what happened, that Carl Rhodes had come in drunk, trying to rape her mother, and that Pat had barreled in like a knight in shining armor to stop him.

“Carl kept beatin’ on ‘im, and beatin’ on’him,” Cassie sobbed, “but Pat just wouldn’t give up, and kept Carl away from Ma and me!  Then when the knife came out, Pat had him far enough away from us that I could run for help.”

The townspeople were shocked, more at the courageous behavior of the youngster still unconscious in his father’s arms than the attack on the woman.  Bill Jenkins came over to Adam and gently touched his shoulder.

“I got my buckboard out front, fitted with a mattress and blankets.  I sent my boy Billy out to the Canfields to get Paul.  He’ll be at his office soon.”

“No!” snapped Adam, tenderly gathering his boy in his arms, “I want Pat home, where I can take care of him.  Send Paul out to the Ponderosa as fast as he can.”

“But, Adam, if he’s hurt—”

“I said I want him home!” Adam stubbornly insisted.  He glared at the crowd, which parted to let him through.

Sighing, Hoss turned to Jenkins, shrugging his shoulders.  “Billy, could you send word to Paul?  Adam ain’t gonna change his mind.”

By the time Hoss got outside, Adam had settled Pat in as comfortably as possible, covering him warmly with blankets.

“It’s all right, son,” he said quietly to his unconscious boy.  “I’m taking you home.”

“Adam, what if he’s hurt bad, y’know, inside…wouldn’t it be better to have the Doc see him here?” asked Hoss gently.

“I checked his ribs…they’re bruised or maybe cracked, not broken,” said Adam, his face closed.  “And as far as being unconscious…it won’t matter if he’s here or at the ranch.”  

“I know, Adam, but-”

Losing control, Adam swung on his brother, his dark eyes flashing.  “Dammit, Hoss! Pat’s scared to death of doctors, and I want to be with him when Paul’s there!  And I want him to be in his own room, to know he’s safe and in his own bed! Stop arguing with me!”

“All right, Adam, all right,” sighed his younger brother, shaking his head.  Adam closed his eyes and shook his head, put out a hand to his brother’s arm, in apology.  Hoss tenderly put his own hand over his brother’s, and said softly, “C’mon. Let’s take your boy home.”

 

They got Pat back to the ranch without him waking and Adam once again lifted him and carried his son upstairs to his room.  Pat didn’t start to stir until Ben and Hoss had him undressed and Adam was tenderly cleaning him up.

The boy groaned, stirring as his father wiped his battered face as gently as possible.

“Shhhh….easy….” soothed Adam, restraining the boy’s hand from going up to his face.  Adam’s heart ached as he saw the rapidly blackening eye, nearly swollen shut, the split lip, the bruises… his boy, his baby, so badly hurt.

Pat’s good eye fluttered open, his forehead creased in pain.  “Hurts…t’ breathe…” he mumbled around his swollen lip, shifting uneasily in bed.

“I know, son,” said Adam softly, using the warm water to blot off the caked blood from his face.  “Try to stay still.  The doctor’ll be here soon and he’ll get you fixed up good as new.”

“No…doctor…,” protested Pat weakly.  Adam smiled sadly and sat down beside him in a chair, taking his hand.  

“Just take it easy, Pat,” he said gently.  “You’re going to be all right.”

“I’m…sorry I … couldn’t… tell ya, Dad,” the boy sighed, closing his eyes again in discomfort.  

Adam shut his eyes tightly and grit his teeth in self-recrimination.  “There’s nothing to be sorry about, son.  It’s all right.  Now, don’t try to talk.  Just stay still and rest. It won’t hurt as much if you lie still.”

Hop Sing came in at that point. “Boss… coffee downstairs on table.  I do this, you go.”

Helplessly, Ben glanced at the Chinese man who stalwartly nodded, his medicine chest under his arm.  Ben tapped Hoss’ shoulder and then turned to Adam.

Hop Sing, however, forestalled him, shaking his head. “Fatha need be near boy, need to know boy be all right…just until doctah come.  I be here.  You go.”

At that point, they all heard the front door open and then steps coming upstairs.  It was Paul.  He’d been up here so many times in the last fifteen years, he needed no direction or invitation.  His experienced eye took in the situation, and latched onto Hop Sing; they locked eyes and the Chinese man nodded.  Paul nodded, as well, setting his mouth in a grim line. 

He stepped to Adam’s side and gently disengaged him from Pat’s bedside.  “I don’t need to be tripping over you while I check him out, Adam,” Paul said sternly, herding the younger man toward the rest of the family by the door.   “I’ll call you if I need you.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Paul,” said Adam fiercely, digging in his heels.  “You know how frightened he is of doctors!  You think there’s any way I could leave him now?!”

“Adam, Pat and I handled that just fine before, we’ll handle it fine again.  He might even be better off without you in here.  Who’s the doctor here, anyway, you or me?” said Paul severely.

“But, Paul – “protested Adam.

Out,” he said firmly, turning Adam around and pushing him gently toward the door, not unkindly. “Hop Sing and I will take good care of him.”

Hoss took his older brother’s arm and gently pulled him toward the door.  Reluctantly, Adam took a last glance at the small, battered figure of his young son, then turned abruptly and left the room.

 

Ben poured himself a cup of coffee and glanced at Hoss.  “Yeah, thanks Pa,” nodded Hoss.  He poked his older brother.  “How about some coffee, Adam?”

Adam silently shook his head ‘no,’ his hand still over his eyes.   Minutes seemed like hours as the three men waited downstairs in awkward silence for some word from upstairs.  All three jumped when they finally heard Pat’s bedroom door close and Doc came to the top of the stairs.

Adam was on his feet in a heartbeat and at the bottom of the steps, and he actually felt a little faint to see a broad smile on Doc’s face as he rolled down his shirtsleeves on his way down.

“Relax, Daddy, he’s going to be fine,” Paul said easily.  “Two bruised ribs, one that might be cracked, a very mild concussion, a few cuts and some other pretty deep bruises… but nothing that won’t heal.  Trust me, Adam… it all looked much worse than it actually is.”

Adam tried to push by him and continue up the stairs, but Paul latched on tight. “Hang on, there, Adam,” he said calmly, but firmly.  “Hop Sing’s getting him cleaned up and into bed.  Why don’t you sit for a minute and let me fill you on the rest of his condition while that’s going on, hm?”  

