Paris McKenna, an old friend of the Cartwright family, suddenly falls ill on her way to San Francisco and a new job. She reluctantly accepts Ben’s invitation to rest and regain her strength at the Ponderosa. However, she also carries the burden of a devastating secret that could rip the close-knit Cartwright Family to shreds.

“Bloodlines” is the first story in a series. Fair warning: this story includes the addition of a non-cannon character.

Rating MA  WC  133,000

Bloodlines Series:

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

Bloodlines

“Careful, Ma’am, watch your step.”

“Thank you, Mister Dawson,” Paris McKenna said politely. Though the Irish lilt in her voice had diminished considerably after just over two decades of living in the United States, a trace yet lingered. She accepted the driver’s proffered hand, and stepped gingerly from the stagecoach down to the dusty street. “How long will we be in Virginia City?”

“The coach leaves at half past three, Ma’am,” Angus Dawson, the driver, quietly replied.

Though aged in her late thirties, virtually everyone she encountered assumed her to be much older. She wore a plain white blouse and modest dark blue traveling suit that was long out of style when she purchased it second hand from a thrift store in Chicago ten years ago. Her hair, once a rich dark brown almost black, was generously laced with strands of silver gray. She wore it pulled back severely away from her face, and tightly bound into a simple chignon at the nape of her neck. Her cosmetics, a light dusting of powder and rouge, accentuated rather than concealed the lines, indelibly etched into the flesh of her care worn face. She walked slowly, taking small, hesitant steps, her posture slightly stooped.

Angus Dawson wouldn’t have spared her a second glance had it not been for her eyes. Hued the same bright blue as a clear summer sky at its zenith, they were the only striking feature in her otherwise commonplace appearance. “Miss McKenna?”

“Yes, Mister Dawson?”

“This your first visit to Virginia City?”

Angus’ heart sank the instant his ears picked up a sharp intake of breath. Her mouth opened slightly, as her right hand flew up to that sloping place between throat and bosom.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry,” he murmured a quick, yet heartfelt word of apology, while trying hard not to flinch away from the wild look that had suddenly come into her eyes. “I didn’t mean to pry, honest! I didn’t! It’s just that . . . well, for some reason, you look kinda familiar to me . . . . ”

“It’s quite all right,” Paris replied. She closed her eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “I’m afraid your question took me a little by surprise.”

“You don’t have to answer, Ma’am . . . . ”

“I don’t mind, honest,” she said with a weary smile. “I HAVE been here before . . . once . . . . ” A wistful, far away look stole over those bright blue eyes. “I was much younger then . . . and traveling with my family. But, that was a long time ago.”

“Can you remember how long ago?”

“Indeed I can,” she said, her smile fading. “It was seventeen years ago . . . three months shy of the day.”

“ . . . and you haven’t passed through any time since?” Angus cautiously pressed, half afraid she was going to faint dead away, given her pale face and wavering stance.

Paris silently shook her head.

“It’s those eyes,” Angus suddenly, silently realized. “I KNOW I’ve seen those eyes before . . . and not seventeen years ago, either. It was more recent than that . . . a LOT more recent . . . . ” Yet, try as he might, he couldn’t quite recall where or when.

Paris, meanwhile, stole a quick glance at her elegant gold watch pendant, the only ornamentation amid her spartan attire. It was given to her by a man she once loved more than life itself. Though they had parted company long ago, the watch had become and would always remain a cherished keepsake. The time was a few minutes before noon. “Now, Mister Dawson,” she said, “I think it’s my turn to ask YOU a question.”

“Fair enough, Miss McKenna,” he acquiesced.

“As I just got through saying, it’s been quite a while since my, ummm . . . last VISIT . . . to Virginia City. Can you tell me where I might go to eat lunch and maybe rest awhile before the stage leaves?”

“Yes, Ma’am. The International Hotel has a decent enough restaurant,” he replied, eying her with an apprehensive frown. “I’d be more than happy to escort you there, if you wish.”

“I appreciate your kind offer, but I can manage,” Paris said in a gentle, yet firm tone. “If you would be so kind as to direct me?”

“Certainly. Just cross the street here and walk on down to the corner.”

“Thank you very much, Mister Dawson.”

“You’re welcome,” Angus replied, politely tipping his hat.

“Now I’VE got a question for you, Mister Dawson . . . . ”

Angus turned and found his other passenger, a man from New York by the name of Zachary Hilliard, standing beside him.

“ . . . you by chance acquainted with a man named Cartwright?” Zachary asked. “I understand he owns a big spread somewhere hereabouts . . . . ”

“You talking about Ben Cartwright?” Angus queried, with eyebrow slightly upraised. “Of the Ponderosa?”

“Yes,” Zachary replied. “You know him?”

“I know him enough to speak to in passing, I s’pose,” Angus said with an indifferent shrug. “You a friend of his?”

“A friend of the son of an old business acquaintance, actually,” Zachary confessed. “My friend’s, um, father . . . well, he’s been telling me for a number of years now that if I ever have occasion to visit Virginia City, I should stop in and say hello to Ben Cartwright and his three sons.” He paused. “I trust they’re all well?”

“Mister Cartwright’s doing well enough, so far as I know,” Angus replied. “So are his younger boys. Adam, though . . . I’ve not seen HIM in a dog’s age.”

“Adam’s the eldest?”

Angus nodded. “He left a number of years ago, to seek his own fortune, I imagine,” he said. “I understand he traveled some, then settled himself down with a gal somewhere out in California . . . . ”

“San Francisco, perhaps?”

Angus frowned. “I’ve heard people say where Adam’s living now, but for the life of me, I can’t recall, exactly,” he said, “but I DO know it’s not San Francisco.”

“I see,” Zachary murmured softly. “My friend’s father said something about Mister Cartwright adopting a daughter recently?”

“Yeah, though it’s not been all that recent,” Angus replied. “It’s been . . . four . . . maybe five years ago, now.”

“ . . . and HER name is?”

“Stacy.”

Zachary smiled. “Yes, that’s right . . . Stacy.”

“I understand Mister Cartwright and his boys, Hoss and Joe that is, met her out at Fort Charlotte,” Angus blithely rambled on.

“Fort Charlotte?” Zachary queried with eyebrow slightly upraised.

Angus nodded. “The fort’s situated a couple of miles or so from a little town called Mormon Springs,” he continued. “You know it?”

“I’ve heard of it.”

“I heard the girl was raised by a family of Paiutes, but I don’t know anything more than that,” Angus blithely rambled on. “As far as I can see, she’s a good kid, nice ‘n polite . . . respectful of her elders, though some of the ladies here in town think she’s too much of a tomboy . . . . ”

“I see.”

“You intend to pay him a visit?”

“Do I intend to, uhhh . . . pay . . . WHO a visit?” Zachary queried, taken aback by the stagecoach driver’s question.

“Mister Cartwright,” Angus replied. “Do you intend to pay him a visit while you’re here?”

“I, uhhh . . . thought I might . . . umm, time permitting, of course,” Zachary replied. Though he looked Angus square in the face, his eyes fell just short of meeting the stagecoach driver’s gaze. “I have some business to take care of first, of course.” Those last words, hastily added as an after thought, tumbled out in a disconcerted rush. “I . . . don’t suppose you could, um . . . tell me the way?”

Angus shook his head. “I don’t live in Virginia City. I live out Carson way, and though I’ve like as not passed through Ponderosa land one time or another, I’ve never had occasion to visit the Cartwrights, so I can’t tell you exactly,” he said apologetically. “But you just ask anybody who DOES live here. If the first person you ask can’t direct you, chances are he’ll know someone who can.”

“Thank you,” Zachary murmured softly. “Thank you so much. You’ve been most helpful.”

“Yeah. Sure.” For a brief, disconcerting moment, Angus felt a little apprehensive about having rambled on and on and on about the Cartwrights’ business just now. “Awww . . . come off it!” he silently castigated himself. “You’re imagining things! People are ALWAYS asking questions about the Cartwrights . . . why’s now any different?” He had no satisfactory answer to that question, yet, try as he might, he couldn’t quite shake that vague, nebulous uneasiness that seemed to have taken hold of him.

“Mister Dawson.”

The sound of Zachary Hilliard’s voice, speaking tersely, his syllables clipped, startled Angus from his troubled reverie.

“That’s the third time I’ve called to you,” Zachary admonished, sparing no pains to conceal his annoyance.

“Sorry, Mister Hilliard,” Angus meekly stammered out an apology. “Just slipped into a bit of wool gathering for a moment. What can I do for you?”

“The lady who got on with me in Freedonia . . . . ” Zachary turned to watch Paris McKenna, as she cautiously stepped from the board sidewalk into the street. “I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten her name . . . . ”

“It’s McKenna,” Angus replied. “Miss Paris McKenna.”

“Could it be?” Zachary silently wondered, with an anxious frown. He remembered meeting another woman by the same name, briefly, many years ago.

“Miss McKenna’s traveling on to San Francisco,” Angus blithely rambled on. “Has a job waiting for her, so she says . . . been real anxious to get there, too, what with the delays we’ve had . . . . ”

“Yes, I imagine she would be,” Zachary murmured softly, feeling a small measure of relief. “Mister Dawson?”

“Yes, Mister Hilliard?”

“I’d like you to fetch my luggage down from the top of the stage,” Zachary replied, mollified slightly by the driver’s apology. “I have some business to take care of, as I said before, and I’m thinking better done, sooner rather than later. I’ll be taking another stage to San Francisco in a few days.”

“Yes, Sir,” Angus grunted, before turning to clamber up on top of the stage.

 

Paris McKenna, in the mean time, made her way across the road, with head bowed, and eyes glued to her feet. “Seventeen years . . . . ” she mused silently. “Seventeen years, since I last— ”

Memories of another life, long past, began to rise, unwanted and uninvited, to the forefront of her thoughts . . . .
Two horses stood at the edge of a vast lake, surrounded on all sides by tall ponderosa pine. Their riders . . . a beautiful twenty year old, with a long thick mane of rich dark brown curls, nearly black as a raven’s wing, and sparkling sky blue eyes . . . and a handsome man, tall, his dark hair generously mixed with silver, with warm dark brown eyes . . . stood side by side at the edge of the water. Her quick, easy laughter, prompting a tender, indulgent smile; the quick, feathery, seemingly accidental touch of a hand; a tender glance, followed by a warm embrace . . . .
With those memories rose all of the feelings, just as vibrant, warm, and intense as they had been then. Paris realized too late that she had unwittingly opened a Pandora’s box. She tried desperately to squelch the images and feelings of the past, but found doing so akin to trying to put water back after a dam has burst. A sudden collision with what felt like a brick wall, mercifully brought her reverie to a screeching halt. Paris stumbled a few steps backward and would have fallen had it not been for the steadying influence of a pair of massive hands and strong arms.

“Ma’am, are you alright?”

Paris cautiously opened her eyes and found herself staring into the beefy face of a large, muscular man, wearing a white ten-gallon hat. An anxious frown knotted his brow.

“M-Ma’am . . . . ?!”

“I . . . f-fine! I’m fine,” Paris gasped. She shook her head, and took a deep breath. “Please excuse me . . . it’s MY fault, just a silly bit of wool ga— ” As she glanced up, her words of apology suddenly died in her throat.

“M-Miss Paris?!” His concern for her well being gave way to astonishment. “Miss Paris, is that really you?”

“Yes, uh . . . Eric?” Paris murmured in dismay.

“Yes, Ma’am.” Astonishment, in turn, gave way to a smile of pure delight. “Well, I’ll be danged! When did YOU return to Virginia City?”

“I-I haven’t actually,” Paris replied. “I’m just passing through . . . on my way to . . . to San Francisco.”

Delight faded into mild disappointment. “I sure hope y’ can get out t’ the Ponderosa while you’re here,” Hoss Cartwright said. “I know Pa ‘n Joe would love t’ see ya again.”

A cold, heavy lump began to coalesce deep in the pit of her stomach. His pa was the very last person in the world she wanted to see. “Oh, Eric, I-I wish I could,” Paris stammered, lying through her teeth. “But, that won’t be possible. The stage leaves at half past three. I’ll only be here long enough for the driver to change horses, and p-pick up the mail.”

“Well, maybe you can come out another time, when you can stay longer,” Hoss said affably. “Y’ had lunch yet?”

“No,” Paris said quietly. “I was just going down to the International Hotel. The driver said they have a good enough restaurant.”

“That they do,” Hoss agreed. “But, not as good as Hop Sing.”

“I don’t think ANYBODY’S as good as Hop Sing,” Paris admitted. “Eric . . . . ” she had always called him by his given name, “ . . . why don’t you join me? That way . . . well, the two of US can have a brief visit before I leave.” As she uttered the words of invitation, she had the momentary, disorienting feeling of standing outside her body watching it move and talk like a marionette in the hands of a skilled puppeteer. How could her own voice and lips betray her so cruelly?

“Thank you, Ma’am, I will,” Hoss accepted the invitation eagerly. He gently took her arm and unobtrusively steered her across the street. Silence, for her strained and unsettling, fell between them.

 

Ben Cartwright stepped out of the bank and found his youngest son, Joe, and daughter, Stacy, waiting with the buckboard, its back loaded with enough dry goods to last out the next couple of months.

“Ready to go when you are, Pa,” Joe declared with a broad grin.

“I’ll be ready as soon as we collect Hoss,” Ben said, glancing around. His middle son was nowhere in sight. “Do either of you happen to know where he is?”

“I saw him crossing the street, down there by the stage depot,” Stacy replied pointing. “He was with some lady.”

“Oh yeah?” Joe queried with a devilish gleam in his eyes. “A lady, eh? Anyone WE know, Stace?”

Stacy shook her head. “I’VE never seen her before,” she said. “In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw her get off the stage when it came in. She and Hoss were headed in the direction of the hotel.”

“When was this?” Ben asked.

“Just a few minutes ago,” Stacy replied.

“You want me to go get him, Pa?” Joe asked with a sly grin.

“No, I’LL go,” Ben immediately decided, knowing all too well that the look on Joe’s face and the impish sparkle in those emerald green eyes almost always meant trouble. “You and Stacy wait here.”

 

“So. How have you been, Eric? Since we last saw each other?” Paris asked, after she and Hoss had been seated and placed their order. Her words tumbled out in a disconcerted rush.

“I’ve been fine, Miss Paris,” Hoss replied. His initial delight at running into an old friend literally, had slowly given way to uneasy concern. He had seen more meat on the corpse of a wild animal that had lain for weeks in the desert than his companion had on her bones. Her pale skin, thinned to an alarming translucence, the dark circles under her eyes, the halting step all belonged on a person at least twice her age. Had it not been for the watch pendant she wore around her neck, Hoss doubted he would have recognized her. How had the beautiful, warm, vivacious, loving, and passionate Paris McKenna, he remembered, turned into the old, sad, careworn, distant woman seated across the table from him?

“How about the banker’s daughter? As I recall, you had a real king sized crush on her when . . . when I was here last. . . . ”

“You . . . talkin’ ‘bout Margie Owens?” [1]

“Yes. Margie Owens. I couldn’t think of her name just now to save my life.”

“Margie married someone else,” Hoss replied, with a wistful half smile. “It wasn’t a happy marriage, I’m afraid. She was lookin’ t’ him t’ show her the world, while he was lookin’ real hard at her pa’s money. She left him . . . ‘n not long after, she . . . she died givin’ birth t’ their daughter.”

“Oh, Eric, I’m so sorry,” Paris murmured softly, as she reached over and gently placed her gloved hand overtop his. “Please, forgive me. I didn’t mean to open up old wounds.”

“You had no way o’ knowin’, Miss Paris,” Hoss said quietly, “ ‘n seein’ as t’ how I WAS real sweet on her when you was here last, I s’pose it’s only natural you’d ask.”

“How’s the rest of the family?”

“Adam’s livin’ out in Sacramento now,” Hoss replied, as a waiter set a cup of coffee before him, and a cup of hot tea before Paris.

“What’s HE doing with himself these days?” Paris asked, as she reached for the dainty porcelain creamer at the center of the table.

“Keepin’ himself busier ‘n bee, Ma’am,” Hoss replied. “He’s an architect . . . he ‘n another man he went t’ Harvard with have got their own firm, ‘n from what Adam says in his letters there’s plenty o’ work to do.”

“Grand! That’s grand,” Paris replied, unconsciously lapsing into her old ways of speaking. “Whatever happed to that woman HE was so find of?”

Hoss smiled. “Which one are y’ talkin’ about, Miss Paris?”

“There’ve been that many?” she queried wryly, without missing a beat.

Hoss grinned. “Ol’ Adam can be quite the ladies’ man, when he wants t’ be.”

“Yes,” Paris said slowly. An errant thought about an apple not falling far from the tree flitted through her mind . . . . She groaned inwardly upon feeling the sudden rush of blood to her face. “Yes,” she said very quickly. “Yes. I, ummm . . . suppose he can be at that.”

“ . . . ‘course he ain’t doin’ much o’ that these days,” Hoss continued.

“Confirmed bachelor is he?”

“No, Ma’am,” Hoss replied, smiling broadly. “His wife’d kill him.”

“He . . . didn’t end up marryin’ that young woman he was courtin’ so hot ‘n heavy while he was attending school in Boston . . . did he?”

Hoss shook his head. “He met a real fine gal out in Sacramento, ‘n married HER. She’s not only pretty as a picture, but smart, too . . . just like Adam. I only met her twice . . . first time when Pa, Joe, and me went to Sacramento for their wedding, ‘n the second time, when she ‘n Adam came t’ visit before the kids came along. I really liked her.”

“Kids?!” Paris echoed.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“How MANY kids?”

“Adam ‘n Teresa are the proud pa ‘n ma o’ two fine, strappin’, energetic young ’ns,” Hoss replied.

“If either one or both, heaven forbid, has a fraction of the energy your youngest brother did . . . I’ll bet they keep Adam on his toes,” Paris remarked. An amused smile tugged hard at the corner of her mouth as she remembered some of Joe Cartwright’s wild escapades at the tender age of ten “goin’ on thirty-one,” as her paternal grandmother might have said.

“Yep. All the time. Leastwise, that’s what Adam says in his letters,” Hoss replied with a chuckle. “They named the boy Benjamin Eduardo, for his grandpas, ‘n the girl Dolores Elizabeth for both her grandmas.”

“That’s lovely,” Paris said with all sincerity, as she raised the creamer to pour a bit of its contents into her tea. Suddenly, her hand trembled. The creamer slipped from her fingers and crashed onto the table, drenching her dark blue suit with cream.

Hoss immediately grabbed his napkin and began to mop up the table, while Paris sat there, stunned. The waiter discreetly returned to the table with a pitcher of water and a handful of cloth napkins.

“Ma’am?” the waiter gently placed his hand on her shoulder.

Paris gasped and started violently, nearly hitting her head against the pitcher of water in his hand.

Hoss took the napkins from the waiter and quietly asked him to leave the pitcher of water. The waiter nodded and complied, then quickly withdrew.

“Miss Paris?!” Hoss frowned. Though she had her head bowed, he could plainly see that she was crying. “Miss Paris . . . you all right?”

Paris swallowed, and sheepishly reached for one of the napkins in his hand. “I’m fine, Eric, really,” she said, forcing a smile. She wiped away the last of her tears, then started to work on her skirt. “I-I’m just tired, that’s all. It’s been a very long, arduous journey.”

“You sure that’s all it is?” Hoss queried doubtfully.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said wearily.

 

Ben Cartwright entered the International Hotel restaurant and approached Gretchen Braun, the restaurant manager and an old friend. She was a buxom woman, about his age. She wore a print dress, of blue flowers and ribbons on top of a field of white, and a fresh, clean white apron. Her salt and pepper hair was styled in a French twist. Since the death of her husband six years ago, she had run the restaurant with an iron hand, transforming it from a greasy spoon to fine dining enjoyed by resident and visitor alike. “Gretchen?”

“Ben Cartwright, long time no see!” Gretchen Braun exclaimed with surprised delight. The soft accent of her native Bavaria remained as it had been when she and her husband first set foot upon American shores four plus decades ago. “Would you like a table?”

“Not today, Gretchen,” Ben declined. “I’m looking for Hoss.”

“He came in a little while ago with a woman,” Gretchen replied. “They’re right over there, next to the window.”

Ben spotted them immediately. He studied the woman for a moment, frowning. Something about her struck a distressingly familiar chord within. “Gretchen?”

“What is it, Ben?”

“Do you know who that woman is?” he asked.

Gretchen shook her head and shrugged. “ ‘Fraid not, Ben.”

He thanked her, then made his way across the room to the table occupied by his middle son, Hoss, and the disconcerting mystery woman. “Hoss, I— ” Paris glanced up sharply. Their eyes met. Ben’s voice trailed away to stunned silence.

“P-Pa? Y-You remember M-Miss Paris . . . don’t ya?” Hoss awkwardly tried to break the silence.

“Y-yes, yes, of course . . . . ” Ben stammered.

Paris rose none too steadily to her feet. “Eric, I think I’d better take a rain check on that lunch,” she quickly. “I-I just remembered some things I need to buy before the stage leaves.” She turned and favored Ben with a wan, embarrassed smile. “It . . . it was good seeing you, too, Ben . . . if only for a few minutes.”

“Sorry you hafta rush off, Miss Paris. Maybe next time . . . . ”

“Y-yes, Eric . . . m-maybe next time.” Paris turned, with every intention of walking out of the restaurant and finding a notions shop to hide in until the stage left. As she turned, a wave of dizziness hit. She reached out an arm to steady herself.

Hoss gently stepped over and took her other arm. “Miss Paris, you sure you’re all right? Maybe you’d better sit down, ‘n— ”

Her eyes rolled up under her eyelids. With a soft moan, she collapsed and fell against Hoss in a dead faint.

“Hoss, take her up to room number 208.” Gretchen Braun was right there at his elbow. “The door’s unlocked. Ben, I’ve already sent Luis to fetch the doctor.”

“Thank you, Gretchen,” Ben said gratefully. “Hoss, you take Miss Paris and go on up. I’ll be back after I let Joe and Stacy know— ”

“Let Joe and Stacy know . . . what?” It was Joe.