Anxiously, Adam’s eyes went back up the stairs, but he finally nodded, and walked wearily back to his chair, sinking into it.

“Coffee, Paul?”

“Yes, please, Ben,” nodded the doctor, accepting the cup and coming to sit on the settee.  “Now, that’s not to say Pat’s going to want to be bouncing up and around any time real soon.  He’s going to need bed rest for at least a week.  Trust me, he isn’t going to want to do much more than that for the first day or two, anyway.  The hard part’ll come on day three or four when he wants to get up; don’t let him.”  Paul sipped his cup and sighed with tired pleasure. 

Ben smiled to himself, thinking of times he’d had to enforce ordered bed rest for all three of his boys over their lifetimes.

Paul opened his eyes again and looked between Ben and Adam.  “I’ve given him a pretty good dose of laudanum to help him sleep tonight.  As you saw, he’s hurting quite a bit, and sleep is going to be the best thing for him right now.  I’ve left the bottle up on his bureau.  You may give him a dose, a good spoonful, every six hours or so tomorrow while the pain’s bad.  But only tomorrow,” he warned. “He should feel a lot better in two or three days.  He’s likely to run a low fever from the shock to his body, but that shouldn’t be a major problem. It’s not unusual, and nothing to worry about.”

“What can we do for him, Paul?” asked Adam, under control once again.

“Well, he could use a little mothering, Adam, but I suppose fathering will do,” smiled Paul, gently.  He grew serious.  “I won’t kid you, Adam.  He’s going to be a very uncomfortable boy in the morning; those are some deep bruises he’s got, and they’re going to hurt like the very devil.”

Adam winced; he’d had bruised ribs, more than once.  He remembered that feeling and wished with everything he had there was a way he could shoulder his boy’s pain.  But he knew there wasn’t.  

“Now, ice’ll help.  Also, ice packs for the black eye and swollen lip.  He’s also likely to have one hell of a headache when he wakes up.  Thank God there’s nothing more hardheaded than you Cartwrights.  The concussion is mild.  Cold compresses if that fever I was talking about does develop.  Make him keep sipping liquids. Water is best, it won’t be so tough on his stomach. Between the concussion and the amount of blood he swallowed, I’ll bet he’s going to feel pretty sick.  Keep him as quiet, and as comfortable as you can.  Oh, thank you, Hoss,” nodded Paul, relieved, as he picked up the plate with a slice of pie the big man rested next to him on the oak table.  “First thing I’ve eaten since lunch.”  He took a bite, eyes closing in bliss, and the taste of the pie reminded him.  “Oh, and don’t fuss at him if he isn’t very hungry but try to get him to eat something by late on tomorrow… keep it soft and bland.  He didn’t lose any teeth, thank God, but the inside of his mouth is pretty badly cut up; it’s gonna be damned sore for quite a few days.  Some of Hop Sing’s custard or some scrambled eggs… good food that’ll help him build his strength back up without having to chew and without it hurting his mouth.”  Paul studied the worried father before him, struggling to commit to memory all of these instructions, and smiled gently, setting down his pie and leaning forward, arms on his thighs, hands clasped. 

“Adam… truly, he’s going to be all right.  He’ll have a rough few days, but he’s young and he’s strong.  He’ll recover.  Hop Sing knows what to do, believe me.  And trust me… I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if by this time next week you’ll be yelling at him again for doing some fool thing, I promise you.”

Adam nodded, his mouth compressed, and walked toward the stairs, then stopped, turning back.  “Thanks, Paul,” he said, meaningfully, and continued up to his son.  

“I’ll go out to the ice house and fix up them compresses,” offered Hoss, itching to do something, anything. 

Ben watched him go, and turned to look after Adam, turning at the landing and heading down the hall to Pat’s room.  He sighed.  “Thank God, the boy’s going to be all right,” he said quietly, still gazing after his son.

Paul also watched Adam go, and said quietly, “That’s quite a grandson you’ve got there.  Billy Jenkins told me what he did for Julie Yates.  You should be very proud of him.”

Ben nodded quietly, humbled.  “We are, Paul.  We are.”

 

Adam sat by his son’s side all night, a book in his hands.  Pat stirred and moaned in his sleep several times but didn’t wake.  As dawn began to seep through the curtains, Pat finally opened his eyes and promptly winced, hurting all over.  His head was pounding mercilessly and he muttered.  Adam jerked awake, and glanced down, leaning closer.

 “Hey, buddy,” he said softly, stroking a lock of black hair off his son’s forehead.  “How do you feel?”

 “…Like a mule… kicked me,” came the slurred, groggy response.  “…my head… aches…”

 “Somewhere along the line, you banged the back of your head pretty bad.  You have a mild concussion,” said Adam gently, reaching around behind him for a glass of water.  “Here, son, sip this.”

Pat groaned as his father slipped a strong, gentle arm behind him and eased him up a little but drank the water thirstily.  

“Slow down… you don’t want to bring it right back up again,” said Adam gently.  “Those ribs won’t thank you.”

Exhausted, Pat sank back on his pillows and sighed.  Adam put the glass back. “Hungry?”

“No,” whispered the boy, tiredly, wincing; trying to speak really hurt.  “Dad…Cassie… okay?  And her ma?”

“Thanks to you, yes.  Mrs. Yates got a cut on her arm, but I heard it wasn’t too serious, just a few stitches needed.”  Adam swallowed hard and patted his son’s arm.  “Patrick, I…I’m so proud of you.”

Pat managed a small smile, but it didn’t last.   A spasm in his chest made him flinch and moan again, and Adam placed an ice pack against the sorest spots.  Pat shivered a moment, then tried to lay back and relax.  

“Try to lie as still as you can, Pat,” said Adam quietly, covering him up warmly.  “Your ribs’ll hurt less that way.  I know, I’ve been there.  Why don’t you close those eyes and try to sleep some more, all right?”

Patrick nodded quietly but was unable to settle. The youngster said nothing, but he was acutely aware that yesterday’s tanning was still fresh enough to make having to lie on his back damned uncomfortable; unfortunately, his ribs wouldn’t allow him to do anything else. He closed his eyes unhappily, shifting to try to find a position that didn’t make him want to bust out cryin’.  Finally, Adam took his hand, and gently suggested, “Just squeeze when it hurts, Pat.”  Almost instantaneously, Adam felt the strength of his boy as he gripped, surprisingly hard, and hissed in air.

Remembering something Pat had said, Adam started softly humming the melody of “The Whistling Gypsy” which seemed to soothe him.  Adam watched over his boy tenderly as Pat drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

 

Near two in the morning, Joe had come home, full of the news of what had happened to Pat as well as what he and Roy had accomplished.  He barreled in the door while Ben was still downstairs, brewing a pot of coffee, unable to sleep.  

“Whoa, take it easy!” admonished Ben.

“Pat!” Joe panted.  “Is he all right?!”

“He’s pretty banged up.  Doc’ll be back in the morning to check on him again,” reassured Ben.  “Where the devil have you been all night?”

Joe sighed and flopped unceremoniously into a kitchen chair.  “We got ‘em, Pa!”

The coffee cup in Ben’s hand clattered to the floor, smashing.  Startled both Joe and Ben glanced down; sheepishly, Ben carefully picked up the pieces. I’m getting too damned old for this…  “What, tonight?!” he demanded.

“Yeah.  Roy and I were out at Doc’s, where the Sheriff laid a trap… and since Doc’s place is clear on the other side of Virginia City we didn’t hear anything about the hullabaloo at the Yates place until Adam was already on the way home with Pat.”  Joe went to the cupboard where Hop Sing kept a broom and dustpan and fetched them.

“Well?  How long are you going to keep me in suspense?” Ben demanded, irritably, his eyes on the largest shards he was gathering together.

“Remember those three hooligans that beat up Pat in the churchyard?” grinned Joe.  Ben’s head snapped up in shock.  

 “What… Κen Shepherd’s boy?  And Tommy Sanders?  And, what’s his name, Norbert’s youngster?”

“Yep,” nodded Joe, sweeping up the remaining shards.  “They were pretty upset with Pat for holding his own against them the way he did and decided to get him into trouble.”

Ben shook his head wearily.  “All of this trouble, all of this heartache… because of some naughty, spoiled little boys…”

“Yes, sir,” said Joe.  As Ben settled at the kitchen table with a fresh cup, Joe looked at him more closely.  “Pa… Doc says Pat’s gonna be all right, though?” he asked worriedly.

Ben sighed and smiled.  “Yeah.  He’s going to be fine.  He’ll be hurting pretty bad for several days, but by next week he should be up and around again.  Like I said, Paul said he’d stop by later today to check on him.  After he delivers Mrs. Canfield’s baby.  It appears she actually did go into labor tonight.”

Joe’s machine-gun giggle rippled through the kitchen. 

 

Paul had been right; Pat recovered beautifully.  He did have two very difficult, painful days, where the only things that seemed to keep him calm and quiet were the laudanum Paul had left behind and his father, either singing or playing his guitar to soothe him.  

Paul had also been right in that, by the third day, Pat was beginning to feel a bit better.  As the days progressed, and Pat’s pain eased enough for him to be alert enough, Adam found reading to him relaxed him as well.    

 

“ ‘ The World was all before them, where to choose 

                 Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide: 

                 They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow, 

                 Through EDEN took thir solitarie way.’ ”

 

 “‘Their solitary way’,” Pat repeated softly, a little drowsy.  “I feel like that’s what I always walked.  What’s that from?”

 “‘Paradise Lost,’ John Milton,” replied Adam, slipping a bookmark into the worn, slim volume.  

 “I seen that—”

 “I saw that,” prompted his father with a smile.

Pat sighed, unable to roll his eyes without the swollen one hurting.  “Okay, I saw that book before.  It’s old, ain’t …isn’t it?”

Adam nodded, looking at the book in his hands.  “It was your grandmother’s.  Pa said he used to read from it to my mother.”

Pat studied his father.  “You never knew her,” he said softly, a statement rather than a question.

Adam shook his head, sighing and set the book on the bedside table. “Nope.  She died when I was born.”

“How’d you feel about that?”

“Guilty.  For a long time when I was very small, I felt like I’d killed her.  It took a lot of talking for my father to make me understand it wasn’t my fault.”

Pat frowned a little, glanced slightly at Adam, then bit his lip.  “Dad… were you ever… ever mad at her… for dyin’ on ya?” Pat eyes were focused on the quilt under his left hand.  His right was too sore to use, with his knuckles bruised and split.  His left hand, however, picked at the stitching of the quilt… and Adam, smiled sadly to see that there were several places where this was the case.  Places where, obviously, Pat had worried the stitching as deeply as his thoughts worried his young mind.

Adam tilted his head to the side.  “Yes… those thoughts pretty much sat side by side with the guilty ones I’d carried, thinking that because she died when I was born it was my fault she died at all,” he admitted, studying his son’s face.  “Why?  You feeling a bit of anger at your mother?”

Pat shrugged slightly, then hissed in air between clenched teeth.  Well, now, that was a damn fool thing to do! he winced to himself, irritably.  He carefully lay his aching head back on the pillows. “I been goin’ over it and over it in my mind this last day or two,” he said softly. “I been so, so angry at her… I broke… well, I broke one o’ the last promises I made to ‘er.  She made me promise not to go the street where the parade was happenin…  you know, back in New York,” he said quietly, looking up at Adam to see if he understood.  

When his father nodded, Pat sighed.  “But my friends and me… I mean, every boy in Hell’s Kitchen was gonna be there!  This was the biggest thing to happen in our part o’ town in ages.  And there was all kinda talk about the Catholics fightin’ back. For sure we wanted to be there!” Pat said grimly, a certain amount of stubborn pride in that young voice and his blue eyes cold as ice.  

Adam felt a frisson of something… what Joe’s Ma, Marie, used to call déjà vu … that sense of seeing again something you’d lived through or seen before.  Hearing Patrick’s voice and seeing that coldness in his blue eyes made Adam’s mouth go dry for he could hear the boy’s mother, see her as she bitterly recounted the tale of her family’s fate at the hands of the Crown back in 1855.  Adam had no time to assimilate these thoughts, however, as Patrick continued.

“But later,” Pat faltered, wincing and laying his head back again, “later, all I could think about was… was how if she’d’a just stayed away like she wanted me to do, she’d still be… ”   His voice gave out and the boy hauled in a shuddering breath, shaking his head.  Adam leaned in a little and put a gentle hand on his son’s leg.  He could see thoughts and emotions that Patrick had buried for four months were bubbling to the surface, and it was likely going to be rough sailing.  