Ben turned and found himself staring into the anxious eyes of his youngest son and only daughter.

“Pa, I know you asked us to wait, but . . . . ” Joe began. His eyes moved from Ben’s face to the limp form in Hoss’ arms. “Hoss, who—?!”

“Miss Paris, Joe,” Hoss said.

Joe’s eyes went round with astonishment.

“Pa, who’s Miss Paris?” Stacy queried sotto voce, her sky blue eyes riveted to Paris’ face. For some inexplicable reason, she felt afraid.

“Miss Paris is an old friend of the family,” Ben said gently, hoping to quell the sudden anxiety he sensed in his daughter. “It seems she was passing through on the stage and suddenly took ill.”

“Anything WE can do?” Joe asked.

“No,” Ben shook his head. “Mrs. Braun’s already sent for the doctor. Why don’t you and Stacy go on home and unload the supplies. Tell Hop Sing that Hoss and I should be home by supper time, and that we’ll more than likely be bringing home a guest.” His eyes strayed over to the still insensate Paris McKenna, and lingered.

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Hoss?”

“Since it looks as if Miss Paris might be stayin’ with us a while . . . would you mind stoppin’ by the stage depot ‘n pickin’ up her luggage?” Hoss asked.

“No problem,” Joe grunted. “Com’n, Stace.”

No reply. She stood, unmoving, staring down at Paris McKenna’s flaccid face with a morbid fascination.

“Hey, Kid . . . . ” Joe took her by the shoulder and shook her gently.

Stacy started, and turned towards Joe.

“Com’n, let’s go.”

 

Stacy Cartwright rode in the buckboard beside her brother in utter silence, her thoughts fixed on the woman Hoss had identified as Miss Paris. She had never so much as laid eyes on her before this afternoon; never even heard of her. That last, in and of itself, was odd, given that she was supposed to be an old friend of the family. But, there was something beyond all that. Something very compelling that had begun to stir up odd, unsettling feelings. Her fear deepened.

“Stacy LOUISE . . . . ”

The sound of that hated middle name stirred her abruptly from her troubled musings. “Joseph Francis Cartwright, you know I HATE it when you call me that!” she rounded on him furiously.

“What’s wrong with Louise? I kind of like it!” Joe teased. “In fact, I like it so much, I’m gonna start calling you LOO-WEESE from now on, instead of Stacy.”

Stacy stuck her tongue out at him, then lapsed into stony silence, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.

“Sorry, Stace,” Joe immediately apologized, taken aback by her angry, silent response. “I’ve been trying for the last half mile to get through to you, but you’ve been stuck out there somewhere on cloud nine. It was the only way I could think of to break through.”

“Oh,” she murmured contritely.

“You all right, Kid?” Joe queried, a worried frown knotting his brow. “You’ve been awfully quiet . . . . ”

“Joe, who’s this Miss Paris?” Stacy blurted out the question. “Besides being an old friend of the family?”

“Our pa met her pa . . . I think it was in Virginia City,” Joe replied, “about two . . . maybe three years after my ma died. He and a couple of other men from Fort Charlotte— ”

“Did you say . . . F-Fort Charlotte?!”

“Yeah . . . . ”

“Same place where . . . where you guys m-met me?”

“Yeah!”

Stacy’s sense of foreboding deepened.

“Fort Charlotte started buying Ponderosa stock . . . horses AND cattle back when I was a little kid . . . knee high to a grasshopper as Hoss might say,” Joe continued. “They were regular customers pretty much for the better part of twenty years, at least . . . maybe a little bit more.”

“They don’t buy stock from us anymore . . . do they.” It was a statement of fact rather than a question.

“No,” Joe shook his head. “If memory serves, they stopped buying from us about a year or so after you came to live with us.”

“Did they ever say why?”

“Nope . . . and between you ‘n me, I STILL don’t understand why,” Joe said with a bewildered frown. “I saw the letter Major Baldwin sent Pa, going on and on and on about how our horses and beef were the finest in the whole state of Nevada . . . but they had found another supplier and would be purchasing from HIM in the future.”

“That doesn’t make any sense . . . . ”

“You’re right, Kiddo. It doesn’t make a lick of sense, but . . . . ” He shrugged. “Going back to the matter of Sergeant Gerald McKenna . . . . ”

“Miss Paris’ father?”

“Yep. He was the man in charge of the horses at Fort Charlotte,” Joe explained. “The way Pa ‘n Adam told it later, that man knew good horseflesh when he saw it. He and Pa struck up a deal right then and there. Over time, Pa, Adam, and Hoss became acquainted with Mrs. McKenna and their kids . . . three daughters and a son, if memory serves . . . until Sergeant McKenna left the army.”

“What about you?” Stacy asked. “Didn’t you get to know the McKenna family, too?”

“Not as well as Pa, Adam, and Hoss, being that I’m quite a bit YOUNGER than they are,” Joe replied with a bare hint of a saucy grin. “Sergeant McKenna came to the Ponderosa three or four times a year to purchase stock in the company of a couple of men from the fort and about a half dozen civilian drovers, they had hired. He brought his son along a time or two, but his wife and daughters . . . never.” He paused for a moment, then added, “When he was here, I made sure I stayed well out of his way as much as possible.”

“Why?”

“I was a little afraid of him,” Joe freely admitted. “He could turn meaner ‘n a rattle snake at the drop of a hat, if he was of a mind . . . and most of the time he was around, he . . . WAS . . . of a mind. I don’t think he cared all that much for kids, either.”

“Did you ever go to Fort Charlotte with Pa, Adam, and Hoss?”

“Not until I was sixteen. That’s when I left school and went to work for Pa full time,” Joe said. “Sergeant McKenna had left the army by then . . . . ”

“Oh,” Stacy murmured softly. “Do you know what happened to Sergeant McKenna and his family after he left the army?”

“Right after he left the army, he and his family went out to California to look for gold,” Joe replied. “There WAS a rush on, if I’m remembering things right.”

“Greenhorn Creek?”

“Yeah. How’d YOU know?”

“We studied about that in school,” Stacy replied. “That would’ve been about a year or so before I was born . . . whenever THAT was . . . exactly.”

“Sorry, Kid.”

“ ‘S ok, Joe. I may not know when my real birthday is, but I have the date Pa gave me,” Stacy said, “and THAT’S plenty good enough for me.”

Joe smiled. “That’s plenty good enough for me, too, Stace.”

“Did Miss Paris’ pa ever find gold?”

“I . . . don’t know,” Joe replied. “If he did, no one ever said. At any rate, Miss Paris and one of her younger sisters ended up stopping over at the Ponderosa on their way out.”

“What about her ma and pa?”

“They went on to California with their youngest daughter, Elsie.”

A bewildered frown creased the smooth plain of Stacy’s brow. “Why didn’t THEY stay, too?”

“I imagine Sergeant McKenna was anxious to reach Greenhorn Creek,” Joe replied. “So they left Miss Paris and her sister here, with Doc Martin. When Pa found out they were in Virginia City . . . . ” He grinned. “ . . . well, you know Pa. He insisted they come out to the Ponderosa and stay with us until Mattie was feeling better. Somehow, I don’t think Pa had to work all that hard to convince Miss Paris.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied with an emphatic nod of his head, “and looking back, Miss Paris’ sister, Matilda— ”

“Matilda?”

“Yep.”

Stacy made a face. “Yuck! Poor woman! THAT’S even worse than Louise.”

Joe smiled, relieved to see Stacy acting more like herself. “At any rate, Matilda . . . Mattie, as she preferred to be called . . . didn’t look all that sick, leastwise not to ME, AND she made a real rapid recovery to boot.”

“Are you saying that Mattie McKenna FAKED being sick?” Stacy was intrigued, despite her growing uneasiness.

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“I’ll GET to why . . . IF you’ll stop interrupting me with questions every two seconds.”

Stacy stuck out her tongue.

Joe returned the gesture. “The why of it all should be obvious, Little Sister! The reason Mattie McKenna suddenly took, ummm ‘ill’ . . . was, so she and Miss Paris could stay here in Virginia City . . . for a li’l while at least.”

“Why?”

“Think about it, Kid.”

“Dadburn it, Grandpa! If you don’t tell me, I’m gonna tickle you silly,” Stacy threatened.

“Boy! Talk about dense— ”

“Joe . . . . ” She said in a low, menacing tone as she pointed a circling finger towards his abdomen.

“All right!” Joe snapped, as he dropped his elbow down protectively over the lower portion of his torso. “There was a special someone she wanted to spend some time with.”

“Miss Mattie?”

“No! Miss Paris.”

“Ooohhh-kay . . . who did Miss Paris want to spend some time with?”

“Now just hold your horses, Miss Stacy LOO-WEESE! I’ll get to THAT in my own good time.”

“Ok, LITTLE Joe!” she sighed disparagingly. “I’ll TRY to be patient!”

“What you’ll TRY, Little Sister, is the patience of a saint,” Joe retorted good-naturedly. “Now where was I?”

“Pa insisted that Miss Paris and Mattie stay at the Ponderosa while Mattie recovered from an illness that wasn’t.”

“Mattie stayed two weeks,” Joe resumed the tale. “As for Miss Paris . . . she never made it to California.”

“She didn’t?!”

“Nope.”

“What happened?”

“Pa and Hoss took Miss Paris and Mattie to the stage depot in Virginia City. Pa said later that Miss Paris insisted they go on about their business . . . that she and Mattie would be all right. So, they did. Miss Paris put her sister on the stage, and came back to the Ponderosa, that very night. Pa . . . Hoss . . . and . . . and Hop Sing, too . . . . ” Joe laughed uproariously, “ . . . the looks on their f-faces . . . . Oh, Stacy, it was priceless! I wish you could’ve seen it.”

“Me, too,” Stacy said, grinning in spite of the anxiety she felt within. She had found that high-pitched, rapid-fire laughter of his to be highly contagious ever since she had met and joined the Cartwright family almost five years ago. “Joe?”

“Yeah, Stace?”

“What about the look on Adam’s face?”

“There wasn’t one.”

“There wasn’t?!”

“Nope,” Joe said chuckling. “He was in Boston by then, attending Harvard University. When Miss Paris and Mattie came to visit, he would have been at the beginning of his senior year.”

“Oh.”

“Speaking for myself, I was happier than two peas in a pod, to quote our big brother again,” Joe continued, glad to see the smile on Stacy’s face. “I was absolutely besotted with her.”

“What?!” Stacy queried, surprised. “You?”

“Why do I have the distinct feeling I’ve just been insulted?” Joe demanded with mock severity.

“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Stacy protested. “It’s just that . . . well, you had to have been nine or ten, right?”

“So?”

“So . . . ‘way back when you were nine or ten— ”

“Whaddya mean ‘way back when I was nine or ten?” Joe demanded in melodramatic tones of mock outrage. “YOU make it sound as if I’m positively ancient.”

“You ARE,” Stacy quipped. “I mean . . . face it, GRANDPA! Come next birthday, you’re gonna be all the way up in your LATE middle twenties.”

“Hmpf! YOU may be about to turn sixteen, Kiddo, but there’s nothing sweet about it, no siree!”

Stacy smiled and cheerfully stuck out her tongue.

Joe responded by thumbing up his nose.

“Seriously though . . . you told me yourself when you were that age, you thought girls stunk to high heaven,” Stacy said.

“ . . . except for Lotus O’Toole,” Joe added, then smiled. “Miss Paris, however, WAS no girl. Not no how . . . not no way! I was definitely smitten.”

“With a woman old enough to be your ma?!”

Joe had to bite his lip to keep from laughing out loud at the astonished look on her face. “She’s not THAT old, Kiddo,” he said. “Old enough to be my older sister, or babysitter perhaps . . . . ”

Stacy favored her brother with a withering, jaundiced glare. “You joshin’ me, Grandpa?” she accused.

Joe shook his head. “Nope,” he replied. “She’s only a year or two younger than Adam . . . . ”

“She LOOKS more like she’s PA’S age.”

“I have to admit that shocked me, too, Stacy,” Joe said quietly. “If Hoss hadn’t said who she was . . . well, I’d have never recognized her in a million years.”

“So . . . why did she come back to the Ponderosa . . . after putting her sister on the stage?” Stacy asked.

“She was a lady in love.”

“Not with you, of course.”

“No . . . leastwise, not in the way YOU’RE thinking,” Joe said, smiling at the memory. “She looked upon me as a ‘delightfully naughty, yet thoroughly loveable little brother.’ HER words, Kid.”

“Hmm. Not quite the way I’D describe you,” Stacy quipped.

“All I gotta say to that is . . . the only thing worse than the way YOU’D describe ME is the way I’D describe YOU,” Joe cheerfully retorted.

“ . . . and if either one of us said it, Pa would wash our mouths out with some real good, strong lye soap.”

Joe looked over at her, grinned, and stuck out his tongue.

Stacy giggled and returned the gesture. “Joe?” she ventured, as her laughter began to subside.

“What?”

“Did she fall in love with Hoss?” Stacy asked, remembering the gentle concern her biggest brother had shown Miss Paris at the hotel restaurant.

“Nope.”

“ . . . and she couldn’t have fallen in love with Adam since he was in Boston going to . . . Harvard University . . . is that right?”

Joe grinned. “Right as rain, Kiddo.”

“That means . . . . ” Her voice trailed away to stunned silence as revelation suddenly dawned. She slowly turned her head and looked over at her brother, her face a shade or two paler than was the norm, and her eyes round with shocked horror. “Y-You mean she . . . she . . . that she actually f-fell in love with . . . with . . . . ?!”

“I know YOU don’t see him in that way, but Pa can be quite the ladies’ man himself . . . when he wants to be,” Joe said gently, unable to quite fathom the whys and the wherefores for the horrified look on her face.

“I KNOW that,” Stacy said crossly. “It’s just that . . . that . . . . ” She exhaled a sigh borne of pure and simple frustration. For some odd strange reason, the idea of Pa and Miss Paris having once been in love frightened her. She wished more than anything for the words to explain that to Joe, but . . . how in the world COULD she explain it to him, when she couldn’t even begin to explain it to herself?

“It . . . actually wasn’t as bad as all that,” Joe continued, treading carefully. “I mean she wasn’t a gold digger out for his money. She honest and truly DID love Pa . . . and he loved her, too. So much, in fact, I thought sure they were going to get married.”

“R-Really?” Stacy ventured hesitantly, in a voice barely audible.

Joe nodded.

“So, uhhh . . . what happened? Why didn’t they?”

Joe shrugged. “I don’t know, Kid. She just, all of a sudden, up and left without a word . . . a warning . . . without even saying good-bye. We woke up one morning and she was gone.”

“Why?” Stacy pressed. “Did she and Pa have a fight or something?”

“I don’t honestly know WHAT happened between them,” Joe said somberly. “Pa never said. All I DO know is that her leaving like she did hurt Pa very badly. It took him a long time to get over her.” He fell silent for a moment. “Stacy . . . . ”

“You don’t have to worry, Joe,” Stacy said. “I won’t ask Pa any questions about Miss Paris.”

“Promise?”

A stinging, angry retort sprang to mind, but the earnest look on his face stopped her from uttering it. “I promise,” she said in a voice barely audible.

 

“Pa . . . .” Hoss said very softly, “she’s comin’ ‘round now . . . . ”

“Paris?”

Paris McKenna sighed contentedly. She was twenty years old again. All of the intervening years, and the grief, the heartbreak, the tragedy that had come with them, all ceased to be, like a bad dream in the face of morning sunshine. Her sister, Mattie, had gone on to California to join their parents and their youngest sister, Elsie. Hoss was out with the foreman and a couple of the hands riding fence. Joe was in school and Hop Sing had gone into town to pick up supplies and visit with his father. That left her all alone in the house with the man she loved more than life . . . .

“Paris.”

The happy dream vanished. She was thirty-six years of age, very soon to be thirty-seven. The beautiful twenty year old, so hopeful, so full of life, was gone, as if she had never been. In her place was a woman, filled with bitterness and regret, made old before her time by the hard life circumstance had forced upon her. Most heart wrenching of all, the days . . . the weeks . . . the months, and . . . the years that had passed between then and now, once again stretched between her and Ben Cartwright like an abyss, far too wide and deep to ever be crossed.

Her eyelids flickered, and opened slowly with a resigned reluctance. Looking up, she found herself gazing into the anxious faces of Ben and Eric Cartwright. “W-what happened?” Paris groaned.

“You and Hoss were about to have lunch when you passed out,” Ben said quietly.

“Yes,” Paris murmured softly. “Yes. I remember, I was waiting for— ” Suddenly, her eyes went round with horror. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed. “What time is it?” She abruptly sat up, and in so doing set the room spinning before her eyes. With a soft, agonized moan, she collapsed back against the pillows.

“Let that be a lesson to you,” Ben chided her sternly. “When you DO get up, you’ll do it slow and easy, unless you want to risk the possibility of fainting again.” He paused, to allow her a moment to absorb the import his words. “As for the stage, it left an hour and a half ago.”

“Oh no!” she moaned.

“Now, don’t you worry none, Miss Paris,” Hoss said. “I asked Joe ‘n Stacy t’ get your luggage.”

“Th-thank you, Eric,” she said in a small, barely audible voice. “When does the next stage leave?”

“There’s one leaving tomorrow morning, but you’re NOT going to be on it,” Ben said firmly.

“Ben, I HAVE to get to San Francisco,” she said, “as soon as possible. I have a job waiting, and I’m already two days behind because of unforeseen delays on the stage line.”

“Paris, you’re not fit to travel, let alone work,” Ben argued. “The doctor said— ”

“Doctor!” Paris exclaimed weakly. “Oh, no! Ben, surely you didn’t call a doctor?!”

“Mrs. Braun did,” Ben said. “But, if she hadn’t, I most certainly would have.”

“Why? I told you I’m just worn out from the trip,” Paris wailed. “That’s all!”

“No, that’s NOT all,” Ben argued. “The doctor said, at the very least, you’re suffering from exhaustion and not eating properly. You need a long rest, and plenty of good food.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to eat and rest when I reach San Francisco.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to eat and rest right NOW,” Ben countered. “You’re coming back with us to the Ponderosa.”

Paris’ heart sank. “Oh no . . . no! Ben, I can’t!”

“Why not?”

“Well . . . it would be too much trouble, for one thing,” Paris argued. There was a desperate edge to her voice. “It would. I . . . no! No! I c-can’t put you and your boys out like that.”

“Nonsense,” Ben countered. “You won’t be any trouble at all. We have plenty of room— ”

“It would be charity, Ben,” she said adamantly. “I won’t take charity! Never! Never AGAIN!”

“You and that damnable pride of yours!” Ben swore, his exasperation getting the better of him.

Paris recoiled as if he had struck her.

“I’m sorry,” Ben immediately apologized, his voice filled with remorse. He took a deep breath and continued in a tone of voice more calm and even. “Paris, I’m not offering charity. I’m . . . I’m extending an invitation to an old . . . and very dear friend.”

“All right, Ben,” Paris acquiesced, her voice cracking on his name. His words and the way he had spoken them had almost thrown open that Pandora’s Box once again. She sternly reminded herself that the time she and Ben Cartwright had together was long past and gone. To try and recapture it now would be monstrously unfair. He had obviously gotten over her and gone on with his life. She felt a measure of relief in that. Maybe, as the years passed, he had even found it within him to forgive her for her abrupt departure in the dead of night.

She, however, would never forgive herself.

Paris silently and firmly resolved that she would to go to the Ponderosa, rest and eat, get back her strength. She would then go on to San Francisco and out of the lives of the Cartwright Family with all haste and speed . . . forever.

“Pa?”

Ben glanced up at his second son sharply. He had entirely forgotten that Hoss was still in the room.

“Tony Grainger just pulled up in front o’ the hotel with that buggy ‘n horse we’ve rented . . . . ” Hoss announced from his place next to the window. Tony Grainger owned and operated the livery stable closest to the International Hotel. He was a gregarious young man, tall and reed slender, with brown eyes and a full head of startling carrot colored hair.

“Why don’t you see Miss Paris downstairs, and get her settled in the buggy,” Ben suggested, feeling oddly embarrassed. “We’ll leave for home as soon as I settle up with Mrs. Braun.”

“Ben, I have some money,” Paris said, as Hoss gently helped her to sit up. “It’s squirreled away in my wallet at the bottom of my carpet bag. It w-won’t be . . . enough . . . . ” She had almost let slip that the little bit of money was all she had in the world. “I can send whatever I need to make up the difference when I get to San Francisco.”

“Don’t worry about the money right now, Paris,” Ben said. “I have more than enough to— ”

“I meant what I said about taking charity,” Paris said, her anger rising. The only thing she had left was her pride, damnable though it may be. Perhaps that was all she ever had that she could really and truly call her own. She was bound and determined to hold on to it, no matter what the cost. “Ben, I’ve ALWAYS paid my way,” she continued. “ALWAYS! I don’t aim to stop now.”

“All right, Paris, I’ll consider it a loan,” Ben said wearily . . . .

 

Paris McKenna lay wide-awake in the dark guestroom, listening to the grandfather’s clock downstairs strike the hour of three a.m. Outside, the moon had risen and set hours ago. A thick blanket of clouds rolled in, obscuring the light from the myriad of stars spread across the backdrop of indigo-black sky. Nearly every joint in her body ached; a sure sign of coming rain.

Paris gingerly rolled over onto her side, and closed her eyes with an exasperated sigh. The stagecoach journey, coupled with her chance meetings with Eric, then Ben, followed by the trip from Virginia City to the Ponderosa, had all taken a far greater toll on her dwindling energy and stamina than she cared to admit. She had almost passed out again when she walked through the door of the Cartwrights’ home, sandwiched between Ben and Eric. Only through a supreme effort of will did she manage to walk the distance between the front door and the settee without collapsing.