Pat’s face grew red with the effort not to cry. “If it was so damn dangerous for me, then it was dangerous for her, too!  She was all I had!  How could she?  How could she DO that to me?!” he demanded of his father pounding his fist on his own leg in emphasis, his young face twisted in pain and betrayal.  

Adam wanted to gather him in close but forced himself to give Pat room… give the boy the choice of when to accept comfort.  He’d been given so little self-rule; young as he was, Adam knew the last thing Pat needed was to have that right taken away from him yet again.  No, right now, the boy needed to get this out, to lance the boil and let the infection of these feelings drain.  Not to mention, right now any hug Adam offered would likely hurt like the very devil.

“Pat, I don’t know the answer to that, other than that I know how much the Irish troubles were at the center of who she was, even long back when I knew her.  I think you and I have something in common… as much as we loved her, we’re both pretty angry at her right now, too.”

Pat drew in a shallow breath and glanced through tear-dampened lashes at his father.  

“Son, I loved Siobhan with everything I was and everything I had, but right now… right now I’m so angry at her I can barely stand it.  I am so, so angry that she never told me … about you.  That she denied me my son….my son!”  Adam’s lips trembled slightly as he shook his head. “She knew how to get in touch with me… you being here is proof of that!  But she never did, not until she couldn’t stand between us any longer!  She let both of us, you and I, believe whatever suited her to keep us apart, and I’m having a damned hard time forgiving her for that. When I learned about you, all I wanted to do was shake her until her teeth rattled, until she told me WHY.”

Pat stared at his father, torn so badly between wanting to defend his ma, and feeling just as angry as Adam did, and for the same reasons.  

“But son, that’s the one question you and I will probably never get the answer to,” Adam shrugged sadly. “Because it sounds like she’s the only one who knows, and she can’t tell us now.  So, we’re going to have to work at it, Pat… we’re going to have to work hard, both of us, at forgiving her so that we can keep the other memories alive.  The good ones.  The one you have of your Ma singing you to sleep… mine of her walking with me through a Boston snowfall, catching snowflakes on her tongue…” He winced at the vividness of the memory, and the pain of her loss that it evoked.  Adam drew in his own shallow, shuddering breath, and shook his head.  “Pat, she loved you so much, I know she did.  I know it because of how she raised you,” he said, shrugging his shoulder, and reaching out a gentle hand to stroke his son’s lean cheek in one of few places that wasn’t discolored or bruised.  “I never knew my mother.  But you did, and … and I’m glad of it.”

Pat sniffed and nodded.  “Yeah… I guess I am lucky, really.  At least I had thirteen years with mine.”

Adam smiled at his son.  “Yes, you did.  I wish I’d had that long with your mother—and mine.”

Pat leaned back against his pillows, grimacing a little as his sore ribs informed him in no uncertain terms he should lie still. 

Adam patted his son’s leg, gently… it was a start.  He knew they’d need to revisit this subject many times over the next months until they’d helped each other get everything into proper perspective, but for now, he was grateful Pat had been willing to share what he did tonight.

Pat sighed a little. “You know, you ain’t never told me what it was like between you two.  I mean, I knew her as my ma… you knew her as something else.”

Adam quietly leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs, allowing his mind to drift back in time.  “Yes, something else entirely.”  He glanced at his son, who was in turn studying him.  He smiled, wryly.  “Did she ever tell you how we met?”

Pat shook his head, very slightly.

“I was at am Irish saloon in Boston with a bunch of my college friends, drunk.  Too drunk to get home by myself without falling into the Charles River,” he said, with a self-effacing smile.  

Pat stared at him and sniggered.  “Yer joshin’,” he snorted.

“Oh, you’d better believe it,” Adam replied grimly.  “I was young, wild and stupid once, too, you know.  You want to hear the rest of this, or not?”

“Sorry,” grinned Pat, settling into the pillows to enjoy the story.

“Your mother was a barmaid there.  It was November, and bitter cold.  Believe it or not, they’d taken me out for my birthday, promptly forgot me and wobbled themselves home, leaving me there, dead drunk.  She knew I couldn’t get home, since she’d heard us talking about my grandfather’s house being all the way on the other side of town, so she had the bartender and one of the bouncers drag me upstairs to one of the back rooms.  She could have lost her job, but she did it anyway.  I was sick as a dog the next morning and had to sit there and endure one of the worst chewing-outs I’d ever suffered through.”

Pat chuckled, trying not to laugh hard; it hurt too much.  “And you fell in love with a shrew,” he smiled.

Adam smiled in return, grateful to see his son’s natural resilience seemed to be giving him a little peace and ability to recover.

“No, that came a day or two later, when I came back to thank her, and we went for a walk around the college.  In about fifteen minutes I realized that she was the one for me.”  He looked off into space remembering.  “She was so beautiful. I took her to concerts, read to her. We talked about everything under the sun. She would come to my rooms that I shared occasionally with a good friend, and while I studied she would brew tea, and sing softly.  My buddy threatened to fall in love with her himself if I didn’t declare myself pretty soon.”

 “Did ya?”

Adam sighed.  “I tried to.  All the way through that winter, I told her about the Ponderosa, and about your grandfather and your uncles, and how I wanted to take her home with me.  She in turn told me about Ireland, about the awful tragedy of her father and her brothers being hanged.  I knew she felt my English heritage also hung there between us, and I couldn’t seem to break through that.

“It was an awfully cold March, and we spent a lot of time indoors, either at the library, or at the music conservatory…or…” and Adam blushed, but Pat grinned. 

“Yeah, I guess you did,” he said cheekily.  

Adam warned him with a glance but tried to hide his own grin.  

“The last night we saw each other, your mother and I had a terrible fight.  I’d proposed to her again a few days earlier, and she turned me down.  I ranted, I raved, I pleaded, I argued.  But nothing would change her mind.  She’d been awfully preoccupied all week, and this snapped it.  When she left that night, angry, it was the last time I ever saw her.  I even tried to write to her, giving the letter to another of the barmaids, a friend of your mother’s and of mine, asking her to find someone to read it to Siobhan, but I heard nothing more.”

Pat nodded, soberly, thinking.  “The one time she told me that you asked her to marry ya, she told me that she decided that night to leave for New York.  She’d just found out she was carryin’ me.  She said…” he swallowed hard, remembering that argument in their flat just days before the riot.  “She said she loved ya too much to ruin your chance at a good life.”