Memories of her first evening at the Ponderosa had deteriorated to a hazy blur, something for which she was heartily thankful. She vaguely remembered Hop Sing at her elbow, trying to coerce her to eat. Eric kept up a lively, albeit nervous, stream of chatter about the weather, Adam and his family in Sacramento, and the local gossip. Apart from catching a few names she recognized, Paris remembered nothing of what he had said. Joe was gracious enough, but seemed distant and remote, answering in monosyllables only when addressed. Ben added a word or two once in a while to Eric’s monolog, and occasionally tried to draw Stacy into the conversation to no avail. The absolute worst were the long, strained silences, during the inevitable conversational lulls.

The faces of Eric, Joe, and Ben slowly faded into the face the youngest member of the Cartwright family, Stacy. Apart from acknowledging their introduction, the girl never said another word the entire evening. There was something strange and compelling about her. Paris felt drawn to her, yet terrified of her at the same time. Maybe it was Stacy’s eyes, the same sky blue color as her own. Or maybe it was the fact that Stacy now was around the same age poor Rose Miranda would have been, had SHE lived. Stacy’s face, framed by a thick halo of dark, wavy hair and those big blue eyes, faded into the face of Rose Miranda, as an infant; a pudgy, cherubic face, with red cheeks, and enormous blue eyes, framed by a wispy halo of hair, hued a rich dark brown almost black . . . .

Suddenly, the lid of the Pandora’s Box within flew open with the force of an exploding volcano. All the memories and feelings that she had kept locked inside, washed over her like a raging flash flood. Helpless against the onslaught, Paris turned and buried her face in the softness of the down pillow beneath her head and sobbed herself into a deep, exhausted sleep.

 

Stacy woke with a jolt, heart pounding and forehead glistening with cold sweat. Her palms were clammy, and her breath came in short, ragged gasps. Sleep had been fitful, interrupted by the continuous replay of a dream filled with strange, shadowy people in a place she couldn’t remember, yet seemed horribly familiar. A glance at the regulator clock, hanging on the wall facing her bed, told her the time was a few minutes past five.

She climbed out of bed, intending to dress and go for a ride before breakfast. A good, brisk ride in the bracing early morning air always worked at clearing troublesome cobwebs out of her head. She turned toward the window, and saw, much to her dismay, that the pouring rain had just squelched her plans.

“Reading should help pass the time between now ‘n breakfast,” Stacy mused in silence, as she turned and grabbed her robe from its place on the post at the head of her bed. She fervently hoped a good book would keep her mind well away from the disturbing images in that terrible dream. She slipped on her robe, then stepped silently from her bedroom, pausing briefly to allow her eyes a moment to adjust to the diminished light in the upstairs hallway.

Upon reaching the top landing, Stacy noted with a start that her father was already up, and dressed. He sat on the settee downstairs, staring morosely into the cold, empty depths of the massive gray stone fireplace that dominated the great room. A book lay open on the coffee table before him alongside a glass, half full, of whiskey. “Pa?!”

Ben glanced up as Stacy started down the stairs. “Good morning,” he greeted her with a tired smile. “You’re up early.”

“Can’t get back to sleep,” she replied, as she hopped down off the last step.

Ben motioned for her to come and sit down beside him. Stacy bounded across the room and dropped down onto the settee next to him. “Hmmm. From the look of you, I’d say you didn’t get any sleep at all,” he said, noting her still wet brow with concern. “You all right?”

“I’m not sick, Pa,” she replied.

Ben blotted the sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief and touched it with the back of his hand. He was somewhat relieved to find her forehead cool as a cucumber.

“I SAID I wasn’t sick,” Stacy said irritably.

“Well, SOMETHING kept you awake most of the night,” Ben quietly observed, “and you’re not usually as quiet as you were last night, unless you ARE sick.” He paused. “You want to talk about it?”

“Pa, how is it you always seem to know—!?”

“Experience that comes from raising three sons and a daughter,” Ben replied.

Stacy closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “You remember that awful dream I kept having when I first came?”

“I remember,” Ben said sympathetically.

“It’s back,” she said, her voice breaking, “all night long! But, it’s changed.”

Ben wordlessly slipped a reassuring arm around her shoulders. He felt her nestling close in the crook of his arm, the weight of her head dropping down onto his shoulder. “It’s all right, Stacy . . . it’s all right. I’m here. I’m right here,” he whispered.

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy murmured, grateful for the love, the comfort, and reassurance he offered through the strength of his presence, the simple touch of his arm wrapped tight about her shoulders. She closed her eyes once again and fell silent, as she worked to muster her own strength and courage.

“The dream started out the same way it always has,” Stacy began haltingly, at length. “I see the people . . . but not their faces. I feel like I SHOULD know them . . . but I can’t remember. To be up front and honest? I don’t WANT to remember. I just want to get away from them. Then, all of a sudden, I’m some WHERE, I’ve never been before . . . and yet I know it. I know where the road leads, what lies over the hill, what’s around the next bend all before I get there. That’s scary enough all by itself!” She shuddered.

“Yes,” Ben agreed. “Déja vu can be very disconcerting, to say the least.”

“Déja . . . what?”

“Déja vu,” Ben repeated the words. “What you went through in those dreams, being in a place you’ve never been . . . but knowing it, is called déja vu.”

“Has it ever happened to you?” she asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied, “in dreams.”

That disclosure made Stacy feel a little better. “Next thing I know, I’m running for my life, but I don’t know who or what I’m running from,” she continued.

“How has the dream changed?” Ben asked.

“When I lived with the Paiutes, Silver Moon taught me to call on her namesake, the moon,” Stacy explained. “The moon would leave the sky and land on the road in front of me. I’d climb inside, and the moon would rise, taking me away from whoever was chasing me.” She lapsed into a long silence.

Ben waited patiently for her to continue.

“Pa, last night . . . last night, the moon didn’t come,” she said finally, her voice breaking. “I called and called, just like Silver Moon taught me . . . but the moon didn’t come!” With that, she buried her face against Ben’s shoulder and wept.

Ben held her, his own heart aching along with her. He wanted so much to take away the fear, the pain, and the grief that had always accompanied the dream, but knew full well he could not.

At length, Stacy’s tears subsided. “P-Pa?”

“Yes?”

“It’s been so long, I thought the dream had stopped for good,” she said in a melancholy tone. “Why has it come back?”

“I don’t know,” Ben said quietly, “but, I think I know why the moon didn’t come this time.”

“Why, Pa?” she asked, wiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe.

Ben handed her a handkerchief. “I think the moon didn’t come this time because the moon is Silver Moon. The moon can’t help you anymore because Silver Moon is no longer here to help you.”

Stacy was clearly frightened by that prospect. “Oh no!” she whispered, her eyes round with horror. “NOW what’ll I do?”

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to stop running and face whoever is chasing you,” Ben said quietly. “I think, deep down, you know that.”

“Oh, Pa . . . what if I can’t?”

“You CAN . . . and you will,” Ben said. “It’ll take a lot of courage, but I know you have more than enough to see you through.”

“If I’m so courageous, why do I feel like such a ‘fraidy cat?” Stacy asked dejectedly.

“A long time ago . . . when I was about the same age you are now . . . a wise man told me that courage has nothing to do with not being afraid,” Ben said. “Courage is facing up to something when you ARE afraid.”

“Like . . . facing up to whatever’s chasing me in the dream?”

Ben nodded. “Miss Paris frightens you the same way the dream frightens you, doesn’t she.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

For an uncertain moment, Stacy thought she was going to faint. “H-how did you know?”

“You’ve been edgy ever since you saw her at the restaurant in Virginia City yesterday,” Ben gently answered her question.

“I don’t know why, Pa,” Stacy said, feeling an almost giddy, guilty sense of relief that he knew. “I’ve never seen Miss Paris before in my life, until yesterday, but I can’t shake this feeling that somehow . . . somewhere I KNOW her. Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“You think Miss Paris might be connected with the dream somehow?”

“Her presence seems to have triggered feelings of déja vu like the dreams, but other than that I’m afraid I don’t know,” Ben replied. “I think the only one can really answer that question is you.”

“I’m scared, Pa.”

“ . . . and I’m right here,” Ben said, offering her a reassuring, if weary smile.

Stacy returned his smile, before impulsively throwing her arms around his neck and planting a sound kiss on his cheek. “Thank you.”

Ben’s smile broadened. “For what?” he asked.

“For hearing me out,” she said earnestly, “for NOT telling me I’m being silly, for not treating me like some kind of cry baby, and . . . most of all . . . for being with me.”

“Well, you’re NOT being silly . . . and you’re hardly what I’d call a cry baby,” Ben hastened to reassure her. He paused briefly, then added, “and I’ll tell you something else. Seeing Miss Paris McKenna yesterday’s had me pretty spooked, too.”

“Is that why YOU’RE up so early?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m up so early,” Ben replied. “You’re very perceptive yourself, Young La–, er Young WOMAN.”

“You and Silver Moon both say it comes from living with family,” Stacy said. “I wish there was some way you could meet her . . . . ”

“I do, too,” Ben said sincerely. “She sounds like a very wise woman.”

“Pa?”

“Hmm?”

“Miss Paris is sick, isn’t she,” Stacy said, bringing the subject of conversation back to their houseguest.

“Well, she’s not sick, exactly,” Ben explained. “The doctor said she’s suffering from exhaustion. She’ll be fine after she’s had plenty of rest and plenty to eat.”

Stacy shook her head. “No, Pa. She IS sick. Something’s eating her, from the inside,” she said. “I’ve seen it before . . . twice.”

“Oh?”

“I saw it the second time in the face of my grandfather, Chief Soaring Eagle,” Stacy said sadly. “The army had us holed up in this box canyon, with . . . with no way out. When my grandfather realized that, he . . . the look on his face . . . it was the same as the look on Miss Paris’ face now.”

Most of the time, by all appearances, Stacy was a typical teenaged girl, who loved horses, delighted in teasing her older brothers, and needed occasional motivation to apply herself to her school work. She had yet to discover the merits of teenaged boys, something for which Ben was heartily thankful, even though he knew that would more than likely change in the very near future. But, occasionally, there were times, like now, when the teenaged girl disappeared into an incredibly wise woman, more ancient than the mountains surrounding the Ponderosa. Ben knew that if he lived to be a hundred, this daughter of his would never cease to amaze him.

“When was the first time?” Ben asked.

“The first time?!” Stacy echoed, favoring her father with a bewildered frown. “What first time?”

“The first time you saw someone with . . . with the same sickness you see in Miss Paris?”

“Oh! It was . . . . ” Her face fell as that particular memory and the words, sitting right on the tip of her tongue, suddenly vanished. “I . . . thought there was another time, but . . . all of a sudden, I . . . I can’t remember.”

“Maybe it’ll come back to you later,” Ben suggested, with a hopeful reassuring smile.

“Maybe . . . . ” she said softly.

“In the meantime, Young Woman, I think I hear Hop Sing moving about in the kitchen . . . . ”

Stacy turned a listening ear in the direction of the kitchen. “I think you’re right,” she said, smiling . . . all teenaged girl once again. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“You think . . . maybe . . . if we get up right now, you and I can get to the kitchen first and get OUR share of the bacon before Hoss and Joe wake up?”

“ . . . then you’d better shake a leg, Miss Stacy LOO-WEESE!” Joe called out from the landing at the top of the stairs, “because right now, I’m hungrier than a mean ol’ grizzly bear that just woke up from a long winter’s night.”

“So am I . . . LITTLE Joe!” Stacy retorted, as she leapt to her feet. “Last one to the kitchen forfeits HIS bacon to the first.”

“LITTLE Joe?! Hey! Where do YOU get off calling me Little Joe, LITTLE Sister?! I’ve got a good mind turn you over my knee, and— ”

“You have to catch me first,” Stacy taunted. “Excuse me, Pa . . . . ” With the grace and powerful strength of a prowling cougar, she sprang from between the settee and coffee table, and sprinted toward the kitchen as fast as she could.

“WHY YOU LITTLE—! YOU COME BACK HERE!” Joe yelled, giving chase.

“I won!” Stacy crowed triumphantly from the kitchen door. “Your bacon is mine.”

“It is not! You cheated!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

“I most certainly and assuredly did NOT,” Stacy argued. “If anyone cheated . . . it was YOU!”

“ME?!” Joe echoed, outraged and indignant.

“Yes . . . YOU!”

“I did not!”

“Oh, yes you DID!”

Ben followed at a more leisurely pace, chuckling and shaking his head. A glance out the window told him that the rain had stopped and the clouds were beginning to break up. Soon, the winds would come and scatter the clouds, the way the gray light of this still overcast morning had, for the time being at least, driven away the dark dreams and the uneasiness that seemed to have accompanied Paris McKenna’s unexpected arrival. Out in the kitchen he heard the teasing banter between Joe and Stacy, followed by a peal of the former’s infectious laughter mixed with what had to be some very colorful Chinese from Hop Sing.

“Hey, Pa,” it was Hoss. “Shouldn’t ya tell those two hooligans to quiet down!? Their shenanigans are sure to wake up Miss Paris.”

Ben shook his head. “After the way Joe and Stacy behaved last night, I’m relieved and thankful to see them back to normal.”

“OUT! OUT OF HOP SING KITCHEN!” Hop Sing yelled, shifting from fluent Chinese to his own unique brand of English. “OUT! RIGHT NOW! CHOP! CHOP!”

“On second thought,” Ben said quickening his pace, “I don’t like the sound of that ‘chop chop.’ Stacy . . . Joseph . . . . ”

 

Paris opened her eyes and yawned. Turning toward the window, she saw that the rain had stopped. The sky and remaining wisps of cloud were drenched in a pinkish golden light. Though the pain in her joints had lessened, the muscles in her back and shoulders ached miserably. Her eyes burned, and her entire face felt swollen and tender. She slowly, gingerly eased herself up from prone to sitting. Though the move left her feeling horribly lightheaded, the room stayed firmly anchored on its foundations. She decided to rest a moment, before getting out of bed and finding her way to the washbasin on its stand across the room.

The sound of someone knocking on the door startled her. “Who . . . who is it?” she gasped, shocked at how hoarse her voice sounded in her own ears.

“It’s Ben, Paris. May I come in?”

She automatically straightened, smoothed out the folds of her nightgown, and pushed her hair back behind her ears. “Come in, Ben,” she invited, nervous and wary.

Ben entered the room, carrying a tray. On it was a steaming bowl of Hop Sing’s chicken soup, judging from the delicious, heady aroma. Beside the bowl was a small plate with two biscuits and a slab of butter, along with a mug of steaming hot herbal tea. “I’m sorry, Paris,” he said quietly, shocked by her gaunt, haggard appearance. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Paris said in a low, barely audible voice. “I’d just woken up a few minutes before you knocked on the door.”

“I thought I’d bring you a little something to eat.”

“Tell me something, Ben. Has it become a custom out here to have chicken soup for breakfast?!”

Ben felt a tiny prickle of relief at hearing something of the old Paris McKenna crustiness. “No,” he shook his head and set the tray down on her lap, “but we DO have it for dinner or supper occasionally.”

“Goodness! It’s dinnertime already?” she gasped.

“Past dinner going on supper time, actually,” Ben said quietly. “Hop Sing wanted to wake you for breakfast, but I figured you needed the sleep more.”

“SUPPERtime?!” Paris echoed incredulously. “Do you mean to tell me I’ve slept away the entire day?!”

Ben nodded.

Paris scooped up a generous spoonful of broth, vegetables, and chicken, blew on it, then gingerly sipped from the spoon. “Glad to know Hop Sing hasn’t lost his touch,” she murmured.

“Mind if I sit with you awhile?” Ben asked.

“No . . . n-not at all,” she lied.

Ben took the nearest chair and pulled it up beside the bed. “Did you sleep all right?”

“I couldn’t get to sleep right away,” Paris confessed sheepishly, “you know . . . the usual aches and pains when the rains come.”

Ben frowned. “Aren’t you a little young for that?” he asked.

Paris placed the spoon on the tray and reached for one of the two buttermilk biscuits. “Not when you haven’t the good sense to get the mumps while you’re still a child,” she sighed. “I caught them two years ago from my employers’ children. My joints have been achy ever since . . . especially when it rains. Ben?”

“Yes, Paris?”

“I need to send a wire,” she said briskly, “to my employer in San Francisco. I, uhh . . . think it would be prudent to let him know that I’ve taken ill and . . . am unable to take the job.”

“Yes, of course,” Ben immediately agreed. He rose and walked over to the secretary, set against the wall directly across the foot of the bed. There, he procured paper and pencil, then turned his attention once again to his houseguest. “The telegraph office would be closed before anyone could make it into town today, but I’ll have the man who goes in to pick up my mail see to it first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, grateful and deeply relieved. “It wouldn’t be at all seemly for me to not show up without some kind of explanation . . . . ”

“I understand.”

“The name of the man who hired me is Barnaby Cunningham,” Paris said. “He’s the manager of a law firm . . . Collins, Tyler, and Forsythe.”

“Would the second partner in the law firm happen to be Mark Tyler?” Ben asked, as he dutifully jotted down the information given him.

“Why . . . yes,” Paris replied, mildly surprised. “You know him?”

“I’ve done business with him a time or two,” Ben replied. He folded the paper and slipped it into the front pocket of his shirt.

“Small world,” Paris quietly observed, as Ben once again seated himself in the chair next to her bed.

“So . . . what have you been doing with yourself since you . . . uhh . . . since you and I last saw each other?” Ben asked, suddenly feeling ill at ease.

Paris winced. Her eyes dropped from Ben’s face to her soup like a pair of lead weights. “I’m afraid my life’s been . . . well . . . kind of dull, actually,” she replied, hesitant and apologetic. “I, uhh . . . took ill not long after I . . . after I left. I stayed with Mam, Da, and my sisters until I got back on my feet. After that . . . . ” She shrugged. “After that, I kinda drifted from one place to another, taking whatever work was available . . . . ” She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then forced herself to look up and meet his eyes. “I’ve done well enough for myself for the most part, I s’pose . . . but it’s not been very interesting. I was hoping you’d tell me about Stacy,” she said, hoping against hope to steer the conversation well away from herself. The youngest member of the Cartwright family appeared to be a safe enough topic.

“Sure,” Ben replied. “What would you like to know?”

“Everything. From the beginning,” Paris immediately replied.

“Well . . . Hoss, Joe, and I met Stacy for the first time at Fort Charlotte four . . . going on five years ago now,” Ben began.

Paris glanced over at him sharply. “D-Did you say . . . F-Fort . . . Charlotte?!”

Ben nodded.

“Hm. A VERY small world,” she observed, speaking with a calmness she was very far from feeling.

“So it would seem,” Ben said with a touch of wryness. “As you WELL know, Fort Charlotte bought Ponderosa stock for quite a number of years.”

“Yes . . . ever since that chance meeting with my father,” Paris said. She gingerly sipped another spoonful of soup. “For all his faults . . . that man sure knew a fine horse when he saw one, and . . . I remember him saying on more than one occasion that the Ponderosa horses were the best in the whole territory.”

“High praise coming from Gerald McKenna,” Ben said. “We continued to do business with Fort Charlotte long after your father left the army. The summer we met Stacy, the boys and I had gone there to deliver a string of horses that Sergeant McGuinness— ”

“Sergeant DASHEL McGuinness?”

“Yes. He was horse master at the time.”

“So . . . Dashel decided to follow in his father’s footsteps after all . . . in spite of his many protests to the contrary,” she said quietly, shaking her head in wonder.

“He had the biggest crush on YOU, as I recall, beginning from the very moment he discovered the existence of girls . . . when? His twelfth birthday?”

“His thirteenth,” Paris said tartly. “I, of course, was a sophisticated, worldly woman, all of fifteen years old. My father would have been ecstatic if I had encouraged him, what with HIS father being the fort commander, but . . . I . . . well, I just couldn’t bring myself. To me he was a child, Ben . . . just a little boy, still wet behind the ears, trying to play grown-up . . . and besides . . . MY heart belonged to . . . to another.” As she uttered those last words she once again averted her eyes from his face back to the tray on her lap, deeply chagrined upon feeling the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks and neck.

“Sergeant McGuinness came to the Ponderosa in the early spring of that year to look over a string of horses we had just brought in off the range,” Ben continued. “He purchased them on the spot. That summer the boys and I took ‘em to Fort Charlotte, saddle broken and trained. The sergeant was at the corral waiting for us when we arrived. Stacy was with him.

“Sergeant McGuinness introduced us.” Ben smiled, and a soft, distant gaze clouded his eyes as thought and memory transported him back to that particular time and place. “Stacy and the boys hit it off immediately. It seemed the three of ‘em were thick as thieves before the sergeant could finish making the introductions. If you’d seen them together that day, you would’ve thought they’d known each other their whole lives.”

“How did Stacy end up at Fort Charlotte of all places?” Paris asked. “Was she an army brat like . . . like my sisters and me?”

Ben shook his head. “Sergeant McGuinness told me Stacy and about half a dozen other white children were found living with a tribe of Paiute Indians. A patrol heading north spotted ‘em,” he replied. “There were no warriors among ‘em . . . just women . . . children . . . and a handful of old men, including their chief. They knew they were no match for the cavalrymen, so they turned tail and ran. The cavalrymen went after them, and rounded ‘em up very quickly. The Indians were relocated to a reservation, and the white children taken back to the fort. By the time Hoss, Joe, and I arrived, the other children were gone . . . reunited with their families.”

“But . . . not Stacy.”

“No.”

“She had to have come from SOMEWHERE, Ben,” Paris said softly.

“I found out later that Major Baldwin, the fort commander at the time, carried out an extensive search . . . but no one ever came forward to claim her,” Ben explained. “Stacy wasn’t able to tell ‘em anything because she had no memory whatsoever of the life she led before she became part of the Paiute tribe. The only thing she had from that time was a heart shaped pendant and chain, with her name engraved on the heart. In the end, Major Baldwin decided to place her in an orphanage.” The anger, the outrage came through in his voice loud and clear.

“Ben, Fort Charlotte IS an army outpost,” Paris reminded him. “As such, it would hardly have been an appropriate place for a young girl.”

“I know, Paris . . . I know,” Ben was forced to concede the point, “but, hard as life is on a reservation, she would have been better off THERE . . . with a foster mother and family who genuinely cared about her, than at some orphanage out in Ohio, of all places, run by a . . . a monster of a woman who had no damned business looking after children.”

Paris frowned. “Ohio? They were going to send her to an orphanage . . . out in Ohio?!”

“Yes.”

Paris shook her head in complete and utter bewilderment. “Why?”

“I don’t know, Paris,” Ben replied. “Sending that child all the way out to Ohio didn’t make one bit of sense to me. There’s an orphanage and school right there in Mormon Springs, run by people I know to be kind and decent, who try their best to do what’s right for the children placed in their care. I asked Major Baldwin flat out why he was so hell bent on sending Stacy out to Ohio, but he wouldn’t give me a straight answer. He just kept telling me over and over that the matter was out of his hands.

“The headmistress of that place in Ohio arrived at the fort the day after WE did. That night— ” Ben abruptly broke off, shocked and dismayed by the intensity of emotion churning within him. He closed his eyes, and took a deep, ragged breath. “Paris . . . the way that . . . that woman treated that poor li’l gal . . . well suffice it to say that Hoss was every bit as outraged as I was, and Joe was furious . . . fit to be tied.

“The next morning, all three of us went to Major Baldwin, and asked his permission to take Stacy with US . . . over and above the protests of that woman from Ohio. He told us that Mrs. Crawleigh, the woman who had come to take Stacy, would have to give consent. SHE made it very clear that she give her consent when hell freezes over.”

“I don’t understand . . . . ” Paris said very softly, with a puzzled frown on her face. “I would’ve thought the headmistress of an orphanage would have been overjoyed at the prospect of you, Hoss, and Joe wanting to provide a home for Stacy.”

“She told me ours wasn’t the proper kind of home with a father, two brothers, and no Mrs. Cartwright to speak of,” Ben replied with a scowl, “and Major Baldwin backed her up all the way . . . until Hoss and Joe changed his mind at the eleventh hour.”

“How did they manage that?”

“To tell you the honest-to-goodness truth, Paris, to this day, I’m STILL afraid to ask,” Ben said chuckling, as he recalled the odd, almost fearful look that stole over the fort commander’s face, every time he happened to catch sight of Hoss or Joe, after their little chat concerning the welfare of one Miss Stacy Louise. “The important thing is . . . Major Baldwin forced Mrs. Crawleigh to sign the necessary papers relinquishing custody of Stacy to me. After we arrived home, I was able to legally adopt her almost immediately because Major Baldwin had already carried out the search for possible relatives, as required by Nevada law.”

“She must be quite a remarkable young lady to have captured your hearts so completely . . . and . . . and so quickly,” Paris said, her voice filled with sadness.

“Yes, she is,” Ben agreed, with a proud smile, “but, Paris . . . a word to the wise?”

“What’s that?”

“Whatever you do . . . don’t EVER call her a lady, young, old, or otherwise . . . at least not to her face,” Ben warned. “She’ll tar and feather you first, ask questions later.”

“Oh?”

“Hoss made the mistake of referring to her as a young lady . . . oh, sometime within the first few days she was with us,” Ben said quietly. “The end result was . . . well, to hear Joe tell it, Hoss was limping for at least a month of Sundays, and Stacy couldn’t sit down for the better part of a week.”

“Thank you for the warning, Ben. I’ll try to remember,” Paris dutifully promised. “I’m . . . glad that poor child’s story had a happy ending, though . . . especially after all she’s gone through . . . being abducted by the Paiutes from . . . from wherever she was . . . followed by all the years of living with those savages . . . . ” She shuddered.

“According to Stacy her life among the Paiutes wasn’t so bad,” Ben said.

“Oh?”

Ben nodded. “Stacy’s foster mother and grandfather taught her to ride, to hunt and fish . . . to track just about everything from wild horses and game to people,” he explained. “They also taught her to swim like a fish, to sing like the birds, to howl like the wolf and the coyote, to walk silent as falling snow, and how to use the stars to find her way in the night. They also passed on to her a love and a reverence for the land the like of which I’ve seen in a white man once . . . a young man, every bit as remarkable . . . . ”

“Eric?”

“Yes . . . Eric,” Ben replied with a proud smile. “I’ve . . . never thought of this before, but during his growing up years, and still, to this very day, the Ponderosa’s been his classroom, and the sky, the trees, the other plants, and animals were and continue to be his teachers. Since the day Stacy joined our family, he’s taken her under wing and continued the lessons I’m almost certain her Paiute foster mother, Silver Moon, began.”

“Even so . . . she can’t possibly love the Ponderosa more than YOU do,” Paris said in a voice, more calm and steady. “I don’t think anybody can.”

“My sons . . . my daughter . . . and I love this place we call home very much,” Ben explained, “though we love her in different ways . . . .

“I think I’VE come to love this land . . . this home of ours . . . as a man loves a woman,” Ben said slowly, thoughtfully. “Out of that love has come a healthy respect . . . of knowing what we can and can’t do . . . and an equal portion of give and take on both sides.

“Her resources . . . her gifts . . . are many and vast and she’s been very generous with them. But, they are NOT without limit. So . . . I’ve tried to find ways in which I can give back, whether it’s planting a tree for each one we cut down . . . allowing our fields and pasture lands to go fallow every few years, each in their own turn, so that they might rest and replenish themselves . . . or in simply not hunting or fishing for more than we can eat. I’ve done my very best to teach these things to my children.

“Now Joe, on the other hand . . . the Ponderosa is all he’s ever known,” Ben continued. “He’s the only one of my children who was actually born here. The Ponderosa has in a very real way nurtured and sustained him, and has been for him especially the center that draws and keeps our family together every bit as much as a mother would. He’s grown up into a fine young man, one whom I’ve very proud to call son. I’ve done the best I could to bring that about, but I have to give a large portion of that credit to the kind of life the Ponderosa’s given us . . . individually AND as a family.

“For Adam, I think the Ponderosa was his teacher . . . his mentor, but in a different way than for Hoss and Stacy. All of the knowledge he learned while attending Harvard University, he brought back and applied here. He honed and sharpened those skills . . . and . . . . ” Ben chuckled softly, “he learned some hard lessons about the differences between what he read in books and the way things work out in life.”

An amused smile tugged hard at the corner of Paris’ mouth as she took a dainty sip of Hop Sing’s herbal tea.

“For many years, Adam was very much my right hand man,” Ben continued, with a wistful, nostalgic smile. “As such, he’s worked with many different people, coming from different backgrounds, with different ways of seeing things . . . and in so doing has learned a lot about human nature. I . . . make a point of visiting him and his family whenever I’m in Sacramento . . . and from what I can see, he’s taken all those things he learned and put into practice here . . . and has applied them to the life he and his wife have made for themselves and their children.”

“ . . . and THAT brings us back again to Eric and Stacy,” Paris said. “You said that the land has become Eric’s classroom, and the sky, the plants, and the animals his teachers . . . and that he, in turn, is passing his knowledge on to Stacy, but . . . how, exactly do THEY love this wondrous Ponderosa of yours?”

“Eric . . . HOSS . . . and Stacy . . . I believe the two of them see The Creator in the beauty and the majesty of the land they call home,” Ben replied, “and in the plants, the creatures with whom they share their home. Hoss, more than any of us, sees ownership of the Ponderosa as a trust, one that he takes very seriously and I dare say, holds sacred. Silver Moon and her father instilled that same idea in Stacy, and Hoss, over the last few years, has reinforced and solidified those ideas.”

“ . . . and I suppose the NEXT thing you’re going to tell me is that Eric and Stacy love the Ponderosa in the same way people love God,” Paris snorted with a gentle derisiveness.

“I believe they do.”

“ . . . and you allow such . . . such . . . blasphemous idolatry in your own house?!” she queried, appalled, yet envious.

Ben smiled and shook his head. “There’s no more blasphemy in Stacy’s Father Sky and Mother Earth than there is in Hoss’ God, Father and Creator of All Things, or in Saint Francis of Assisi’s Brother Sun and Sister Moon. Sometimes I think if more of us COULD see The Creator in the creation, and remember that when God created, he pronounced it all good . . . maybe this world would be a better place, and the lot of us much healthier . . . and happier.”

“That’s certainly not what I was taught . . . but I’d far rather live in the world YOU envision, Ben,” Paris said in a voice barely audible. She sighed and though shaking her head in complete bewilderment, a small ray of delight shone in her deep blue eyes, as well.

“The greatest gifts Silver Moon, her father, her husband, Jon Running Deer, and the rest of the tribe gave Stacy were unconditional love and acceptance,” Ben continued.

“Unconditional love and acceptance . . . . ” Paris murmured softly, shaking her head once more in utter disbelief. “The idea! The VERY idea . . . . ”

The thought of a people, she had always been taught to regard as little better than savage wild animals, accepting a strange white child into their midst and actually loving her, was incomprehensible. She, by contrast, had always lived among her own, yet she had no memory of ever having been loved. As a young child, she was looked upon as an inconvenience, to be seen as little as possible and never heard. When she was older, she worked alongside her mam and da, not as a daughter, but as just another servant, tending to the farm that ironically belonged to her maternal grandfather.

“Times was hard, Par’een.”

She heard again the voice of her paternal grandmother, a wise and kindly woman, who had never lost the capacity to love, no matter what troubles beset her.

“SHE loved me,” Paris silently remembered with a pang of guilt that brought tears to her eyes. “She LOVED me. Oh, dear God in heaven . . . how could I have forgotten h-how much Grandma McKenna loved me?!”

“ ‘Tis all too easy t’ lose sight o’ the silver linin’ behind the dark cloud, Par’een, when day after day after wearyin’ day, you’re fightin’ an uphill battle to just t’ stay alive . . . ‘n you, Darlin’, willful li’l thing you were, with that stiff-necked, uncompromisin’ pride about y’. . . . ”

Her thoughts drifted back to Ireland 1847, the year that had become known as Black ‘47. . . to the sight of her mother, the disowned and disgraced daughter of the manor lord, on her knees begging the lowliest of her father’s servants for kitchen scraps to feed her starving family . . . .

. . . then, to New York City, a year later, to the sight of her father, a proud man, big, strong, and powerful . . . coming home with his shoulders sagging and his head bowed in humbling defeat, after having spent yet another day looking for work amid a veritable sea of help wanted signs, with the words, “No Irish need apply here,” splayed prominently across their bottom . . . .

“You BET I have my pride,” Paris silently told her grandmother, with an emphatic, angry nod of her head.

“At what price, Par’een?”

The price HAD been dear . . . . Very dear indeed. Her pride had cost her the love of the people who had mattered the most: Mam . . . Da . . . John . . . Matilda and Elsie . . . and most heart wrenching of all . . . the big silver haired man now seated in a chair drawn up beside her bed.

. . . and yet, dear as the price had been for her . . . it was poor Rose Miranda who had ended up suffering the consequences.

“Paris?” Ben queried, noting the quivering bottom lip and the unusually bright eyes. “Are you all right?”

“I’m f-fine, Ben,” she replied in as steady voice as she could muster.

“You always were a very poor liar, Paris,” Ben chided her gently.

A single tear slipped over her eyelid and ran down her cheek. His way of reading her like a book was disconcerting enough seventeen years ago. Now, it seemed even more so. “You . . . you w-were telling me about STACY,” she said pointedly, her voice breaking.

“Yes. So I was.” Ben immediately backed off. “You . . . know much I love my sons.”

Paris nodded. “Y-You love . . . Adam . . . Eric . . . and Joe . . . more than just about anything,” she said, her voice shaking. “Y-You love them even more than you love this beautiful Ponderosa.”

“I built the Ponderosa for my sons,” Ben said quietly. “I wanted to give them a home . . . and a way of life that would draw us together as a family, bound together by the love of and a mutual respect for one another.”

“ . . . and you have, Ben, you HAVE!” Paris said quietly. “I’ve encountered many families in my travels . . . some wealthy beyond imagining . . . others so destitute they have no roof over their heads, no idea as to where their next meal is coming from . . . the rest lying somewhere between those two extremes. None of them had what you, Adam, Eric, Joe . . . and now Stacy have. A few came close, but the vast majority missed the mark by a wide mile. You have something very special, Ben.”

“Yes . . . even if I DO say so myself,” Ben agreed. “Adam, Hoss, and Joe have all grown into fine, decent young men and I’m very proud . . . very proud indeed to call them my sons. I love them . . . and over the years, they’ve earned my respect many, many times over.”

“ . . . and I dare say, you’ve earned their admiration and respect many times over, as well,” Paris added quietly.

“I wouldn’t trade my sons for anything,” Ben declared punctuating his words with an emphatic nod of his head. “But, sometimes . . . I’ve found myself regretting not having had a daughter, too. From the first moment I laid eyes on Stacy, I knew . . . deep down, I KNEW that she was the daughter I’d always wanted, but never had. No father could possibly love his daughter any more than I love Stacy.”

Paris suddenly burst into tears. “Ben . . . I . . . I c-can’t eat anymore,” she sobbed pushing the tray back towards him.

The suddenness and the intensity of her grief disturbed and frightened him. “Paris, what’s wrong?” he prodded gingerly.

“Nothing’s wrong, B-Ben, n-nothing,” she stammered.

“That’s an outright lie, and you know it,” Ben chided her gently. “We’ve always been able to talk to each other about what’s bothering us. Please, talk to me now, Paris. Maybe I can help.”

“Ben, please! Just leave me alone!” she wailed, on the edge of hysteria. “Please!”

“All right,” Ben said curtly. Her outburst left him feeling helpless, and utterly shaken to the very core of his being. He took the food tray and rose stiffly. “If you need anything let me know.”

 

Downstairs in the kitchen, Hop Sing shook his head morosely over the almost untouched food on the tray. “Miss Paris not eat, Mister Cartwright,” he chastised Ben severely. “How she get strong again, if she not eat?”

Ben shrugged.

“Know what Hop Sing think? Hop Sing think Miss Paris NOT tired like doctor say,” Hop Sing stated with an emphatic nod of his head. “Hop Sing think Miss Paris SICK! Very, very sick.”

“You’re the second person who’s said that today,” Ben said wearily.

“Miss Paris HEART sick, Mister Cartwright,” Hop Sing pressed.

“Are you trying to tell me she has a heart condition?” Ben asked.

“No, no, no, no.” Hop Sing shook his head vigorously. “Mister Cartwright think BODY heart. Hop Sing mean SOUL heart. Miss Paris sick in soul heart. Sickness in soul heart worse than sickness in body heart. Much worse!”

 

The following morning dawned clear and sunny. Though still chilly, there was a hint of the spring warmth soon to come. Ben leaned up against the fence surrounding the field where the horses were trained, watching Hoss and Stacy put Golden Boy, a young palomino gelding, through his paces. Hoss gave the orders; Stacy and Golden Boy flawlessly executed them as one.

“ . . . magic,” he murmured softly, his eyes and face shining with pride. “Nothing less than pure ‘n simple magic.”

“What’s that, Pa?”

“What’s, uhhh . . . what, Son?” Ben queried, as he turned his head and favored his biggest son with a bewildered frown.

“What’s nothin’ less ‘n pure ‘n simple magic?” Hoss queried.

“Oh!” Ben murmured softly, aware for the first time of having given voice to his thoughts. “I was referring to the way you and your sister seem to have brought that palomino around.”

“Aww, Pa . . . . ” Hoss gently guffawed, his cheeks slightly flushed, “what brought Golden Boy around was just a lotta plain, ol’ fashioned love . . . then trust. Ain’t nuthin’ particularly magical ‘bout either one.”

“Now THAT’S where you’re wrong, Hoss,” Ben said quietly. “Love and trust are just about the most magical things there are in this world . . . . ”

Love and trust.

Ben’s thoughts drifted to Paris McKenna. He had stopped to look in on her before coming down to watch Hoss and Stacy. The visit was strained, and mercifully, very brief. She had adamantly insisted that she slept very well last night, thank you very much; and that she felt much better this morning. He couldn’t help but notice that she had seemed inordinately relieved when he told her he would away from the house most of the day. To be up front and honest, he felt the same deep, profound relief himself.

“Well, Pa?”

The sound of Hoss’ voice drew him away from his troubled musings about Paris.

“What do y’ think?”

“I already told ya, Son . . . . ”

“Now, Pa . . . .” Hoss groaned and rolled his eyes, “you ain’t gonna start in on that business about magic again . . . . ”

“A month ago, Hoss, that youngster . . . . ” Ben inclined his head toward the young palomino, now trotting along the fence on the other side if the corral, “ . . . was the most unruly of the lot. For a while there, I thought sure HE was going to end up breaking Joe before Joe could break him. When you and your sister asked if you could work with him, I honestly didn’t think Golden Boy was going to let the two of ya get within ten feet of him, let alone get him into a bridle or slap a saddle on his back.”

Hoss smiled and shook his head. “Pa, I don’t know one bit about magic, except for what ya read t’ Joe ‘n me from that big book o’ faerie tales you read t’ the whole lotta us from when we was little, but, I can tell ya one thing.”

“Oh yeah?” Ben queried. “What’s that?”

“I know that Stacy ‘n I make a great team.”

“You sure do,” Ben immediately agreed. “Hoss?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“How long before he’s ready for delivery to Mister Hansen?” Ben asked. “You know he’s got his eye on him as a birthday present for his daughter, Rachael.”

“Another couple of weeks o’ good solid work oughtta do it,” Hoss replied, “but there’s somethin’ Li’l Sister ‘n I’ve been meanin’ t’ tell ya . . . . ”

“What’s that, Son?”

“Stacy ‘n me . . . well, we’re both of the mind that Golden Boy’d be a better gift for Grace than Rachael.” Grace was the eldest of Clay Hansen’s five daughters, and Rachael was next to youngest.

“Oh?”

Hoss nodded. “He’s turnin’ out t’ be a real fine saddle horse, but he’s high spirited. He’s gonna need a rider with a firm hand,” he explained. “I know Rachael rides well enough for a li’l gal just startin’ out ‘n all— ”

“ . . . but Grace, being the accomplished horse woman she is AND the more experienced rider, is better able to handle a high-spirited mount,” Ben said.

“Yeah,” Hoss replied.

“I’ll pass your advice along to Mister Hansen,” Ben promised.

Stacy, meanwhile, circled the corral once again, waving at her father and brother in passing.

“Hey, Stacy,” Hoss turned and called to her across the corral, “y’ can start coolin’ him down now.”

Stacy smiled and gave an acknowledging wave. Before she could stop and dismount, however, Golden Boy stumbled. Her quick action prevented him from taking a bad, perhaps even fatal, collapse. In bringing the young gelding to an abrupt stop, however, Stacy felt something give. The saddle beneath her lurched, and began to slide. The next thing she knew, she had rolled off of Golden Boy’s back, and struck the muddy ground hard enough to drive the wind from her lungs.

With heart in mouth, Ben tore across the corral, beating a straight path towards its center, where Stacy lay, unmoving. Hoss followed close at his father’s heels. One of the hands, a young man, recently hired, had the presence of mind to take hold of Golden Boy’s lead and gently coax him well away from Stacy’s ominously still form, allowing Ben and Hoss easy access.

As he dropped down to his knees along side his daughter, Ben saw Joe’s mother, Marie, that terrible day she took a tumble from her horse, lying right out on front of the house, so ominously still, with arms and legs splayed, her head and neck oddly juxtaposed in relation to her shoulders . . . .

“No,” he whispered, vigorously shaking his head in denial. “No . . . . ”

“P-Pa?” The sound of Stacy’s voice drew Ben from his terrible reverie, back into the here and now. She tried to sit up.

“Stacy, no. Don’t move,” Ben said tersely. He placed his hands down onto her shoulders, effectively restraining her. “Not just yet.”

“I . . . I’m ok, Pa,” Stacy gasped. “Fall . . . knocked the w-wind outta me, ’s all.”

“Does it hurt when you breathe in?” Ben asked.

“A little.”

“How about your back?”

“It hurts some, but not real b-bad,” she replied.

“Can you move your legs?” Ben pressed anxiously.

Stacy very gingerly lifted her right leg, flexing her knee, then her foot and ankle. She lowered her leg back down to the ground, before raising her left leg and flexing her knee. Her attempt to flex her ankle brought forth a cry of pain.

“What is it, Stacy?” Ben snapped out the question.

“It’s m-my ankle, Pa. It hurts like the devil, and . . . and I feel like the boot’s suddenly grown t-too small.”

Ben slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding. He offered a silent, heartfelt prayer of thanks that from all indications, she had no internal injuries . . . she wasn’t paralyzed . . . or worse. So far, her worst injury might be a broken ankle, but given time, that would heal.

Stacy, meanwhile, studied her father’s face with an anxious frown. His complexion was a few shades paler than normal, and his dark eyes were round with alarm. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Are . . . YOU ok?”

“I’ll be alright, Young Woman,” Ben hastened to assure her. “Think you can sit up?”

“I . . . I don’t see why not,” she replied.

Ben carefully eased her from prone to sitting.

Stacy gasped, as she squeezed her eyes shut against an environment that suddenly began to spin and pulsate with nauseating intensity. “Pa, I . . . I . . . . ” she moaned softly, then collapsed against Ben, her body limp as a rag doll.

“HOSS!” Ben shouted, as he scooped Stacy’s inert form up into his arms, and rose to his feet, all in the same ungainly move.

“Right here, Pa.” Hoss appeared at his elbow, with Stacy’s saddle clasped tight in his arms.

“Send one of the men to town to fetch Doctor Martin,” Ben said tersely . . . .

 

“Ben, she’s a very lucky young woman,” Paul Martin said candidly, as he stepped out into the upstairs hallway with his young patient’s father. “No broken ribs as far as I can tell . . . and no internal bleeding. She’s going to be very stiff and sore for the next few days, but the worst of her injuries appear to be a badly sprained ankle, and that knot on the back of her head.”

“Thank heaven for small mercies,” Ben murmured gratefully.