Adam sighed.  “Pat, I don’t know if I can make you believe me, but you have to know I would never have abandoned her.”

Pat made a face, raised a hand and waved it as though to push away his father’s statement.  “‘Course I do.  I know that.”  He sighed.  “You know she never really loved anybody but you?” he stated seriously, looking at his dad.

“I wondered why she never married,” Adam mused quietly.  “I mean, I knew I loved her, but when she took off…” he couldn’t finish, and had to swallow hard.  “What about Tom Ryan and Ray Connelly?”

 “She was real fond o’them,” said Pat, remembering.  “Tom, especially.  I think Ray reminded her of you, but Tom was real good to her, as well as awful good to me.”  The boy sniffled a little.  “I really miss ‘em. Both of ‘em.”

“Why don’t you write them?” asked his father with a smile.  “That’d be a great surprise for them, wouldn’t it?”

Pat winced, and turned away, two fat tears slipping down the boy’s cheeks, alarming his father. “What is it, Pat? Has the pain got bad again?”

Pat shook his head and sighed.  “Ma always dreamed of me learnin’ to read and write, somethin’ she was never able t’do,” he choked out. “We could never afford it.  Ray offered to pay for what I’d lose in wages, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”  He raised his head up and his blue eyes shone.  “Thanks for letting her dream come true.  I sure wish she coulda known.”

Adam’s hazel eyes welled at that one and he reached out a hand to wipe away his son’s tears.  “She knows, Pat.  Believe me, she knows.”  

As Pat eased back onto his pillows, he thought of something.  “Wait… You say you wrote to her?” he asked, his forehead creased in thought.

“Yeah.  Why?”

“I wonder…” Pat thought, trying to sit up, and grimacing in discomfort.  “Ow!”

“Whoa, young man, stay still,” admonished Adam, gently pushing him back to his pillows.  

Pat sighed, frustrated. “Under my mattress, there’s a bundle of stuff,” he said softly.

Adam eyed him curiously and reached underneath.  His eyes widened as his hands touched something soft, made of linen.  He drew it out, and stared in surprise, then handed it to his son.

 “This was all she had when she died,” he said quietly, fumbling with the knot.  Adam’s eyes studied his son, then looked down at the opened bundle on the boy’s lap.  His breath caught painfully in his chest as he saw the program, the dried rose, the ring…and the letter.  His and Siobhan’s past together, wrapped up in one of his old handkerchiefs.

Pat picked up the worn envelope and turned it over, seeing the handwriting and wincing, recognizing his father’s penmanship. “Is this it?” he asked softly, eyeing his father.

Unable to speak, Adam nodded, a lump in his throat.  Pat silently handed it to his father, but Adam shook his head.  “Read it,” he choked, gesturing at the envelope in his boy’s bruised hand.

Pat was troubled, but opened the worn envelope and withdrew the yellowed, much-handled stationery.  Pat still was at the stage of moving his lips as he read and found the handwriting and some of the words a bit of a struggle, but by the end of the letter, tears were streaming down his face.  “You did love her,” he whispered, hiccupping and unable to look at his father.  “You really did.  You really, really wanted to marry her.”

“Oh, yes,” nodded Adam, blinking back his own tears.  “I wanted her more than anything in the world, Pat.”

Pat sighed and folded the sheet up again sliding it awkwardly, one-handed, back into the battered envelope, and leaned back again on his pillows.  The entire brick wall he’d worked hard to build for thirteen years had completely crumbled. In its place was a surrounding sense of protection and caring that felt fresh and new, unfamiliar and yet welcome. He was also surprised to note that not since she’d died had his mother felt so close by as she did right now, almost as if she were there with the two men she’d loved most in her short life.  

Adam reached out and squeezed his son’s less-battered left hand gently. When Pat finally opened his eyes and gazed back at him with the beautiful blue eyes of his lost love, it almost felt as though all three were together, sitting on that bed.

 “‘Memories and dreams are precious things,’” Adam said brokenly, remembering something his father had once told him.  “‘They’re always there when you need them most.’” *

 

 

By the end of the week, Pat was well enough to be allowed out of bed for short periods of time.  His lip was healing nicely, his black eye now merely discolored, with the swelling reduced greatly; even his ribs weren’t quite as sore.  But Doc still insisted that Pat must rest for much of the day because of the head injury.  Protesting, Pat was forced to remain quietly on the settee in front of a roaring fire.

“Pat, either you sit still here, or it’s back to bed,” said his father calmly, with a smile, supporting Pat as he helped him walk slowly downstairs.  “Which is it going to be?”

Pat glanced at the settee and scowled.  Gingerly, still protecting his ribs, he eased down onto it, sulking.  Smiling, Adam tucked a blanket around him.  Pat wouldn’t look at him, making his father chuckle, and ruffle his hair.  Both looked up as they heard a knock on the door.

Hop Sing trotted to the door and opened it.  Snow swirled in around the open door and he backed away to allow a woman and a young girl to come in.  Pat’s face split in a happy smile, one that he dampened slightly as the split lip protested.

“Cassie!  Mrs. Yates!” he grinned.

The woman, her arm in a sling, came into the great room, a smile on her face.  Cassie, too, was beaming.  “I hope we’re not intruding,” said Mrs. Yates, softly.  “Dr. Martin said Pat would probably feel up to having visitors today.”

“I think he could use it.  He’s suffering from a bit of cabin fever,” grinned Adam.  Cassie came around and sat on the oak table beside the settee, smiling at her friend.

Mrs. Yates smiled at Adam, then came around beside her daughter.

“Patrick, I don’t know what to say to make you realize how grateful we are to you.  If you hadn’t been there when you were…” she stopped, overcome.  She looked down and sighed.

“I’m just glad I was,” said Pat with a blush.  “Rhodes in jail?”

Mrs. Yates nodded.  “Sheriff Coffee locked him up and the circuit judge will be through next week,” she said, relieved.

“The sheriff hopes you’ll be well enough to testify,” said Cassie seriously.  “Says that would nail the case shut.”

“Cassie!” chided her mother.  “Pat may not feel up to it.”

“Oh, no, ma’am, you bet I’ll be there,” said Pat firmly, nodding, making Adam smile.