“I’ve bandaged her ankle,” Paul continued. “An ice pack three to five times a day, over the course of the next few days will help keep the swelling down. Stacy should also keep her ankle elevated whenever she’s sitting or lying down. If her toes begin to feel cold, or turn blue, loosen the bandage.”

Ben nodded.

“I’m most concerned about that head injury,” Paul said gravely. “How long was she unconscious?”

“Not long . . . ten minutes perhaps . . . fifteen at the very outside,” Ben replied. “Though she was conscious after she initially fell off the horse. She didn’t pass out until she tried to sit up.”

Paul took a moment to mull over what Ben had just told him. “That’s good,” he said guardedly. “At the moment, Stacy’s resting comfortably enough. If she later complains of nausea and vomiting . . . dizziness . . . blurred or double vision, send for me at once. I’ll be at home all this evening and tonight . . . barring any unforeseen emergencies of course . . . . ”

“Of course,” Ben murmured quietly.

“If by supper time, she hasn’t suffered any significant bouts of nausea and vomiting, go ahead and give her broth . . . chicken is best, of course, tea, and maybe a slice of toast with jelly,” Paul continued. “If that stays down tonight, she can have solid food tomorrow, just keep it bland. After that, you can play it by ear.”

“Thank you for coming out, Paul,” Ben said gratefully. “I’ll see you to the door.”

Paul nodded and fell in step alongside the Cartwright clan patriarch. “How’s my OTHER patient doing?” he asked.

“Physically . . . about the same, near as I can tell,” Ben replied. “She didn’t sleep well her first night here, but she DID make up for it yesterday. She also has no appetite, much to Hop Sing’s consternation. But . . . that’s not what concerns me.”

“What DOES concern you, Ben?”

“Her state of mind,” Ben replied. He somberly related the details of what had transpired the previous afternoon. “One minute Paris and I were talking about Stacy, and the next . . . she’s crying, and screaming at me to go away and leave her alone. I . . . I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to do . . . or say.”

“As I recall, she was something of a mercurial woman,” Paul said quietly.

“True, but . . . nothing like this, Paul.”

“How was she today?”

“This morning, I stopped in long enough to tell her that I would be away from the house most of the day . . . that Hop Sing would be here to look after her,” Ben replied. “She was very subdued, and . . . it seemed to me she was very relieved.”

“If you’d like, I’ll look in on her, since I’m here,” Paul said.

“Thank you, Paul. I would appreciate that very much,” Ben said gratefully.

“In the meantime, why don’t you g’won in and see Stacy. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to leave.”

 

After showing Paul to the guest room, occupied by Paris McKenna, Ben continued on down the hall to his daughter’s room. Stacy was lying under several layers of bedclothes, a sheet, a light blanket, and her favorite quilt, clad in the oversized nightshirt she customarily wore to bed. The bedclothes had been pulled away from her injured ankle, which was propped up on a couple of spare downy pillows. Hoss was seated in a chair on the other side of her bed, facing the door.

As Ben entered the room, Stacy turned and wordlessly held out her hand. Ben quickly crossed the room, and gently took her outstretched hand, as he seated himself on the edge of her bed.

“What did the doctor say, Pa?” Stacy asked, punctuating her words with a great big yawn.

“He said with plenty of rest, you’re going to be just fine,” Ben replied.

“Including my ankle?” she queried anxiously.

“Including your ankle,” Ben said. “It was sprained, not broken.”

Stacy exhaled a long, slow sigh of relief.

“You’re still going to have to take it easy for the next few days,” Ben said gently, yet very firmly. “The doctor said you’re to keep off of it as much as you can, and keep it elevated, when you’re sitting or lying down as you are now.”

“I’m just glad it’s not broken,” Stacy said gratefully.

“How do you feel?” Ben asked.

“I kinda hurt all over . . . especially my head and my ankle, but otherwise I feel ok,” Stacy replied. “I don’t understand how the cinch on my saddle came apart like that, though . . . . I buckled it on tight enough, Pa. I KNOW I did.”

“I know ya did, too, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said grimly.

“That saddle IS an old one,” Ben said slowly. “The leather’s worn in some places. Could be the cinch straps were more worn than we realized.”

“No, Pa,” Hoss declared, shaking his head in adamant denial. “That strap didn’t wear out . . . it was deliberately CUT.”

“Hoss, are you sure?!”

“I’m sure, Pa,” Hoss said, with a dark angry scowl. “Whoever did it . . . cut the strap almost all the way through from the side that’s up next t’ the horse. He counted on Stacy ridin’ to work the cut all the way through.”

“Me?!” Stacy queried.

“ ‘Fraid so, Li’l Sister.”

“What makes you think he was after me?”

“ ‘Cause you always use that saddle,” Hoss replied, “ ‘n everyone knows it.”

The fear that always accompanied her terrible recurring dream suddenly rose with a ferocious intensity that threatened to inundate her. Her first instinct was to jump up out of bed and run . . . it didn’t matter much where . . . just someplace away . . . FAR away . . . as fast as her legs could carry her. As she struggled to hold her ground, to not give into that first instinct, Stacy slowly became aware of anger rising within her. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to embrace that anger, to draw from it the strength, the courage, and the will to stand and fight. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

She opened her eyes. Neither Ben nor Hoss could ever remember having seen her eyes burn with such raw fury, almost primal in its intensity.

“ . . . so HELP me . . . if I EVER find out who cut that strap . . . I’m gonna beat the hell out of him!”

 

“Hey, Pa . . . . ”

Ben started out of his light doze and glanced up sharply, just as the grandfather clock struck the quarter hour past midnight.

“ . . . what’re YOU doing up?”

It was Joe. He stepped through the front door, pausing beside the credenza to remove his hat and gun belt.

Candy, the junior foreman and close family friend, followed Joe into the house. He removed his hat, as he moved around Joe, but didn’t stop to remove his gun belt.

“It’s been a long time since I came home in the wee hours of the morning and found you still up,” Joe said with a grin, as he placed his gun belt on the credenza, next to the door, and removed his jacket.

“The last time was the night before your twenty-first birthday,” Ben said, stifling a yawn. “Tonight . . . I was having trouble getting to sleep, so I decided to come down and read for a little while.”

“One of the men told us about Stacy,” Joe said, turning serious. “She all right?”

“She will be,” Ben replied. He, then, filled Joe and Candy in on everything Paul Martin had told him. “I . . . think the danger of concussion has passed. She kept her supper down tonight . . . and hasn’t complained of feeling dizzy, nauseated, or of having any problems with her vision.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Joe said, the relief evident in his voice. “She’s gonna be one stiff ‘n sore li’l kid for awhile, though . . . . ”

“Indeed she is,” Ben said. “I’m just thankful her injuries weren’t any worse.”

“Amen to that!” Joe agreed. “Any idea who did it?”

“None,” Ben shook his head. “Hoss questioned everyone who was in the corral today. No one seemed to know anything about it.”

“Mister Cartwright, is it possible that whoever cut that strap did it as . . . well . . . as some kind of practical joke?” Candy asked.

“That practical joke could have very easily killed her,” Ben said coldly. “I, for one, don’t find that the least bit funny.”

“Agreed,” Joe said grimly, “and if I ever find out who the joker is, I’m gonna to cheerfully wring his neck.”

“Not if Stacy gets to him first,” Ben said soberly, remembering the fury he had seen in his daughter’s eyes earlier. “All I can say is God help him if she does.”

“You’ve got that right, Pa,” Joe said gravely. “That kid can be a real spitfire when she’s of a mind to be.”

“Mister Cartwright,” Candy said slowly, “in light of this business concerning Stacy’s saddle, I . . . think there’s something I ought to tell you.”

“What is it, Candy?” Ben asked.

“While I was in town yesterday picking up the mail, I found out that someone . . . a stranger . . . spent the better part of the afternoon day BEFORE yesterday asking folks questions about your family in general, Stacy in particular,” Candy reported.

“A stranger?!” Ben found Candy’s news deeply unsettling. “Were you able to find out anything about him? Anything at all?!”

“Not much, I’m afraid,” Candy replied apologetically. “The general consensus was that he came from a big city back east. Sam over at the Silver Dollar said it kinda ran in HIS mind that the man asking questions was from either New York or Philadelphia,” Candy replied, “and Miss Mudgely . . . . ” He sighed and sarcastically rolled his eyes heavenward. “ . . . Miss Mudgely daggoned near talked my ear off, with her explanation as to why the man could have ONLY come from Boston.”

Miss Clara Mudgely was the church organist. When of a more kindly disposition, her acquaintances and neighbors referred to her as Virginia City’s walking newspaper.

“Where you able to get the man’s name?” Ben pressed.

“No, Sir.” Candy ruefully shook his head.

“ . . . and you say this man was asking questions about Stacy in particular?”

Candy nodded.

“Now what possible interest could a . . . a stranger . . . possibly have in an orphaned young girl with no blood kin to speak of?” Ben wondered aloud with an anxious frown.

“Could be a Pinkerton man,” Candy suggested.

“If so that still begs the question of who hired him . . . and why,” Ben said grimly. He silently resolved to ride into Virginia City first thing in the morning and start making some inquiries of his own.

 

“Good morning, Young Woman . . . I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean to wake you,” Ben immediately apologized upon finding his daughter lying in bed, wide-awake, the next morning. He had stopped in to check up on her before going into town.

“ ‘S ok, Pa . . . I was already awake,” Stacy said, noting that he was already washed, shaved, and dressed. He held a solid mahogany walking cane in his right hand, and had his jacket draped over his left arm. “Where are you going?”

“Into town,” Ben replied. “I have some business to take care of.”

“Oh. When are ya coming back?”

“I should be home around dinner time,” Ben said, as he walked over to her bed and sat down on the edge. “You want me to bring you back anything?”

“No thanks, Pa.” She yawned.

“Not even a bag of lemon drops?”

“Well . . . maybe. But you’d better make that TWO bags of lemon drops,” Stacy said. “Hoss loves ‘em every bit as much as I do.”

“Two bags of lemon drops it is,” Ben said, “and I’d better pick up a big bag of black licorice for Joe, while I’m at it.” He reached over and gently pushed back a lock of hair that had fallen down into her face. “How are you feeling this morning?” he asked.

“I . . . think the lump’s gone down, Pa.”

“Let me take a look at you. Can you sit up?”

Stacy gingerly eased herself up off the mound of pillows stacked behind her, wincing with each movement. “Careful, Pa . . . it’s still kinda tender back there.”

“I’ll be careful,” Ben promised. He examined the back of her head, noting with relief that the bump was indeed all but gone. “You were right about that lump. How do you feel otherwise?”

“My head doesn’t hurt very much . . . hardly at all, in fact,” Stacy replied, “but the rest of me . . . . Pa, I think I know what you mean now when you say you’re hurting in muscles you never knew you had.”

“The doc said you were going to be stiff and sore for a few days,” Ben said as he rose, and walked over to the other side of her bed. “How’s the ankle?”

“It actually hurts worse than it did yesterday,” she said with a puzzled frown.

“That’s the nature of the beast, I’m afraid,” Ben said sympathetically. “When you take a tumble like you did yesterday, more often than not you find yourself hurting worse the day after. Mind if I take a look at that ankle?”

“Go ahead,” she yawned.

Ben carefully moved aside the covers. He noted with satisfaction that, although still very swollen, her skin color was good, and that her toes remained warm to the touch.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?” Ben asked, as he carefully replaced the bedcovers back over her injured foot.

“Do I have to stay in bed all day today?”

“No,” Ben replied, “but I want you to promise me you’ll take it easy . . . and that you won’t try the steps unless someone’s walking down with you.”

Her face fell.

“Stacy, with a head injury like the one you suffered yesterday . . . problems can arise days . . . sometimes even weeks later,” Ben patiently explained. “If you’re walking down the stairs and happen to suffer a dizzy spell all of a sudden, you could fall and end up hurt a lot worse than you already are.”

Stacy silently digested his words, taking into account the possible consequences of not heeding them. She sighed. “Ok, Pa . . . I promise I’ll take it easy when I get up . . . AND I won’t use the stairs by myself.”

“ . . . and one more thing, Young Woman,” Ben said.

“What?”

“Even though I told you that you can get out of bed, you STILL need to stay off that ankle as much as possible,” Ben said firmly.

“Yes, Pa.”

“I brought you this . . . . ” Ben placed the walking cane he had brought into her room over next to her bed, within easy reach.

“Is that the one with the horse head?”

Ben smiled. “Yes . . . it’s the one with the horse head,” he replied. “I want you to use it when you’re up walking around. That’ll take some of the weight off your ankle.”

“Ok, Pa,” Stacy said, returning his smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Ben said. “Now I want you to behave yourself while I’m gone, Young Woman. Take things very easy and get some rest.”

“I will.”

Ben sat back down on the edge of her bed, then slipped his arms around her and hugged her close for a moment. “I love you, Li’l Gal,” he whispered, his voice catching on the last word.

It had been a long time since he had called her that . . . .

“I love you, too, Pa,” Stacy said, as she gave him an affectionate squeeze, “and . . . you don’t have to worry about me, I’ll be ok. I promise.”

“As your pa, it’s my job to worry about ya,” Ben’s tone was gentle, yet firm, “and I’m holding you to that promise.”

“You’d better!”

Ben kissed her forehead, then tucked her back in under the covers. “I’ll see you later,” he said in parting.

“Ok, Pa . . . . ” Stacy yawned again, then drifted off sleep.

Ben quietly let himself out of Stacy’s room and continued on down the hallway toward the stairs. He paused before the door to the guest room, debating as to whether or not he should stop in briefly and check up on Paris. He had neglected her shamefully yesterday, due in part to Stacy’s mishap . . . .

“You might as well admit it to yourself, Y’ Ol’ Coot!” Ben silently castigated himself. “Your REAL reason for avoiding Paris is . . . you’re afraid!”

Damn straight he was afraid. Her sudden, near hysterical outburst the day before yesterday had completely unnerved him. At his request, Paul Martin had looked in on her yesterday, after he had finished examining Stacy . . . .
“Physically, she’s the same,” Paul had reported. “I gave her a stern lecture about the importance of eating properly . . . especially if she wants to regain her strength and stamina.”

“Hop Sing will be very pleased . . . assuming, of course, she takes it to heart,” Ben had said.

“As for her emotional state . . . she seemed very subdued to me,” Paul continued, as they walked down the stairs toward the front door, “almost to the point of being depressed.” This last, he had added as an after thought.

“She was always so full of life, she was bursting at the seams,” Ben said morosely. “I wish I knew what was wrong.”

“When I examined her in town the day she arrived, she wasn’t exactly what I would call forthcoming, but . . . I don’t think life has been very kind to her since we saw her last,” Paul had said. “Physically . . . she’s in very poor shape. I’m surprised she didn’t collapse somewhere along the way . . . years ago. Poor physical condition CAN push a person to the edge emotionally, but apart from that . . . . ” He shrugged helplessly. “MY medical training was strictly in the realm of the physical, Ben. When faced with the mental and emotional, I’m very much like a fish out of water.”

“Hop Sing and Stacy both insist she’s heartsick,” Ben said.

 “Could be there’s something to that,” Paul said thoughtfully. “I’ve dealt with countless patients over the years, whose mental and emotional state made all the difference between whether they got better . . . or not. Now as to what bearing this has on what’s ailing Miss McKenna . . . . ” He shrugged. “I just plain don’t know.”

“I appreciate you looking in on her, Paul . . . . ”
Ben raised his hand, intending to quietly knock on the door. “It IS early . . . . ” He winced against a sharp pang of conscience. “All right,” he groused silently. “All RIGHT! I’ll check on Paris when I come back from town.”

 

“Good morning, Ben,” Gretchen Braun greeted him warmly, as he stepped into the restaurant at the International Hotel. “Can I get you anything?”

“I could use a cup of coffee,” Ben replied, managing a weary smile, “and some information.”

“Coming right up,” Gretchen said, motioning to one of the waiters. She asked him for two cups of coffee and told him to serve them in the dining room. The young man nodded, and moved off. “This way, Ben,” she said gesturing toward the dining room. “What kind of information are you after?”

“Last night, Candy told me that someone was asking questions about my family two . . . three days ago,” Ben said as he and Gretchen seated themselves at a table near the door. “We think the man’s from somewhere back east . . . New York or maybe Philadelphia. That’s all we know.”

“Well, a man from New York DID check into the hotel three days ago,” Gretchen said slowly, “and yes . . . he asked about your family. General questions, Ben . . . how you, your sons, and daughter were doing . . . things of that nature. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, what with him claiming to be a friend of a friend, or some such.”

“Did he by chance give you the name of this friend?” Ben asked.

“No, and I didn’t think to ask,” Gretchen said ruefully.

“Did he ask you any questions about Stacy?”

“He asked her age, and how long she’d been living with you and your boys, but that was all,” Gretchen replied. “Oh dear! I . . . I hope I haven’t said or done anything wrong . . . . ”

“I’m sure you didn’t, Gretchen . . . . ”

“That Ponderosa of yours is known pretty far and wide, Ben,” she babbled, “more so than you realize. Now mind, not EVERY Tom, Dick, and Harry, who gets off that stage asks, but occasionally, some do.”

“Gretchen . . . Gretchen, please . . . don’t give it another thought,” Ben pleaded, as he reached over and gently patted her hand. “I’m sure there was no harm done.”

“I hope not,” Gretchen said somberly. “I’d never forgive myself if— ”

“I’m sure the man didn’t have any sinister intentions,” Ben hastened to reassure the distraught woman seated across the table from him, speaking with a great deal more confidence that he felt himself, “and . . . seeing that he and I share a mutual friend, whoever that is, I’d thought getting in touch, maybe inviting him out to the Ponderosa for a visit might be the neighborly thing to do. Perhaps I can leave a message?”

“I don’t see why not, on the off chance he comes back,” Gretchen replied, deeply relieved upon hearing Ben’s words of reassurance.

“On the, ummm . . . off chance, he . . . that he . . . comes back?” Ben echoed with fast sinking heart.

“He checked out yesterday morning, Ben,” Gretchen said. “I’m so sorry you missed him.”

“Did he happen to mention where he was headed?” Ben asked.

“Not to me,” she replied. “You might check with Mister Thatcher at the front desk.”

“I will. Can you tell me what this man looked like?”

The waiter discreetly arrived, and served the coffee.

“Thank you,” Gretchen said quietly.

The waiter inclined his head, then withdrew.

“He’s about the same height and build as . . . as your oldest boy, Adam, when last I saw him,” she said slowly. “He’s also got the same dark, almost coal black hair. I’m almost certain he was a military man . . . perhaps a veteran of the war, judging from his age and the way he carried himself. He always dressed well enough, a suit and tie, white shirt, clothes clean and pressed, but not what I’d call fashionable.”

“A veteran, eh? How old would you say he was?”

“He wasn’t a young man,” Gretchen replied. “If I were to hazard a guess . . . I’d say he was . . . maybe . . . about the same age as Adam must be now.”

“Mid to late thirties?” Ben asked.

“At least.”

“Do you remember his name?”

Gretchen frowned. “It was . . . Hill . . . something . . . . ” She rose. “I’ll go get the registry.”

“I don’t want to put you out, Gretchen . . . . ”

“It’s no trouble, Ben . . . no trouble at all,” she said briskly. “You finish your coffee. I’ll be right back.” She returned a few moments later, struggling under the weight of the large, unwieldy tome.

Ben immediately rose, and hurried to the dining room entrance where she had paused for a moment to catch her breath. “You should’ve asked ME to go fetch it,” he chided her gently, as he relieved her of the burden. “Shall I take it back to our table?”

“Yes, please,” Gretchen replied. “Thank you.”

“I’m the one who should be thanking YOU. I really appreciate this, Gretchen,” Ben said gratefully, as he fell in step behind her.

“Anything to help out an old friend,” Gretchen said, as they reached their table. She quickly moved aside their dishes, and the small vase of fresh cut flowers from its place at the center of the table. “You can put the registry down right here,” she said gesturing to the generous amount of space, just opened up.

Ben nodded and did as she had asked.

“Now let me see . . . . ” Gretchen murmured softly, as she opened the heavy book. She quickly turned back the pages to the date three days before, and glanced down the list of names. “Here it is, Ben,” she said, pointed to the name hastily scrawled on the line next to the date.

Ben picked up his cup and saucer, and took up position beside her. He glanced over her shoulder, his eyes following the line of her extended arm and pointing finger. “Zachary . . . Hilliard,” he softly read aloud the name, written neatly within the lines, to the left of the place where her finger lightly touched the page. “ . . . interesting . . . . ”

“Do you know him?”

Ben shook his head. “The name’s not familiar,” he replied. “I just thought it interesting that he checked into the hotel the same day Paris arrived.”

“Paris . . . is she the friend who took sick the other day?”

“Yes.” Ben nodded his head.

“She and Mister Hilliard arrived on the same stage, Ben,” Gretchen said. “Luis . . . the young man I sent to fetch the doctor? He told me later that he saw both of them getting off the stage.”

Ben found that piece of information very disturbing. He made a mental note to question Paris about her fellow passenger at the earliest opportunity. “Thank you, Gretchen . . . thank you very much. You’ve been a great help.”

“You’re welcome. Now I’d best get that registry back to the front desk before Mister Thatcher has a hissey fit.” She took a deep breath, then reach down to gather up the ponderous tome lying open on the table before them.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Ben chided her. “I’LL take the registry back to the front desk before Mister Thatcher has that hissey fit. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’ll get no argument from ME,” she said soberly. “For the life of me, I don’t know how in the world a wiry little man like Mister Thatcher’s able to heft these heavy things around all day.”

“Perhaps he’s stronger than he looks,” Ben suggested.

“He MUST be.”

Ben paid for both cups of coffee, despite Gretchen’s insistence they were on the house, and left a generous tip for the waiter. On his way out of the hotel, he stopped by the front desk. “Good morning, Mister Thatcher,” Ben greeted the short, wiry man standing behind the counter, impeccably attired in a black suit. “I’m returning your registry.”

“Thank you, Mister Cartwright,” Lawrence Thatcher said primly. “Just set it right there on the counter, please.”

Ben obliged him. “A quick question, if I may?” he queried.