“You’re a real hero in town, you know that?” grinned Cassie.  Surprised, Pat glanced at his father and Mrs. Yates, then back at Cassie.

“You’re kiddin’!” he said, confused.

“Nope!  A real, silver-lined hero!”

“Man, this town is the strangest place,” he sighed, shaking his head.  

“Don’t worry, Pat, I’m sure they’ll find something to pin on you in a few weeks when you’re back to your old self,” grinned Adam, leaning against the blue velvet chair.

They chatted and visited for a while, then Mrs. Yates noticed Pat’s eyes beginning to droop a little with weariness.

“Well, we won’t keep you, I know Patrick probably needs a nap,” said Mrs. Yates, smiling, “and Cassie and I have some errands to do.  Mrs. Devlin needs some dressmaking done for her daughter’s wedding.”

“Aw, not yet!” protested Pat, wincing as he sat up too quickly.

“There, you see?” said Mrs. Yates, firmly, kissing his cheek, and making him blush.  “You do need to rest.  You’ll be up and around soon, and we can visit again.  Good-bye, dear, and thank you.”

“Yes, Pat,” said Cassie shyly.  “Thank you.”  And she leaned over and kissed his cheek as well.  Pat’s face grew as red as a tomato, and he shifted uncomfortably, though sort of enjoying it as well.  If Adam had harbored any worries about his son’s innocence, they were forgotten.  For at least a short time longer…

 

Cassie and Mrs. Yates were the first of a steady stream of visitors from Virginia City to beat a path to the Ponderosa’s door.  Women laden with pies, cookies and cakes, little children wanting to hang on every word of the magnificent tale of Pat’s swashbuckling derring-do, men shamefacedly offering their apologies to father and son alike.  Pat was uncomfortable through the whole process, wishing they’d all just go home and leave him alone.  But he manfully swallowed his embarrassment and endured, trying hard not to get surly.  He was unspeakably grateful, though, when a full week had gone by and things began to return to normal. 

He fussed and fumed about having to rest, until the family was at their wits’ end, but Adam grinned, knowing that with each tantrum Pat was feeling better and returning to his old self.  When Doc allowed him to resume, with good sense stressed, most of his usual routine (“No riding yet, clear?!”), Pat happily started to get back to life as usual on the ranch.

He even managed to hint a bit at a momentous occasion soon to be occurring.  One evening at supper, he cleared his throat and glanced at his father.

“Y’know, you told me your birthday is this month, too,” with emphasis on the final word.  “When is it?”

Adam smiled; eyebrow cocked.  “It should be easy for you to remember.  It’s the same day as yours.”

Pat’s eyes widened.  “The fourteenth?!” he breathed.  “Yer kiddin’!”

“Nope.  November fourteenth.”

Pat did some mental calculations.  “Then this’ll be your thirty-fifth, right?”

“Yep.  Don’t add any years to that, all right?”

“But that’s a special one, ain’t it?” grinned Pat at his grandfather and uncles.  “You’re gonna throw him a party, ain’t ya?”

Ben chuckled.  “You think a birthday party is needed?  After all, when folks get to be as ‘old’ as your father, we tend to stop thinking about birthdays…”

“Hey!” protested Adam, with a grin.

Hoss innocently reached for more fried chicken.  “Yep, we just tend to forget about it, Pat.  Ain’t a good idea to remind old folks like your pa of how close they are to their Maker.”

“Yeah,” sighed Joe, his eyes twinkling.  “At his age, we just treat it like any other day.”

Ben smiled but became a little sad as well.  It had always been difficult for him to celebrate Adam’s birthday.  Not that he didn’t dearly love his son, but celebrating his birth also reminded him of the loss of his first love, his beautiful Elizabeth.  Now, perhaps, Liz had sent him a reminder that life goes on.  A new reason to celebrate the day, in the birth of their grandson.

 “A party…” mused Ben, smiling at his oldest son.  “I don’t know… maybe it’s long past time for one, Adam.”  His eyes widened solemnly.  “After all, at your advanced age, we don’t know how many you may have left.”

The table erupted in laughter as the five Cartwrights made their plans for a double birthday party at the end of week.

 

~-oo0oo-~

Author’s note: * From Bonanza, Season 2: Episode 22, “Elizabeth, My Love”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

November 14, 1871

“Missa Patlick!  Missa Patlick, fatha say you get up now or no bleakfast!” 

Pat yawned and rolled over in bed, cussing under his breath.  “Okay, Hop Sing,” he grumbled.  “I’m gettin’ up.”

Pat shivered a bit and swung his long legs out of bed, hastily reaching for his clothes on the chair beside his bed.  As the nights grew colder, he’d learned quickly to leave his clothes for the next day by his bed, grab ‘em the next morning and pull ‘em on while still in bed where it was warm.  The fact that he presented a slightly rumpled appearance each morning didn’t bother him in the least!

Sleepily, he yanked on his boots and walked to his bureau to run a quick brush through his hair to make himself presentable for the table.  As he raised his eyes to see where the brush was going, Pat suddenly remembered, and a happy grin split his face.

It was his birthday!  He was fourteen years old!  Quickly, Pat brushed his hair and made sure he was ready, then hurried out the door and down the stairs to breakfast.

Everyone was already there and were halfway through their meal.

“Mornin’!” he grinned, sliding into his seat.

He was greeted warmly by the rest of the family, but his father cocked an eyebrow.  “You almost missed breakfast altogether, buster,” he said good-naturedly.  “Keep that nonsense up and you’re going to be as bad about getting out of bed as your Uncle Joe.”

Pat waited a little expectantly, but nothing was forthcoming about his special day, so he simply dug into his breakfast and demolished it.  Adam surreptitiously glanced at his son with a small smile, happy to note that his appetite was certainly back to normal!

Adam was grateful for the speed with which Pat seemed to be recovering from his injuries; Doc Martin had proclaimed him nearly good as new and had simply warned the boy that his still-healing ribs would let him know, in no uncertain terms, when he was doing too much too fast.  

By the end of breakfast, Pat was a little miffed.  No one had said anything.  Maybe they’d forgotten? he thought.  But it was his father’s birthday, too!  And there was going to be that big party tonight!  Frowning a little, Pat set down his fork and decided to move things along.

“Uh…Happy Birthday, Dad!”  he said tentatively, with a smile.  At the reactions he received, mock looks of surprise, Pat grinned.