“Certainly, Mister Cartwright.”

“A man named Zachary Hilliard checked out yesterday morning, early,” Ben said. “Did he happen to mention where he might be headed?”

“He said something about meeting a business associate in Carson City,” Lawrence replied, “then he asked for directions to the nearest livery stable.”

“Thank you, much obliged.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mister Cartwright.”

 

While Ben Cartwright made his inquiries in Virginia City, the subject of his investigation had just finished a hearty breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon, fried potatoes, toast, and coffee at Eleanor Gerard’s boarding house in Carson City.

“More coffee, Mister Hilliard?” Eleanor Gerard asked. She was a plump, motherly woman, aged in her early to mid-forties. The chestnut brown curls framing her face accentuated its roundness. She wore a light green house dress, that brought out the green highlights in her hazel eyes.

Zachary Hilliard smiled back, and shook his head. “No thank you, Mrs. Gerard,” he declined smoothly. “I’m stuffed. If I keep eating like this, I’m be having to go on a diet.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Gerard scolded in a good-natured tone. “If anything, you’re too thin for a man of your height.”

He deftly removed the watch from his vest pocket and snapped up the cover. “I must be off, Mrs. Gerard,” Zachary said, rising. He closed the cover over his watch and slipped it back into his pocket. “Can you direct me to the Comstock Hotel? I’m supposed to meet a business associate of mine there at ten.”

Mrs. Gerard happily provided the directions.

Zachary thanked her politely, then set off. Mrs. Gerard’s directions proved clear and easy to follow. After locating the Comstock Hotel, he entered and walked over to the front desk.

“Good morning, Sir,” the clerk greeted him politely. “How may I help you?”

“I’m supposed to meet one of your guests,” Zachary replied.

“Your name, Sir?”

“Hilliard. Mister Zachary Hilliard.”

“Ah, yes,” the desk clerk said. “He’s expecting you. He’s in number 212, upstairs . . . turn right . . . go all the way down to the very end of the hall.”

Zachary thanked the desk clerk and went up the stairs. The corridor on the second floor was long and narrow, its width barely sufficient to allow two people, moving in opposite directions, to squeeze past each other. Its only illumination came through a small, square shaped window set into the outside wall, near the ceiling. Zachary paused briefly at the top landing to allow his eyes time to adjust themselves from the brightness of the sunshine outside.

As he made his way down the hall toward room 212, the thin veneer of outward calm quickly evaporated. His heart raced within, slamming against his ribcage and the muscles of his chest with the force of a sledgehammer wielded by a very strong man. With each step, he unconsciously drew his long fingers together, one by one, into a pair of tight, rock hard fists, in a desperate attempt to quell his hands’ trembling.

He found the room at the far end of the hall, just as the clerk had said. At the door, he paused for a moment to take a breath. “Remember those singing lessons,” he silently exhorted himself. “Remember those breath exercises . . . . ”

“In, one, two, three; HOLD one, two, three; now out one, two three . . . . ”

Zachary heard again the voice of one Adelia Margaret Mae O’Connor, the woman who had valiantly attempted to teach his youngest sister and himself to sing.

“Deep, EVEN breaths, Zachary,” she admonished him once again in that clear, firm, bell like tone. “Deep . . . EVEN . . . breaths.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Now again . . . IN . . . one . . . two . . . three, that’s MUCH better; now HOLD for one . . . two . . . three, and OUT. One . . . two . . . three . . . . ”

Zachary Hilliard brought to bear every ounce of will and determination he possessed to keep his breaths slow and even, to breathe in, to hold, and to breathe out once again, in cadence to Miss O’Connor’s instruction, chanted more than spoken. He allowed her to lead him through the exercise again, and again, until at last, he felt his heart slow, resuming its normal pace . . . and the trembling in his hands finally still.

For a moment after, he remained, with eyes closed, mustering what shreds of courage remained in the stillness that surrounded him. Then, suddenly, his eyes snapped wide open. Zachary Hilliard took another deep breath, then pulled himself up to full of his height, and knocked on the closed door before him.

“Who is it?” a masculine voice inquired curtly from within.

“Lieutenant Hilliard, Sir, reporting as ordered,” he responded, inwardly marveling at how clear, how firm and steady his voice sounded.

“Come in, Lieutenant.”

Zachary entered and saluted.

John McKenna crisply returned the salute. He was a tall man, standing well over six feet. His regal posture accentuated his height, gifting him with an intimidating air despite his thin, wiry build. He wore a custom made black three-piece suit and tie, with a starched white cotton shirt. He had a full head of dark brown, wavy hair and mustache, both neatly trimmed, and piercing sky blue eyes. “At ease, Lieutenant,” he said, as he stiffly made his way over to the nearest chair, with the aid of a solid oak cane. “Report.”

“The girl you seek lives with a man by the name of Benjamin Cartwright and his sons, on their ranch, the Ponderosa,” Zachary gave his report in crisp, measured tones. “According to the records filed in the Virginia City courthouse . . . records, accessible to the general public, Sir . . . this Mister Cartwright legally adopted her within two months

of bringing her to his home four and one half years ago.”

A sardonic half smile tugged hard on the corner of John’s mouth. “Really?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“An ironic happenstance if ever there was one,” John remarked acerbically, the smile quickly fading. “You ARE certain about this, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sir, absolutely certain.”

John McKenna took a moment to digest the information. “I . . . don’t suppose you’ve had the opportunity to . . . as yet . . . . ?”

Zachary closed his eyes and swallowed nervously. “I had the opportunity, Sir . . . and failed,” he replied, trying his best to focus his thoughts, his powers of concentration upon his words and the tone of voice by which he spoke them, rather than the uneasy churning deep in the pit of his stomach. “For that, I take full responsibility and . . . submit myself for disciplinary action.”

In the dreadful, interminable silence that followed, every muscle in Zachary Hilliard’s body tensed, as he mentally braced himself.

“To be perfectly honest, I’m glad your attempt failed,” John said slowly, finally, at long last, breaking the uneasy quiet. “No disciplinary action will be taken, Lieutenant. Not THIS time. There’s going to be a change of plans.” A nasty smile spread itself slowly across his thin lips. “I’ve just decided to kill TWO birds with one stone.”

“ . . . uhhh, t-two birds, Sir?” Zachary queried with fast sinking heart. “Who else besides—?!”

“The girl’s father, of course,” John replied in a tone of voice faintly condescending. “It’s a personal matter . . . a very shameful moment in my family’s history . . . one I do not feel at liberty to discuss.” This last he punctuated with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Is there anything ELSE to report, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Sir. There’s been an unexpected development,” Zachary said, openly flinching under the intense, malevolent glare that had suddenly appeared on John McKenna’s face. “The Cartwrights h-have an unexpected house guest. She and I arrived in Virginia City on the same stage, though at the time I did NOT recognize her. She has changed much, and not for the better.”

“ . . . and who is this unexpected guest?” John demanded, his scowl deepening.

“Paris McKenna,” Zachary replied. “Your sister, Captain.”

“Really!” John’s lips curved upward to form a tight, near lipless smile. “Did SHE recognize YOU?”

“I am reasonably sure she did not, Captain.”

“Well . . . well . . . well . . . . ” John murmured softly. “I have them all, Lieutenant . . . all three of them . . . right here . . . . ” He held out his hands, open, with palms turned upward, curling his fingers and tensing them, as he might if he were grasping hold of something tangible. “They’re as good as right here. All I have to do is reach out . . . and grab them.”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary stammered, frightened by the unholy, malevolent gleam in the eyes of his former commanding officer and his friend. “Your . . . orders?”

“Are the men still in place?”

“Yes, Sir. The men remain in their places . . . carrying out the duties assigned them . . . awaiting further orders.”

“I’ll . . . have to revise my plans, Lieutenant . . . . ” John said slowly. “My original plans could have been expanded upon to deal with Mister Cartwright in addition to the girl . . . . ” He grimaced. “But my sister . . . no! SHE’D, like as not, see through it in an instant. That bitch was always too damned smart for her own good . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir,” Zachary replied, not knowing what else to say.

“Tell Sergeant Collier that he and his men are NOT to take any further action against the girl,” John said curtly. “They are to continue keeping her and . . . and that . . . that entire misbegotten family under close surveillance, until I say otherwise.”

“I will inform Sergeant Collier, Sir.”

“ . . . and I want daily reports, Lieutenant.”

Zachary blanched. “D-Daily reports?!”

“Daily reports,” John snapped. He glared over at Zachary, through eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?” he queried in a low, menacing tone.

“No, Sir. No problem, Sir. I’ll see to everything,” Zachary responded, his voice a dead monotone. He silently wondered if condemned men, sentenced to hang by the neck until dead, felt as he did now, upon taking the very first steps of that long, final walk toward the gallows.

 

Stacy stood before the fast closed door to the guest room, leaning heavily for support on the cane Pa had left her earlier, furiously debating. The angry bravado she had felt yesterday, after taking that tumble off of Golden Boy’s back, had all but deserted her this morning. She swallowed nervously, then turned, with every intention of going back to her own room.

“Oh no you don’t, Stacy Louise . . . . ” she grimaced, “ . . . Cartwright! You can’t keep putting it off. Pa was absolutely right when he said you’ve gotta face what ever it is that’s scaring you.” Miss Paris seemed a logical place to start. Stacy closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Then, drawing herself up to full height, she raised her hand and knocked on the door.

“Come on in.” It was Hoss.

Relieved and grateful that she didn’t have to face Miss Paris alone, Stacy very cautiously opened the door. She saw Miss Paris lying on the bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. Her eyelids, nose, and upper lip were red, and swollen, and her hands trembled slightly. The dark circles beneath her eyes, and her sunken cheeks lent her careworn face an eerie, skull like appearance. Stacy shuddered, unable to help herself.

Hoss occupied a chair next to the bed. “Come on in, Li’l Sister,” he invited with a grin. “How’re YOU feelin’ this mornin’?”

“My head doesn’t hurt anymore, and the lump’s just about all gone,” she replied, as she started into the room.

Paris’ heart lurched upon seeing the girl enter the room so stiffly, and with such a pronounced limp. “Oh dear!” she gasped. “What happened to YOU?”

“Just a slight mishap, Miss Paris,” Stacy said, determined to make light of the entire incident. “The only thing badly hurt was my dignity.”

“Sit down here,” Hoss said, rising.

“Where are YOU gonna sit?” Stacy demanded, fearful that he was going to go off and leave her alone with this strange woman, who frightened her so very much.

“I’ll take that chair.” Hoss inclined his head toward an easy chair on the other side of Paris’ bed. “First off, though, I’m gonna get ya somethin’ prop up that sprained ankle o’ yours.”

“I’ll be ok, Hoss,” Stacy protested.

“The doc said for ya t’ keep it up as much as ya can,” Hoss reminded her, as he walked over to the ornate, French provincial vanity, set up against the wall facing the bed. It had belonged to Joe’s mother, Marie. Hoss slid the bench out from under the table and carried it over to the chair, occupied by Stacy. He, then, removed a spare pillow from the wardrobe and gently placed it under Stacy’s ankle. “How’s THAT?”

“I’ve gotta admit . . . it DOES feel a lot better when I prop it up,” Stacy confessed.

“Miss Paris ‘n me was just talkin’ about you.”

“Oh! So THAT’S why my ears were burning,” Stacy joked.

“Miss Paris . . . THIS is Stacy,” Hoss said, by way of making introductions. “I know ya met her the night y’ arrived . . . . ”

“That first night’s all pretty much a blur,” Paris said rueful, yet inwardly relieved. What little she did remember was enough to make her wince. “I’m afraid I . . . well . . . I WAS pretty far gone.” She favored Stacy with a weary smile, and held out a trembling hand. “How do you do, Stacy? I’m very pleased to meet you under more, ummm . . . shall we say favorable circumstances?”

“Thank you, Miss Paris. I’m pleased to meet you, too,” Stacy said as she leaned over and gently took the older woman’s extended hand.

“Hoss and I were just talking about horses.”

“Do YOU ride?” Stacy asked.

“Not anymore, I’m afraid,” Paris said wistfully. “But I did . . . a lot! When I was your age . . . . ”

“If I remember rightly, you were real fine horsewoman, yourself,” Hoss said. “Every bit as good as Li’l Sister here. Maybe when you’re a bit stronger— ”

Paris shook her head. “It’s been too long, Eric,” she said, her voice filled with deep regret, “and my health these days is such that . . . . ” She sighed and dolefully shook her head.

“Y’ never forget,” Hoss said, favoring their guest with an encouraging smile. “Maybe . . . once y’ get t’ feeling better . . . . ”

“We’ll see, Eric,” Paris murmured softly, with an air of resignation and indifference.

“Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“When you used to ride, did you have a horse of your own?” Stacy asked.

“No,” Paris shook her head. “My father was in the Army then . . . stationed at Fort Charlotte.”

“Joe told me your pa was in charge of the horses there,” Stacy said, trying her best to ignore her growing apprehension.

“Our family lived in Mormon Springs. Back then, it was a nice, quiet little town about a mile or so from the fort,” Paris said. “I . . . didn’t have the place or the means to keep a horse of my own . . . but, I did have my pick of the cavalry horses.”

“Did you know that I . . . that I met Pa, Hoss, and Joe at Fort Charlotte?” Stacy asked.

“So I’ve been told,” Paris replied.

All of a sudden the room turned hot and stifling. Out of the corners of her eyes, Stacy could almost swear that she actually saw the walls moving in on her closer and closer.

Hoss studied his sister with an anxious frown. “I was tellin’ Miss Paris about Golden Boy,” he said quietly.

“H-He’s turned out to be a real good saddle horse, but he’s chock full of high spirits,” Stacy said, slowly warming to a favorite topic despite her escalating trepidation. “I’m . . . almost tempted to keep him myself.”

“I don’t think Mister Hansen’d care for THAT,” Hoss pointed out. “He’s got his heart set on givin’ him to his daughter.”

“Truth to tell, Blaze Face wouldn’t like it very much, either,” Stacy admitted.

“Blaze Face?!” Paris gasped, her eyes round with shock.

“Y-Yes, Ma’am,” Stacy said, taken aback by Paris’ reaction. “Blaze Face is my horse.”

“Isn’t that extraordinary,” Paris murmured. “MY favorite horse . . . when Da was stationed at Fort Charlotte . . . w-was also named . . . Blaze Face.”

That fact only served to increase Stacy’s anxiety. “Miss Paris . . . . ” she was afraid to ask, but knew she must. “Were you and your family at Fort Charlotte . . . when . . . when I was there?”

Paris shook her head. “My father retired from the Army . . . . ” she fell silent to do a bit of mental figuring, “ . . . that would have been a year perhaps . . . maybe two before you were born, if I . . . if I’m correct in assuming your age to be fifteen or sixteen?”

“I’m fifteen now,” Stacy replied.

“My family . . . my parents and two sisters . . . went out to California, right after we left Fort Charlotte,” Paris continued. “I . . . heard later that they eventually returned to Mormon Springs, and bought some farm land just outside of town.”

“Didn’t you go with your family?” Stacy asked.

“No. No, I didn’t,” Paris shook her head. “I was of age when we left Fort Charlotte, and chomping at the bit to be on my own. I came here, stayed for a time and left. But, I never went back home again. I DID visit them briefly . . . almost sixteen years ago now. After that, I never saw them again.”

“Why not?” Stacy asked.

“Stacy, I don’t think that’s any o’ your— ”

“No, Eric, it’s alright,” Paris intervened. She, then, turned her attention back to Stacy. “Y’ see . . . my family and I . . . by then, we weren’t getting on all that well. The very last time I went to visit them . . . my father and I got ourselves into a terrible row. The next morning, he and Mam . . . they ordered me to leave as soon as I could make the arrangements and to never come back.” She felt a sharp pang of envy, remembering the love Ben Cartwright had expressed for his daughter, the young woman seated before her.

“They died six years later, when their house caught fire one night and burned to the ground. My brother, John, told me that none of ‘em made it out.” Including poor Rose Miranda. “I figured . . . HOPED actually . . . that they all d-died mercifully . . . in their sleep.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Paris,” Stacy said quietly. On impulse she leaned over and covered one of Paris’ hands with her own.

Paris nodded mutely, genuinely touched by the gesture.

“I forgot y’ also have a brother,” Hoss said, intending to steer the course of conversation away from the tragic deaths of Miss Paris’ parents and sisters. “Y’ ever hear from him?”

“The less I hear FROM him or ABOUT him, the better I like it,” Paris snapped, as she furiously wiped away the tears from her eyes and cheeks with the heel of her hand.

The three fell into a discomfiting silence, broken, after what seemed an eternity, by a knock at the door. Before anyone could reply, the door opened and Hop Sing entered, bearing an enormous tray. “Good morning, good morning,” he greeted everyone with a big smile. “Hop Sing bring up everybody breakfast.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Stacy said.

“For Miss Stacy tea and toast. Doctor say you eat light today,” Hop Sing said, as he handed her a plate with two pieces of toast, generously slathered with his special strawberry jam. “Mister Hoss . . . Miss Paris . . . Hop Sing make nice, big breakfast.”

“Oh dear! I’m not sure I can— ” Paris started to protest.

“Miss Paris need to eat,” Hop Sing admonished her severely, as he handed her a plate heaped high with flapjacks, stacked one on top of the other, dripping with butter and maple syrup. “Flapjacks good. Stick to ribs.”

“Do the best y’ can, Miss Paris,” Hoss exhorted her with a smile, as he accepted a plate with a stack twice as high as the one Hop Sing had just served Paris.

“Everybody eat,” Hop Sing said. “When Hop Sing come back, plate better be clean, or Hop Sing quit. Go back to China. AFTER Hop Sing make Miss Stacy go back to bed, take nice long nap.”

“Oh no,” Stacy groaned in complete and utter dismay. “Do I HAVE to?”

“Doctor say Miss Stacy need rest,” Hop Sing declared.

“But . . . PA said I could get up,” Stacy argued.

“Papa ALSO tell Miss Stacy behave. Make sure she get rest. Papa tell Hop Sing Miss Stacy promise.”

“Oh, all right!” Stacy ungraciously accepted the inevitable.

“Tell ya what, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said, after Hop Sing had left the room. “You g’won back t’ bed after y’ finish eatin’, ‘n have a real good nap. I gotta finish up with m’ mornin’ chores, but once I got that done, I’ll come up ‘n take ya downstairs. How’s THAT sound?”

“That sounds great,” Stacy said. “Think maybe we could play a few games of checkers?”

“Sure ‘nuff,” Hoss agreed with a smile. “It’ll be a real pleasure playin’ with someone who doesn’t cheat for a change.”

“ . . . and who is it among you that cheats at playing checkers?” Paris asked.

“Joe,” Hoss and Stacy said together, in unison.

 

At five minutes before noon, Ben trudged wearily through the front door, with head bowed and shoulders sagging. He quietly closed the door then divested himself of gun belt and hat.

“Pa . . . you’re back!” Hoss said by way of greeting, as he entered the great room from the direction of the kitchen with a freshly made powdered donut in hand. “Hop Sing says dinner’ll be ready in— ” He stopped abruptly upon getting a good look at his father’s face. Its lines and hollows seemed deeper, and his eyes were round with trepidation and fear. “Pa, what is it?”

“Well . . . the good news is, I have the name of the man who was asking questions about us . . . and about Stacy a few days ago,” Ben said. “His name is Zachary Hilliard, and he’s from New York.”

“Did ya get a chance to talk to him?”

Ben shook his head. “That’s the bad news. He checked out of the hotel yesterday, and went to Carson City . . . supposedly to take care of some business.”

“Y’ think maybe he’s one o’ Stacy’s blood kin?”

“The thought HAS crossed my mind, Hoss,” Ben replied, as they walked over to the settee together. “Either that or a Pinkerton man hired by her blood kin. I spoke to Lucas about this . . . . ” Lucas Milburn had been the Cartwright family’s attorney and a very good friend for many years.

“What’d HE say?”

“The bottom line is . . . her adoption is legal, and if contested, WILL stand up in court,” Ben replied. “As you know, the army made a good faith effort to locate whatever blood kin Stacy may have had. Lucas has an affidavit attesting to this AND attesting to the fact that no one ever came forward to claim her, signed by Major Baldwin, and properly notarized . . . on file in his office. He also told me that given the amount of time that’s passed . . . and Stacy’s age now, that she would more than likely be given her choice.”

“ . . . ‘n I know dang well she’d decide t’ stay right here,” Hoss declared with an emphatic nod of his head. “We were meant t’ be together, Pa . . . as a family . . . ‘n we knew it t’ very first time we ever laid eyes on each other.”

“We sure did,” Ben agreed. “Hoss . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Where’s Stacy now?”

“Last I saw, she was in talkin’ with Miss Paris,” Hoss replied. “You want me t’ go up ‘n fetch her down?”

Ben shook his head. “I need to speak with Paris, but it can wait.”

“What about? If y’ don’t mind me askin’ . . . . ”

“This Zachary Hilliard who was asking about us and about Stacy . . . Gretchen Braun told me he checked into the hotel the same day Paris arrived in town,” Ben said with an anxious frown. “She also said that Luis saw them get off the stage together. Do YOU recall seeing her with a man about the same age and build as your brother, Adam?”

“No, Sir.” Hoss shook his head. “When I bumped into Miss Paris, she was headed for the hotel . . . alone. I was comin’ up the street from the other way.”

“I told Roy about Zachary Hilliard . . . and about the incident with Stacy’s saddle,” Ben said. “He’s going to send wires to the New York City Police Department and to the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

Hoss frowned. “Y’ think the two may be related?”

“I don’t know, Son,” Ben replied. “But I can’t completely rule out the possibility either . . . not until I know more.”

 

“I think you’ll find this much more practical than just pulling your hair back, and tying it at the nape of your neck,” Paris said, as she deftly wove Stacy’s long hair into a single, thick French braid. “You’ll be able to ride with the wind in your hair . . . without all the bothersome tangles.”