“Oh, is that today?”  asked his grandfather, innocently.

The pretense didn’t last long, however.   

“Right after breakfast, I think we’ll let him open his gifts from us, boys, what do you say?” smiled Granddad.  Hoss and Joe grinned.

Pat gulped down his milk, to finish up with the rest of them, and looked so patiently expectant that his family laughed and decided not to make him wait any further. 

Uncle Joe had started things off by presenting him with his first rifle, and the promise to take him hunting and teach him how to use it properly.  Excited, Pat examined the magnificent weapon and crowed over it gratefully.  Granddad pointed to its place of honor in the gun rack, right beside his own beautifully inlaid Winchester.

Granddad had made him close his eyes and walked him outside in the wind to see his gift to him.  Pat was puzzled as he was walked to the front door and onto the porch, shivering in the cold. 

Pat opened his eyes and they continued widening until Adam laughed, thinking they were going to pop out of his head.  There, on a halter held by Uncle Joe, was the beautiful black horse Pat had seen in the corral in September.  He’d thought the horse had been marked for sale to the Army, but Ben and the boys had kept the secret all these months.

 “I’ll teach you how to break him to saddle and bit, and how to make him your partner,” grinned Joe.  “He’ll be as much a part of the family as Cochise.”

 “Yeah, well I draw the line at lettin’ ‘im drink from my coffee cup!” laughed Pat, then turning to and hugging Ben.  “He’s beautiful, Granddad.  Thanks.”

“Cain’t ride without one o’these,” said Hoss shyly, hauling out from under the porch table a beautifully hand-tooled saddle.  Pat’s eyes shone as his hand ran over the intricate leather work.  He looked up at his uncle, thrilled.  “It’s wonderful, Uncle Hoss,” he said softly.  “I love it, thank you.”

Pat was overwhelmed… never in all his life had he had birthday gifts like these.  He turned to his father with a huge smile.  “Ain’t it all great?” he asked, gleefully.

“Yes, it is,” smiled Adam, leaning against the door jamb.  “But I don’t know about you… I’m freezing!”  And with a smile, Adam returned to the house.

Pat, after grabbing his jacket, had gone with Joe and Hoss to the barn, getting his horse, whom he promptly named Black Jack, settled into his stall.  Pat buried his face in the horse’s mane and sighed.  It was almost too much to take in.   Pat gave his saddle another gentle swipe of his hand, once again studying the craftsmanship and excitedly pointing out its merits to his uncles as they watched, fondly.

An hour later, he walked back to the house, a wide smile on his face and a bounce in his step.  His father and grandfather were seated in front of the fire, reading.

“Up to your room,” Adam said in mock severity.  Startled, wondering what he could have done wrong between breakfast and now, Pat looked worriedly at his father until he saw the sly smile on his face as he continued to stare down at his book.  Grinning, Pat pelted up the stairs, hearing his father and grandfather laughing behind him.

On his bed was a huge box with a big ribbon on it.  Pat ripped off the ribbon and tore open the box, his eyes widening in delight: it was filled with dozens of beautiful books!  In wonder, he drew them out, one by one, examining the titles and the bindings:  Kipling, Forester, Twain, Dickens, filled with stories bound to fire a boy’s imagination.  His eyes shone with tears as he realized he could read the titles, he could understand the words on the pages.  That had truly been the real gift. 

 

The party that night had been wonderful; all their dearest friends had been invited and shared in the fun of a double-birthday party at the Ponderosa.  The youngsters invited enjoyed the hot chocolate and cake.  The adults warmed themselves up on Ben’s now-famous punch.  There had been singing and dancing, and a wonderful time was had by all, even Adam who normally shunned these kinds of things; parties held in his honor tended to embarrass him, but being able to share the event with Pat made it fun.  He’d even pulled out his guitar and he and Pat led the singing, with Pat teaching the guests some of the Irish songs he’d grown up with.

Pat and Cassie, and Mike and a few other kids their age spent a good amount of time together, sitting by the hearth, laughing and talking and planning winter escapades together.  Adam was able, occasionally, to shirk his hosting duties to just simply stand to the side and enjoy watching his son.

What a difference from the sullen, angry, and defiant brat that had arrived here in August! he thought to himself with a smile.  Instead of the skinny, sharp-featured street-tough, there by the hearth sat a tanned, healthy, vibrant youngster, his handsome face shining with a big smile, full of the promise of the man he’d become in just a few short years.  Adam sighed a little wistfully at that.  His boy wouldn’t be a boy much longer.

He started slightly as he felt someone come up beside him, and smiled warmly as he saw it was his father, following his gaze and smiling at the boy who had become so much an integral part of the family.

“Happy birthday, Adam,” said his father, eyeing his son with unusual tenderness.

“Thanks, Pa,” he said softly.  Ben put a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder.

“So, what do you think of fatherhood so far, son?”

Adam sighed, with a smile.  “‘It’s a learning process,’” he quoted lightly, making his father chuckle.  “But I’m grateful it’s a lesson I was given to learn.”

 

Pat had been sorry to see it end; he’d had such a good time!  The warmth and friendship extended to him was everything he could have dreamed of, and certainly more than he’d ever expected after his first couple of months here in Nevada.  

Now, all the guests had gone, leaving just the Cartwrights relaxing in front of the fire and Hop Sing, patiently straightening up and clearing away.  It was way past Patrick’s bedtime, but his father allowed him to stay up a little longer to relax and unwind with the family.  With the party finished, and everyone slowly coming down off the excitement of the evening, Adam walked to the bookcase and removed a small package, wrapped in paper.

“I wanted this to be the last gift,” he said softly, as he walked to his son.

“But you already gave me my present,” said Pat in wonder.  How could there possibly be more?

“This one’s kind of special.  I’d like to think it’s from both your mother and me,” said Adam gently, as he handed it over.  

Pat studied his father and accepted the package, slowly turning it over and feeling it’s heft.  His fingers deftly undid the string and opened the package, and his eyes welled with tears.  He stared at the precious gift in his hand and then slowly looked up at his father.

“Thank you,” he said brokenly.  “It’s beautiful.”  He couldn’t speak, and just buried himself in his father’s arms, hugging him tightly, while his grandfather and his uncles looked on fondly. Pat broke away first and shyly retreated to the gun rack.  He opened a lower cupboard door, pulling out a small beautifully wrapped box and an envelope.  He slowly walked to his father and handed them to him.