Paris sat on the edge of her bed, clad in a plain white night gown and a pale blue bathrobe. The latter was worn, and frayed along the cuffs and hemline, but still in one piece. Stacy was dressed in what she normally wore at home on the Ponderosa: a pair of dungarees, with a loose fitting shirt. On her feet, she wore a pair of red and white striped socks, borrowed from Hoss. His were the only ones that fit comfortably over her swollen, bandaged ankle. She sat on the bed, with her back to Paris, and her injured leg stretched out before her.

“Did you braid your hair like this, too, when YOU went out riding?” Stacy asked.

“Yes, Stacy . . . exactly like this,” Paris replied as she wove the last plait and attached the fastener. “You’re getting the benefit of my experience.”

“Thank you, Miss Paris,” Stacy said with a shy smile.

“My pleasure,” Paris said, returning Stacy’s smile with a warm, friendly one of her own. “I sure hope lunch is going to be ready soon. I’m hungry as a bear.”

“Paris, THAT is going to be music to Hop Sing’s ears!”

Stacy and Paris turned, and found Ben standing framed in the open doorway between the hall and the guest room. Hoss stood behind him, a little to his right.

“Hi, Pa,” Stacy greeted him with a big smile, as she carefully slid off the edge of the bed onto her good foot. She held on to one of the end bedposts to keep her balance and for support. “Did you remember the lemon drops?”

“Yes, I did, but you don’t get a single one until AFTER dinner,” Ben said firmly.

Her face fell. “When’ll dinner be ready?” she asked.

“We got just enough time t’ get washed up, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said, as he stepped around his father, and entered the room. “Why don’t we g’won down to the kitchen?”

Paris retrieved the cane Stacy had been using from the narrow place between her bed and night table. “Here you are, Stacy.” She offered it to the girl with a smile.

“Thank you, Miss Paris,” Stacy said, as she accepted the cane, then turned to follow Hoss out of the room. She suddenly paused, mid-stride, in the center of the room. “Pa . . . . ”

Seeing Stacy as he did now, with her hair braided that way . . . standing straight and tall, regarding him with those bright blue eyes . . . she was the very image of a much younger Paris McKenna.

“ . . . are you and Miss Paris coming?”

All Ben could do was stare over at his young daughter, too shocked, too stunned to even speak.

“Pa?!” Stacy frowned. “Pa . . . are you alright?”

Ben squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head to clear it of the unsettling vision. “I . . . f-fine,” he stammered, as he slowly opened his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” Stacy queried dubiously.

Ben offered what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I’m fine, Young Woman,” he said in a steadier tone of voice. “Why don’t you g’won down with Hoss? Miss Paris and I will be along shortly.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Ben replied.

“So do I,” Paris added.

Ben waited until his son and daughter had left the room, closing the door behind them. “I want to apologize for neglecting you yesterday,” he began. “I really AM very sorry.”

“Ben, you DON’T owe me an apology,” Paris said, with her head bowed, her eyes glued to the hands folded loosely in her lap. “I certainly don’t begrudge your taking care of Stacy after that tumble she took off of her horse yesterday, and besides . . . it’s not like I’m a . . . a wanted guest . . . . ”

“Paris, if I hadn’t wanted you here, I certainly wouldn’t have invited you to come and stay with us,” Ben said gruffly. Though he looked her straight in the face, his eyes fell just short of meeting hers.

“You invited me here because you were forced to by circumstance,” Paris said curtly, “and while I AM very grateful, I certainly don’t expect— ”

“If I hadn’t wanted you to come here, I could have just as easily played the good Samaritan by putting you up at the International Hotel, and paying Doctor Martin to look in on ya,” Ben said tersely. “While it’s true that you’re the very last person in the world I ever expected to have drop in unexpectedly, I STILL consider you an old friend, and . . . I’m NOT going to turn away an old friend in need.”

A strained silence fell between them.

“Sorry,” Ben murmured contritely, at length.

“ ‘S ok.”

“Paris . . . . ”

“Yes, Ben?”

“I need to ask you a few questions . . . if I may?”

“Alright,” Paris agreed with an indifferent shrug.

“I . . . understand there was another passenger on the stage with you, when you arrived in Virginia City a couple of days ago,” Ben said. “A man, about my height . . . maybe a little taller . . . with dark hair, aged in his mid to late thirties.”

“I remember him . . . mainly because he and I were the only passengers on that stage,” Paris replied. “What about him?”

“That’s what I’m hoping YOU can tell ME.”

“He and I both got on in Freedonia,” Paris said slowly. “I remember him telling the driver he was from New York, that he was on his way out to San Francisco. Apart from that . . . . ” she shrugged.

“He said he was on his way out to San Francisco . . . yet he got off here . . . in Virginia City,” Ben said slowly. “That didn’t strike you as odd?”

“Of course not,” Paris snapped, feeling herself oddly on the defensive. “The stage pulled in at a little past noon, and wasn’t due to leave until somewhere around three . . . maybe three-thirty. I was headed for San Francisco, too, Ben . . . yet I got off here.”

“Had you NOT taken ill . . . you would’ve boarded the stage again whenever it was scheduled to leave, and continued on to San Francisco,” Ben hastened to point out. “Your fellow passenger . . . didn’t.”

“ . . . and just HOW . . . exactly . . . am I supposed to know this?!” Paris demanded indignantly. “I took ill and passed out, remember? When I finally came to, the stage had already left. There’s no possible way I could have known— ”

“Either the man changed his mind about going on to San Francisco . . . OR, he lied about his destination,” Ben said through clenched teeth. “Did he say anything to you about staying in Virginia City?”

“No,” Paris immediately replied in a voice, stone cold.

“What DID you two talk about?” Ben pressed.

“Nothing,” she snapped.

“Nothing?!”

“That’s right . . . nothing!”

“The entire way out from Freedonia?!”

“When we boarded the stage, we said hello,” she replied, annoyed and exasperated. “We may have commented on the weather, but I can’t remember for sure, and to be perfectly up front and honest, I don’t much care.”

“It’s a long way between Freedonia and Virginia City, Paris, and quite frankly, I find it difficult to believe— ”

“Are you calling me a liar, Ben?” she demanded, rudely cutting him off, mid-sentence.

“I just find it difficult the believe that two people could travel such a long way . . . without talking to each other,” Ben said bluntly.

“HE wasn’t the talkative sort, and I didn’t feel up to making conversation,” Paris replied. “That’s it, pure and simple.”

“He didn’t even tell you his name?”

“No . . . nor did I ask,” she returned acerbically. “Now, if you DON’T mind— ”

“I found out last night that your fellow passenger spent a good part of the afternoon, the day the two of ya arrived, asking the good people of Virginia City questions about my family, especially Stacy,” Ben said.

“Your family and the Ponderosa ARE well known in this neck of the woods, Ben,” Paris immediately pointed out. “That a stranger would ask questions about you, shouldn’t be all that surprising . . . though, I have to admit his interest in Stacy puzzles me, unless . . . . Is it possible he’s a blood relative?”

“If he is, he certainly took long enough to crawl out from behind the woodwork,” Ben said rancorously.

“Surely he can’t challenge the adoption at this late date,” Paris protested.

“No.” Ben shook his head. “I checked with my lawyer while I was in town. He said if a blood relative DID challenge the adoption, the choice, more than likely, would be Stacy’s, given her age now and the length of time that’s passed . . . among other things.”

“She’d choose to stay here with you, Hoss, and Joe,” Paris said with quiet conviction. “I hope you know that.”

“Yes,” Ben replied, his manner softening, as his thoughts drifted back to the day he signed the papers, making one Stacy Louise . . . her real last name unknown . . . legally his daughter . . . .
The entire family . . . himself, Hoss, Joe, Hop Sing . . . and Stacy . . . was gathered together in the chambers of Judge John Faraday [2] along with his own lawyer, Lucas Milburn. Though Adam wasn’t able to be there, he had written Stacy a special letter, welcoming her into the family, and expressing his genuine delight at the prospect of finally, at long last, having a sister. He had also given Stacy a list of the most ticklish portions of his youngest brother’s anatomy, leastwise those, no doubt, grudgingly deemed by polite society as acceptable for an energetic, tomboyish young sister to ambush . . . much to Joe’s everlasting consternation.

“ . . . all that needs to be done now is for you to sign your name right here, Ben,” John said, pointing to the blank line at the bottom of the document, up against the right margin. “Lucas and I will sign over here as witnesses.”

“Before I sign, I want Stacy’s consent to be a matter of record,” Ben said quietly.

“Ben, legally, Stacy IS a minor,” John said. “As such, her consent is not required.”

“Be that as it may, John . . . I still want her consent to be a matter of record.” [3]

“Alright . . . . ” John looked past Ben and made eye contact with Stacy, who stood behind her father, sandwiched between her brothers. Hop Sing stood on the other side of Joe. “Stacy, is it your will to be adopted into the Cartwright family?”

Stacy left her place between Hoss and Joe, and walked over to Ben. “Are you asking me if I want Pa . . . I mean Mister Cartwright to adopt me?” she asked very solemnly, as she slipped her small hand into Ben’s larger one.

Lucas smiled. “That’s exactly what we’re asking, Stacy.”

“My answer is yes,” she replied, without hesitation, “I DO want Mister Cartwright to adopt me . . . . ” She paused briefly, then added in a voice barely audible, “more than just about anything . . . . ”
“Paris,” Ben said quietly, as the memory faded, “I need to ask you one more question.”

“Alright . . . . ” she agreed warily.

“Does the name Zachary Hilliard mean anything to you?”

Her face had turned white as a sheet, even before he finished asking the question.

“Then . . . you DO know him,” Ben immediately pounced, his eyes flashing with anger.

“I know the NAME, damn it . . . NOT the passenger,” Paris hotly defended herself. She closed her eyes and took a deep ragged breath. “The Zachary Hilliard I know went to Westpoint with my brother,” she explained through clenched teeth. “John was a year ahead, but he and Zachary became close friends. He served under my brother during the war. I met him once . . . but THAT was years ago . . . while John was still at Westpoint.” She glared up at Ben, her eyes smoldering with fury. “Ben, I swear . . . on my mother’s grave, I SWEAR . . . I did NOT recognize the man on the stage with me as someone I know.”

“Paris . . . so HELP me . . . if I find out you’re lying— ”

“I’m NOT,” she snapped. “Ben— ”

“What?”

“Would you mind telling me exactly what the hell’s going on around here?!” Paris rounded on him furiously. “It’s the LEAST you can do, in return for subjecting me to . . . to . . . to what amounts to a damn’ bloody Spanish Inquisition— ”

“What happened to Stacy yesterday out in the corral was no accident,” Ben said in a voice that dripped icicles.

“I hope you’re not accusing ME of— ”

“No . . . I’m not,” Ben said curtly.

“What makes you so sure it WASN’T an accident?”

“The cinch strap was cut. Not ALL the way through . . . just enough for normal wear and tear to finish breaking it apart.”

For a moment, Paris was too stunned to speak, or even move. She sat there, clutching her quilt so tightly, her knuckles had turned white. Her eyes were round with horror.

“It happened during the time your fellow passenger was making inquiries about Stacy . . . and the rest of my family,” Ben continued.

“C-Coincidence, Ben,” Paris murmured upon finding her voice. “Coincidence. It HAS to be.”

“You’re probably right,” Ben said. “But, I can’t rule out the possibility that the two incidents are related . . . remote though the chances may be . . . until I know more.”

“I understand.”

“I . . . I’m sorry, Paris. It wasn’t my intention to upset you,” Ben continued, “but in the interests of keeping my daughter safe— ”

“I’d . . . forgotten how fierce you can be when it comes down to protecting your children,” Paris said wearily. “Your sons as w-well as your daughter. Times like now . . . you remind me of an old brooding mother hen.”

“Paul and Lily Martin liken me to a ferocious mother grizzly bear,” Ben said ruefully. “I’m . . . NOT sorry I asked the questions, but I AM sorry that I upset you so terribly.”

“I’ll get over it.”

“Paris . . . . ”

“What NOW, Ben?”

“Can you tell me how to get in touch with John?” Ben asked. There was a pleading note in his voice. “If the man who was asking about Stacy is indeed the Zachary Hilliard he knows, maybe he could shed some light on what the man’s up to.”

“I wish I could help you, Ben,” Paris said ruefully, “but the truth is . . . I have no idea in the world where he’s living now . . . what he’s doing . . . whether he’s alive or dead . . . and up until right now, this very minute, I’ve not much cared.”

 

“Where Miss Paris?” Hop Sing demanded indignantly, as Ben slowly descended the remaining half dozen steps. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, with his arms folded across his chest, his feet positioned shoulder width apart.

“Fighter’s stance . . . . ” Ben silently noted with dismay.

“She comin’ down?” Hoss asked, as he slowly rose to his feet. He had been sitting in the blue chair over next to the fireplace.

“No,” Ben replied.

Hoss’ face fell. “How come, Pa?” he asked. “She’d told Stacy ‘n me that she was hungry as a bear.”

“She’s . . . got a headache, Hoss— ” Ben began.

“Miss Paris headache very sudden,” Hop Sing growled, favoring his number one boss of the Ponderosa with a dark, angry scowl.

“She told me that she wants to sleep,” Ben said tersely, then softened. “Hop Sing, why don’t you fix her a plate and keep it warm?”

“Why you badger Miss Paris with question?!” Hop Sing snapped.

“Hop Sing, THAT will be enough!” Ben growled . . . .

Somewhere in the dark, two men argued. She was too far away to hear their words, but their bitter animosity came through loud and clear. She also heard the hushed drone of women’s voices in the dark, somewhere close by, striking a troubled discord against the men. No words, only voices. As the men’s anger escalated, their voices grew louder and louder. The women’s voices, however, grew softer, until they finally died away to a frightening silence. Sounds followed, of flesh striking flesh, a distant scream, footsteps, and the roar of a mighty, evil wind.

“Run, child . . . . ”

“Run . . . . ”

“Stacy.”

She gasped, and started so violently, she nearly rolled right off the settee, upon which she found herself lying. For one brief, heart-stopping moment, she had no idea in the world where she was.

“Hey, Kid . . . you alright?”

Stacy turned and found herself staring up into Joe’s face. He was seated on the coffee table next to the settee, studying her with an anxious frown.

“Y-yeah . . . I’m ok . . . I think,” she stammered. “Where’d YOU come from?”

“I’ve been helping Candy and the other men with the horses,” Joe replied. “You and Hoss have sure done a great job with Golden Boy.”

“Thanks.”

“That must have been some dream just now,” Joe said, as he helped her sit up.

“Yeah . . . it was one of those dreams that seems so real while it’s happening, it’s a shock to wake up. In fact, I don’t even remember dozing off.”

“I know how you feel,” Joe said with a sympathetic smile. “I’ve had more than my share of those, too.”

“Strange dream . . . the only thing I can remember is these two men arguing.”

“Well . . . Pa and Hop Sing were kinda snapping at each other just now,” Joe said. “Could be that’s what triggered it.” He noted her pale face, her trembling hands, and her eyes round and staring, with concern. “You SURE you’re alright, Stace?”

“Yeah, I’m ok,” Stacy replied. “Just stiff ‘n sore as all get out . . . . ”

Joe flashed her a knowing grin. “Hop Sing’s got an ointment that loosens up those muscles and relieves the pain, quick as anything. Of course, it smells like a pair of Hoss’ dirty socks that have been sitting in a corner for a month of Sundays getting ripe . . . . ”

“It might STILL be a fair ‘n equitable trade off,” Stacy decided. “It seems every time I sit still for any length of time . . . . ”

“You?! Sit still??” Joe chortled. “Kiddo, you couldn’t sit still if your life depended on it . . . and don’t you dare stick your tongue out at me, either. You really oughtta have more respect for your elders, y’ know.”

“Yes, GRANDPA,” Stacy retorted good-naturedly.

“Smart aleck,” Joe quipped. “Come on . . . let’s us get out to the table before Hoss, Pa, ‘n Candy eat it all.”

 

“Joe . . . Candy . . . I need to speak with you,” Ben said quietly, after he and the family had finished a hearty, if quiet and subdued, dinner together.

The two young men exchanged puzzled glances.

“If we could step outside for a few moments?”

“Sure, Pa,” Joe said as he and Candy rose. The sharp glance Pa’s invitation to step out side had drawn from Stacy wasn’t lost on him. He and Candy fell in step behind Ben and silently followed him out through the front door.

“Hoss?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s going on?” Stacy demanded.

“I . . . dunno, Li’l Sister . . . . ” Hoss had his suspicions, but wisely decided not to voice them. “I think you’re gonna hafta ask Pa.”

 

Ben, meanwhile, silently led the way over toward the corral, well away from the house.

“Pa . . . what’s up?” Joe demanded, the minute the three of them reached the corral fence.

“As you both probably know, I went into town this morning to do some asking around of my own,” Ben began, taking care to keep his voice low.

“Concerning the man I told you about last night?” Candy asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied. “I found out that his name is Zachary Hilliard . . . he comes from New York City . . . and that he and Paris arrived on the same stage.”

“Coincidence?” Candy asked.

“That remains to be seen,” Ben said grimly. “When I questioned Paris before we sat down to dinner, she told me that her brother, John, knew a man by that name. The two of ‘em went to Westpoint together, and Zachary Hilliard served under John during the war.”

Joe let out a long, slow whistle.

“Zachary Hilliard checked out of the International Hotel early yesterday morning,” Ben continued. “He told the desk clerk that he had business in Carson City, then asked for directions to the livery stable.”

“Did you talk to Tony?” Joe asked.

“Yes, I did,” Ben replied. “He told me Mister Hilliard rented a buggy and a horse . . . AND that he was indeed headed for Carson City.”

“In a buggy, he would’ve been nearly all day yesterday getting there,” Candy said slowly. “Even if he managed to take care of whatever business he had today . . . it pretty much stands to reason he’s gonna stay overnight in Carson, and leave for Virginia City, or . . . wherever he’s going in the morning.”

“I was thinking the same thing, Candy,” Ben said. “If you boys hurry and get yourselves packed, you can reach town in time to make the four o’clock stage for Carson City.” He paused. “I want you boys to find this Mister Hilliard.”

“We will, Pa,” Joe promised, his voice filled with grim determination.

“You bet,” Candy voiced his wholehearted agreement, punctuating those words with an emphatic nod of his head.

“You boys get yourselves packed,” Ben said. “I’ll see that your horses are saddled.”

 

“Hop Sing . . . honest. I’m not hungry. Perhaps later . . . . ”

“No more later,” Hop Sing declared. “How Miss Paris get strength back if she not eat?”

“I SAID later— ” she returned peevishly.

“This three times now you say later,” Hop Sing admonished her with a dark, angry scowl. “Three times Hop Sing come, three times Miss Paris say later. This fourth time Hop Sing come. Fourth time, Hop Sing say NOW. Miss Paris eat right now.”

“There’s no arguing with him when he takes THAT tone of voice,” Stacy said, trying hard not to smile.

“Missy Stacy know what she talk about!” Hop Sing declared with an emphatic nod of his head. “When Hop Sing say Miss Paris eat right now . . . Miss Paris eat right now.”

“I’d completely forgotten what an overbearing ogre of a dictator you can be sometimes,” Paris growled, as she dipped her spoon into the generous bowl of chicken soup on the tray, now resting in her lap.

“Eat,” Hop Sing returned without missing a beat. “Miss Paris no talk. Miss Paris eat.”

Paris grudgingly swallowed the first spoonful, then a second, followed by a third. “There! Are you satisfied?” she demanded waspishly.

“Hop Sing happy when Miss Paris bowl empty . . . soup all gone. NOT before!”

Paris muttered a sting of colorful invectives under her breath as she angrily scooped up a fourth spoonful.

“That right,” Hop Sing declared with a smug, triumphant smile, and an approving nod of his head.

“ ****. . . damn’ f—****bloody . . . overbearing son-uva-sea cook!”

“Eat. No talk.”

Paris toyed with the idea of washing Hop Sing’s face in what remained of her bowl, then, with a melancholy sigh, discarded the notion. She was far too weak physically, and even if she wasn’t, like as not he would only go right back down to the kitchen and return with another full bowl. “ . . . and I’d have to start all over again,” she groused silently.

Hop Sing stood over Paris, watching closely as she finished up every bit of the soup in her bowl.

“There, y’ bloody **** blackguard,” Paris growled, as she thrust the empty bowl into Hop Sing’s face. “NOW are y’ happy?!”

“Hop Sing VERY happy,” Hop Sing said with a complacent smile, as he took the bowl. “Now you rest.”

“Can’t I visit with Stacy just a wee bit longer?” Paris begged.

“Miss Stacy need rest, too,” Hop Sing said.

“Hellfire and damnation, Man!” Paris exploded. “I ate every last bit o’ that damned bloody soup o’ yours. I should think THAT would be good enough t’ buy me another twenty minutes t’ visit with Stacy . . . . ”

“TEN minute,” Hop Sing said, before turning heel and walking out of the room.

“Miss Paris?” Stacy ventured after Hop Sing had gone.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“It’s a good thing you DIDN’T throw that bowl of soup at Hop Sing,” she said quietly.

Paris regarded the girl with mild surprise. “ . . . and what makes you think I was going to do any such childish thing?”

“I could tell by the look on your face,” Stacy replied.

“My mam always said I wore my feelings right out where all the world could see ‘em,” Paris sighed wearily. “That’s why I never took up poker.”

“Couldn’t bluff your way out of a paper bag?”

“Nope.”

“Neither can I,” Stacy admitted. “That’s why I only play with my brothers for matchsticks and pennies.”

“I see,” Paris murmured softly.

“Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Child?”

“Are you Irish?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, I am,” Paris replied with a smile. “Born in County Roscommon to a poor tenant farmer and his wife. How did you guess?”

“I can hear a little of it in your voice sometimes,” Stacy said. “It almost sounds musical.”

Paris laughed with genuine mirth for the first time in many years. “You’re the first person I’ve ever heard call it musical,” she said warmly. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have more than enough Irish blarney about yourself.”

Stacy responded with a puzzled frown. “What’s blarney?” she asked.