“Happy Birthday, Dad,” he said softly.

Adam looked at him in surprise.  Pat had a gift for him?  When on earth…?  He’d been home recuperating since the incident at the Yates’, and hadn’t been to town…  He stared at his son as he accepted the box and the envelope.  He smiled slightly.  “Which first?”

“Don’t….doesn’t matter,” Pat replied, correcting himself and beginning to blush.  Adam walked to the settee and sat down. He set the envelope and box on the oak table before him and began unwrapping the box.  “Hop Sing helped me wrap it up…used some special Chinese folding,” continued Pat, chattering in his nervousness, as he glanced at the Chinese man, now hovering nearby, fussing with the silver coffee service and waiting to see Mister Adam’s reaction to his son’s birthday gift.  Hop Sing was the only one Pat had shared this secret with, and he had approved whole-heartedly.  Hop Sing beamed at Patrick, nodding his head.  The rest of the family was looking on, bemused.

Adam grinned and undid the flimsy tissue inside and looked.  His face paled a little, and he glanced at his son earnestly, then withdrew the handkerchief wrapped bundle of Siobhan’s possessions.   “Oh, Pat, no,” he said softly, gently.  “Son, these are yours.  Your mother left them to you.”

“Just read the letter, okay?” said Pat, irritation covering his emotion, as he blinked hard and retreated to his Uncle Hoss’ side.  Hoss was beaming and draped an arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Adam set the bundle down carefully on the table beside the box and slowly opened the letter.  He frowned as he opened the sheet of paper then smiled, glancing over at his son.  Pat couldn’t look at him, he was blushing furiously.  Adam’s eyes went back down to the letter, full of Pat’s typical misspellings and inkblots.  But the words on the page warmed his heart.

Adam drew in a shaky breath and sighed as he allowed his hands to play over the items.  The program from the first concert they attended, when Siobhan had first been introduced to the magic of Beethoven… he vividly remembered the shine in her eyes, and the wonder as she found she could feel the music in her heart as well as hear it in her ears…the rose, which he had gallantly presented to her after snitching it from a flower vendor; he remembered her first scolding him for swiping it, then kissing him warmly…the letter, the last letter he’d written to her…and Patrick’s birth record.  

Adam smiled as he picked up the ring.  His grandfather had given him that for his twentieth birthday, his first in Boston, and he’d given it to Siobhan as a sort of engagement ring.  

Adam sniffled a little, trying to keep his emotions in check, and glanced over at his son, sitting nervously.  “Thank you, Pat.  I can’t think of a better gift.  But…”  he rose to his feet and walked over to his son.  He put out a hand and gently pulled his puzzled son to his feet.

“My grandfather gave me this for my twentieth birthday many years ago,” he said quietly, taking the ring.  “I know the initials are wrong for you, but I’d like you to have it.  I gave it to your mother, hoping she’d always wear it.  She kept it, and gave it to you, so I’d like you to keep it.  I think your great-grandfather would have liked it that way.”  He gently pressed the ring into his son’s hand and watched him.

Pat slowly turned the signet ring over in his hand.  He silently glanced up at his father in gratitude and tried to slip it on his finger.  He chuckled as it swam on him.

“I guess I’ll have to wait until I’m a little older to wear it,” he said with a grin; then his eyes sobered a bit.   “It’ll be a long while before I’m man enough to wear this,” he said softly, looking at his father with love and admiration, paying Adam the sweetest, gentlest tribute.  Adam closed his eyes, and shook his head, struggling against the tears that were working awfully hard to surface.  Hoss frankly sniffled and Joe grinned through his own damp eyes.  Ben smiled proudly and sent a little message of thanks to Liz from his heart for her good advice all those months ago.

Drawing in a deep, shaking breath, Adam stretched out a hand and squeezed his son’s shoulder.  “You’ll be man enough, Pat, believe me.  More man than you have any idea.  Your mother would be awfully proud of you.  I know I am.”

 

That night, as Pat climbed wearily but happily into bed, he set his precious gift on his bedside table and gazed at it.

The daguerreotype of his parents now rested in state in a beautifully crafted gold frame, similar to the ones that held the portraits of his grandmother and his uncles’ mothers down on Granddad’s desk.  

He lay there quietly, looking at the portrait, and remembering.  “Thank you, Ma, for sending me here,” he whispered.  “I guess you were right after all.”

 

Downstairs, on the front porch, Adam stood watching as the unseasonal, unexpected snow silently fell against the backdrop of the pines.  It was so quiet he felt as though he could almost hear the soft flakes collecting on the ground.

There were no stars to see tonight, but he still felt they were there and watching over him.  He remembered what his stepmother, Marie, had always told him: that when you looked at the sky and the stars it brought you a bit closer to those who were either far away or no longer with you.  

Sighing, he pulled Pat’s letter out of his pocket and read it again, smiling.

 

Dear Dad,

I aint too good with this riting yet, so dont be mad if I spell things rong.  I couldn’t think of nothing to give you for your birthday that you wanted or needed that I cud aford.  So, I hope you like this.

I decided that Ma and you shared theese things together all those years ago.  You were the ones that went to that music show. You gave her the flower and the ring.  And you wrote the letter.  So I want to give them back to you for your birthday.  She reely loved you a lot, and I know now that you reely loved her. I think you miss her almost as much as I do.   I hope having theese things helps.

Happy Birthday Dad.  I love you.

Your son

Patrick

 

Now, away from his family, away from his son, he allowed his feelings to surface and the tears to slip down.  He tenderly refolded the letter and set it back in his pocket.

He drew in a deep, shaking breath and shivered a little, hunching inside his suit jacket, using the heels of his hands to wipe away the tears.  The cold reminded him of his days with Siobhan, walking together around the college quad, laughing like children as they had snowball fights, taking long walks through Boston on her days off, kissing as snowflakes touched their hair, their noses…

 “I know … well, I know Pat and I are going to have do a lot of talking to figure out our feelings, but I do want you to know how …. how grateful I am,” he whispered to the night sky and seeing a beautiful, black haired Irish girl he’d loved so very, very much.  “I’ve had a lot of special birthday gifts in my life, but you’ve given me the greatest of all.  Thank you, Siobhan.  Thank you for my son.” 

 

THE END

First penned 1997

2nd edition, February 2025