“It’s a magical way of words,” Paris explained. “My father once told me a man, or woman for that matter, well versed in the art of blarney can tell another to go to hell in such a way as to make that other actually look forward to the trip.”

Stacy laughed out loud, and Paris, much to her own delight, found herself laughing, too.

“Paris isn’t an Irish name, though, is it?” Stacy asked as the laughter died away.

“My father, when he was a young man, had grand dreams of wealth and travel,” Paris said with a dreamy smile. “One place he wanted to visit was Paris, France, also known as the city of lights. Mam told me once he chose the name Paris as a magic omen to insure we’d one day visit there.”

“Did you?”

Paris sadly shook her head. “Too many hardships,” she said. “My family was very poor, Stacy. Still and all, thanks in large part to Grandma McKenna, we took our lot in life pretty much in stride . . . all of us except for m’ poor mam, God rest her soul . . . . ” Paris glanced upward, and quickly crossed herself, “and through it all, though, Da held fast to his grand dreams. But all that changed, when Ireland was hit by terrible famine. I was a wee bit younger than you are right now.”

“Is that when you came to this country?” Stacy asked.

Paris nodded.

“What about the rest of your father’s family?” Stacy asked. “Did they come here, too?”

“No,” Paris replied.

“Why not?”

“My grandfather was already dead,” Paris explained. “He died peacefully in his sleep before I was born. My grandmother . . . may God rest her saintly soul . . . she was an old woman, and . . . she just couldn’t bear the thought of leaving the only home she ever knew, and . . . and taking her final rest in alien soil, thousands of miles away from the little church yard where my grandfather lies buried. Da’s younger brothers, Uncle Andrew and Uncle John, stayed behind with . . . with Grandma McKenna.”

Her lips curved upward, forming a sad, wistful smile. “She . . . was a very kind, very loving woman, Stacy. No matter what life brought her, Grandma McKenna NEVER let it make her bitter. She told me once . . . you have no say in what life’s going to throw at you, be it for good or ill, but you DO have a say in how you’re going to face it.”

“You miss her very much, don’t you, Miss Paris,” Stacy gently observed.

“Yes, I do, fey child that you are.”

“What’s fey?”

“It means touched by the faeries,” Paris explained. “Grandma McKenna called ‘em the gentlefolk. At any rate, the rare few mortals so blessed instinctively see and know things, without being told.”

“Like me knowing that you miss your Grandma McKenna without you saying so?”

Paris nodded.

“Pa’s like that, too, Miss Paris,” Stacy said with a smile. “Whenever we . . . Hoss, Joe, or me . . . are upset about something . . . he just knows. We almost never have to say so. Hoss and Joe are like that, too. So’s Hop Sing. Pa says it comes from living together as a family.”

“Yes . . . I suppose it can at that,” Paris said slowly, “in a family where there’s a lot of love . . . . ”

“Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Child?”

“What happened to your grandmother?”

“Last I saw her . . . it was at the American wake she and my uncles held for Mam, Da, my brother, my sisters . . . and me.”

Stacy frowned. “American wake?! What’s that?”

“A funeral.”

“What?!” Stacy cried, her eyes round with shocked horror. “How could your grandmother and uncles have a funeral for you and your family, when . . . when you were still ALIVE?!”

“All too often, Child, when a family member decides to leave, it’s very much like having him . . . or her . . . die,” Paris explained. “The distance and the time it takes to travel from Ireland to here . . . or Canada . . . or Australia . . . are very great, and the cost for passage very dear. People knew when a loved one left Ireland, chances were very good they’d never see or hear from that person again.”

“Did things get better after you and your family arrived here . . . in America?” Stacy asked, appalled yet fascinated.

“No . . . and yes, I suppose,” Paris answered. “When we reached America, my father couldn’t find steady work. An odd job here and there, IF he was lucky. There was plenty of work to be had, mind . . . but just about everywhere Da applied, there were signs in t’ windows saying, ‘No Irish need apply here.’ Da ended up joining the army. They sent him out to Fort Charlotte, and there he stayed for the duration.”

“You said before that he was the horse master there.”

“Aye, and a fine one,” Paris said. “After he left the army, he, Mam, and my younger sisters went out to California in search of gold. A few years later, they returned to Mormon Springs, and bought a bit of farmland. But . . . when last I saw him? He was an angry, bitter man. All of the lovely grand dreams he once had, apparently died over the years . . . one by one.”

“When people loose their dreams, they loose pieces of themselves,” Stacy said quietly. “They die inside when they stop dreaming altogether. That’s worse than the body dying.” She looked up, her eyes meeting those of the older woman. “I’m sorry, Miss Paris,” she said. “For your pa . . . and for you.”

Paris began to understand why Ben never ceased to marvel at this fey child, so young and at the same time so ancient. “You remember me telling you just now how I came by my n-name . . . . ”

Stacy nodded.

“I . . . understand Da made good success with the farm near Mormon Springs. He also made good money running the livery stable in town,” Paris continued, her voice trembling. “He and Mam could well have afforded to visit Paris, and in grand style, too. But, by then, they no longer WANTED to go.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Paris,” Stacy said, her own eyes bright with unshed tears. “It seems that somehow, I’m always saying something to make you sad.”

“This is a happy kind of sad, Stacy,” Paris said slowly. “I had long ago forgotten that my father was a dreamer, and why he gave me my name. You helped me remember, and for that I’m grateful, more than you can possibly realize.” Paris impulsively reached over and gave the girl a reassuring hug.

“Miss Paris . . . Miss Stacy, you stay up, talk too much.” It was Hop Sing. He stood in the open doorway with arms folded tight across his chest, glaring at both of them. “One hour before supper ready. Miss Stacy, you go to your room. You lie down, rest . . . let Miss Paris rest.”

“Aww, Hop Sing . . . I’m not the least bit tired,” Stacy immediately protested. “Do I HAVE to lie down?!”

“Miss Stacy go to room, lie down, rest,” Hop Sing reiterated, “or Hop Sing get rope, hog tie Miss Stacy like calf.”

“I . . . think he means it, Child,” Paris said wryly.

“I KNOW he means it,” Stacy said, favoring Hop Sing with a withering glare. She rose, and reached for the horse head cane her father had loaned her.

“Miss Stacy smart girl,” Hop Sing said with a smug triumphant smile, as he watched her limp across the room toward the hallway. “You rest, too, Miss Paris. Maybe take nap. Sleep good medicine. Almost as good as eat.”

 

“Well, Boys . . . it looks like the stage has finally arrived,” Hiram Peabody [4], the attendant at the Overland Stage office, said with a complacent smile.

“It’s about time,” Joe declared, as he, Candy, and Hiram watched the stagecoach turn the corner at the bottom of the hill. “It’s ONLY an hour and fifteen minutes late.”

“An hour and eighteen minutes late, Joe,” Hiram sighed. “Give the boys in the stable an hour or so to change the horses, and you fellas’ll be on your way. If you should need me for anything, I’ll be at home.”

“You’ll give Cissy our best?” Joe asked.

“I sure will,” Hiram promised. “Hope everything goes well for you in Carson City.”

“Thanks, Hiram . . . I know it will,” Joe declared with a confident smile.

John McKenna, captain, U. S. Army, now retired, slowly opened his eyes, as he felt the stage beginning to slow. He yawned, stretched, then edged his way across the seat into the deep shadows cast by the waning sunlight and the structure of the conveyance in which he rode. Moments later, the stagecoach came to a complete stop in front of the Virginia City Depot.

His sharp blue eyes immediately spotted two young men, each with a single bag in hand. A troubled frown deepened the lines already etched in the brittle, parchment thin flesh of his brow, as he studied the shorter man, clad in a green denim jacket.

His smile, the way he moved, the left handed holster . . . .

“ . . . left-handed holster . . . something about a left-handed hol— ” John murmured softly, as he slid even further under the cloak of lengthening shadows within the coach. “Virginia City . . . Cartwright . . . ah, yes! NOW I remember . . . . Ben’s youngest son, Joseph . . . HE was left handed,” he mused silently.

“Mister Grant?” The stagecoach driver addressed the sole passenger in an apologetic, contrite tone of voice, as he opened the door.

There was no reply. The man, known to the driver as simply Mister Grant, seemed to be lost in thought.

“Mister Grant.” The driver reached out and placed his hand solicitously on the passenger’s forearm, the minute his feet touched terra firma.

John McKenna started. As he turned to face the driver, his initial astonishment had that quickly given way to rage.

The driver shuddered, and stepped back upon catching sight of the murderous fury burning in John McKenna’s bright, sky blue eyes, now round and staring. “S-Sorry, Mister Grant,” he immediately apologized, “f-for startling you just now and . . . and for the delay. I . . . I tried to reach you, Sir, but . . . well, you must’ve been deep in thought. I . . . r-really AM very sorry . . . . ”

“No apologies necessary, Sir. After all . . . it’s certainly not YOUR fault we had to circumnavigate that rockslide,” John said, taking great care to keep his voice well measured, even. His face immediately returned to the stoic facade he normally presented in public, obliterating all trace of the fury, so tangibly present less than a moment before.

“Thank you, Mister Grant. That was most generous.” The driver took due note of the cane clasped tight in the passenger’s hand, the pronounced limp, and the absence of family, friend, or business associate coming to meet him. “Is there . . . someplace I can take you?” he ventured, hesitant and uncertain.

“Thank you. I can manage well enough on my own,” John replied, all the while inwardly castigating himself for that near disastrous slip. After having spent the better part of a week now, answering to Mister Smith, it had completely slipped his mind that he had purchased a one way ticket to Virginia City under the name of Sherman Grant, borrowing the names of two generals he had come to admire very much. “However . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?”

“If you would be so kind as to direct me to your telegraph office, I would be very much obliged,” John said.

The driver was only too happy to supply the directions. “It’s . . . closed now, Sir, but if it’s an emergency— ”

For a moment, John debated. Young Cartwright and his companion were heading out on the stage returning to Carson City. That was a given. That they were traveling light suggested an overnight stay. Could it be that Ben Cartwright had guessed—?! No. No, that wasn’t possible. He shook his head, as if trying to physically dislodge that errant, and completely absurd, thought.

“Thank you, Sir, but morning will be soon enough to send that wire,” John decided. His associate knew to be cautious . . . after all, he had that scar on his chest now as a constant and everlasting reminder “ . . . and sending that wire to warn him might actually end up even more drawing unwanted attention,” he mused in silence.

John instructed the driver to send his luggage, consisting of a trunk and two carpet bags, over to the International Hotel, then left the depot, making sure he gave Joe Cartwright and his companion wide birth. It would not do for Ben Cartwright learn that he was in town before he was ready to make that fact known.

 

“Mister Smith?”

John quickly brought his dark musings to an end, that he might give full attention to the present moment. A young man, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, stepped out from the doorway to a building, presently vacant, directly in his path. The skinny beanpole form John remembered had begun to fill out, and the boy’s round, cherubic face had nearly given way to the lean, muscular face of the man he would very soon become. Although the young man’s eyes were concealed by the shadows cast by the wood frame buildings surrounding them, John immediately recognized him as the unit’s former drummer boy by the sandy hair, cropped very short and the determined set of his mouth and jaw line.

“Private Jedidiah Matthews, Sir,” the young man continued. “Sergeant Collier told me to make certain this was hand delivered to you personally.” Though he did not salute, he respectfully stood with back straight, shoulders back, feet together. He presented John with an envelope addressed to Mister Smith.

“Thank you, Private,” John murmured softly, as he accepted the proffered envelope and deftly placed it in the inside pocket of his jacket. “Was the sergeant able to secure the residence I requested?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jedidiah replied.

“Excellent. Have my wife and daughters arrived yet?”

“Yes, Sir. They arrived in Virginia City yesterday evening, and were immediately escorted to the residence secured by Sergeant Collier.”

“I . . . trust no undue attention was called to their arrival?”

“No, Sir,” Jedidiah replied. “Sergeant Collier timed the arrival of their buckboard to coincide with the arrival of several freight wagons, the stagecoach, and people coming into town to partake of last night’s entertainments.”

“Excellent,” John murmured softly. “My commendations to Sergeant Collier . . . and to yourself, Private . . . for a job well done.”

Jedidiah, much to his absolute horror and chagrin, felt the warm, prickly rush of blood to his cheeks, forehead, and neck. “I . . . th-thank you, Sir. I’ll . . . I’ll be sure to t-tell . . . to inform Sergeant Collier.”

“Thank you, Private. You’re dismissed.”

The young man acknowledged his captain’s dismissal with a curt nod of his head, before turning heel and heading away in the direction from whence he came.

 

“Ben . . . the last time I saw my brother . . . it was in Missouri . . . Saint Jo, about a year or so after the rest of our family died,” Paris said, her voice an odd mixture of sadness and anger. She had taken supper that evening in her room, a simple, yet tasty fare of chicken stew and dumplings, a large buttermilk biscuit, with a generous slab of butter on the side, and a big mug of hot herbal tea . . . .

“ . . . help make Miss Paris stomach feel batter,” Hop Sing had said, “make her not want to return meal back up. Also help her relax, maybe get good night sleep.”

When Ben came to collect the tray and dishes, she had invited him to sit down for a moment. She felt she owed him some kind of explanation as to why she had no idea where her brother was . . . .

“I was working for the Zimmerman family,” Paris continued. “Though not what you’d call rich, they WERE . . . and still are, I imagine . . . a well-to-do family, very well thought of by most of the people in their community. Mister Zimmerman’s mother-in-law was terminally ill. I had been hired to be her nurse and companion. It was a good job, Ben. Mister Zimmerman was a kind man . . . a fair employer, and Mrs. Putnam . . . she was an absolute jewel. Never once complained, though she certainly had much to complain about . . . always had a smile on her face, a kind word to say . . . .

“ . . . ah, but I digress.

“John came to see me at the Zimmermans’ home,” Paris continued, “supposedly to tell me that our parents’ house had burned to the ground . . . that they, our sisters,” . . . and poor Rose Miranda, “ . . . were all dead. At first, I . . . I thought he was joking.”

“Cruel joke,” Ben said archly.

“ . . . which John was, and I imagine still IS, very capable of, believe me,” Paris said grimly. “In fact, I refused to believe it, until Mister Zimmerman, bless his dear heart, had his secretary send a wire to the sheriff in Mormon Springs, where they were living, and . . . and he shared with me the return wire confirming it.”

“That must have been devastating for you,” Ben said gently.

“It was, but in all honesty, I can’t really blame John for telling me a year after the fact. He couldn’t have known where to find me,” Paris said. “It was only by odd happenstance he found out I was in Saint Jo, working for the Zimmermans. The thing I found disturbing was the way he incessantly badgered me about their will, of all things . . . AND for the name of their lawyer.”

“Their lawyer?!” Ben echoed, incredulous. “As I recall, Paris, your father swore up and down there were three kinds of men he couldn’t trust as far as he could throw them . . . doctors, bankers, and lawyers.”

“It’s possible he engaged a lawyer to help him draw up a will,” Paris said thoughtfully. “They DID have their farm and the livery stable in town . . . and I’m sure Mam had personal things that she wanted to pass on to John, Mattie, Elsie, and— ” Her words ended in a frightened gasp.

She had almost said Rose Miranda.

“ . . . and?” Ben prompted gently.

“ . . . and . . . to the children John had. Has. I . . . know that he’s taken a wife,” Paris said in a small voice. “Stands to reason they’d have children.”

Ben nodded.

“ . . . and Da, like as not had a respectable sum of money buried in a tin can somewhere,” Paris continued, anxious to move past what would have been a terrible blunder. “As I told Stacy earlier, he did quite well with the farm and the livery.

“But . . . where in the world John ever got the idea that I, of all people, had a copy of their will . . . . ” Paris wondered aloud, then shrugged. “It’s insane, Ben. Completely insane! Mam and Da disinherited ME years before. John KNEW that! The day he showed up on the Zimmermans’ doorstep looking for me . . . I hadn’t seen nor heard from my parents or my sisters for six . . . going on seven years. I tried to tell John that, but he wouldn’t hear it. He cursed me . . . threatened me with all manner of violence . . . . ” She shuddered. “ . . . and called me all kinds of vile names, none of which can be repeated in polite company. Mister Zimmerman’s secretary finally came and told him to leave.”

“Did he?” Ben asked.

“Grudgingly,” Paris replied. “It was that, or be arrested and fined for trespassing. But, he didn’t stay away. Three days later, I was alone in the house with Mrs. Putnam. The children were in school, Mister Zimmerman and his secretary had gone to the office, Mrs. Zimmerman was attending a meeting for some charity fund raiser, the cook was out doing the grocery shopping, and Flossie, their housekeeper, had the day off.”

“What happened?”

“First of all, John had found out that Mister Zimmerman sent that wire to Mormon Springs, asking about our family,” Paris continued. “He was angry about that. VERY angry. His face . . . . ” She shuddered. “His face didn’t even look human . . . and with him ranting and raving what amounted to utter nonsense . . . I was frightened, Ben . . . not only for myself, but for poor Mrs. Putnam, lying upstairs, completely helpless.

“John and I ended up having a royal row to end all rows. In the midst of all the shouting . . . he hit me, Ben. He . . . HIT me . . . over and over and over . . . . ” Paris shook her head, as shocked and astonished now as she had been then. “John would have killed me, I’m sure of it! Thank God his holster and gun were within my reach. I drew on him and told him he was dead if he didn’t back off.”

“Did he?” Ben asked.

“After I put a bullet in his leg to prove I meant business,” Paris said grimly. “John left. I don’t know how on one good leg, but he left. When Mister Zimmerman returned home, I told him what had happened, then turned in my resignation, effective immediately. With John as unhinged as he was, my continued presence in their home would have put the Zimmerman family in danger . . . especially Mrs. Putnam.

“In parting, Mister Zimmerman gave me excellent references. He also gave me severance and a very generous bonus over and above the wages he owed me. I left town the next morning. I didn’t even bother to stay long enough to find out whether John lived or died.” She paused. “I’ve not seen or heard from him since.”

Ben shook his head. “I . . . can’t believe it, Paris,” he said incredulously. “I remember John as being a young fella, full of himself as most young fellas are, all bluster and blow, but he never struck me as a man capable of that kind of violence. Did the war change him?”

“Ben . . . my chance meeting with John in Saint Jo happened roughly a year BEFORE the war broke out,” Paris said.

“Really?!”

Paris nodded.

“What in the world could have happened to that young man to have change him so much?” Ben wondered aloud, shocked and bewildered by this piece of information.

“I lay blame for the terrible changes in John at the door of one Parson Meriwether Lewis [5] ,” Paris declared, her lips curling with disgust as she said the parson’s name, “self proclaimed, self ordained man of . . . I don’t know which god, exactly, but you can be damned sure it’s NOT the one you and I are accustomed to worshipping.”

“You . . . met the man?” Ben asked.

“No . . . something for which I’m heartily thankful, believe me,” Paris replied soberly, with deep, heartfelt sincerity. “I did see his face once . . . on a wanted poster in the sheriff’s office in a little town up in Montana. I was working for the doctor at the time, a new man, not much more than a boy actually, fresh out of some medical school back east. Nurse . . . midwife . . . physical therapist . . . secretary, bookkeeper, HOUSEkeeper, occasional babysitter . . . you name it, I did it, if it was good honest work. But, once again, I digress.

“On the surface of things, the parson was such an innocuous looking man, with a dandified kind of a name t’ boot . . . but the look in his eyes . . . . ” She shuddered, then hurriedly crossed herself, murmuring a quick prayer for protection. “Oh, Ben . . . that man was nothing less than . . . than the very devil incarnate himself!”

“Was this parson wanted for murder?” Ben asked.

Paris’ jaw dropped. “Y-Yes . . . . ” she stammered, her voice barely audible. “How . . . how in the world did you know?”

“I met Parson Lewis, Paris,” Ben said through clenched teeth, his eyebrows coming together to form a dark, angry scowl. “I also met the man he’s no doubt accused of murdering . . . and both of his wives.”

“Wives?” Paris queried, with eyebrow slightly upraised.

“They were Mormon,” Ben explained. “Polygamy is part of their religious practice [6] and, I believe, was necessary for their survival. I . . . didn’t get the chance to know Heber Clawson and his wives, Susanna and Elizabeth, very well, but from what little I DID see of them . . . they were good people, Paris, and the three of them were very happy together.”

“The wanted poster said the parson was wanted for murdering a man and his wife,” Paris said. “Were you there when . . . . ?”

“Joe was,” Ben replied. “Hoss and I . . . well, by the time we got there, Mister Clawson was already dead, and his wife, Elizabeth, dying as she struggled to give birth to their son.”

“Dear God!” Paris murmured, horrified.

“They were Mormon,” Ben explained. “Polygamy is part of their religious practice [6] and, I believe, was necessary for their survival. I . . . didn’t get the chance to know Heber Clawson and his wives, Susanna and Elizabeth, very well, but from what little I DID see of them . . . they were good people, Paris, and the three of them were very happy together.”

“The wanted poster said the parson was wanted for murdering a man and his wife,” Paris said. “Were you there when . . . . ?”

“Joe was,” Ben replied. “Hoss and I . . . well, by the time we got there, Mister Clawson was already dead, and his wife, Elizabeth, dying as she struggled to give birth to their son.”

“Dear God!” Paris murmured, horrified.

“That . . . that so called parson . . . . ” Ben angrily, contemptuously spat the word. “ . . . and another man incited the people of Beehive to hunt down the Clawsons, and my son, Joe, too . . . as if . . . as if they were wild animals. Heber Clawson was shot in the back and his wife, Elizabeth . . . her death came about as the result of being very close to her time to give birth, the chase, and I imagine, fear of what would happen to them all if the parson and the good citizens of Beehive caught up with them.” [7]

“What happened to the baby and the other wife?” Paris asked, numb with shock and horror.

“I heard they eventually went to the Mormon community in Utah,” Ben replied.

“I . . . hope Susanna Clawson and the child found peace and safety among their own,” Paris murmured softly.

“I’m sure they did,” Ben said.

“Mam and Da were . . . well, let’s just say they weren’t happy to say the least about John, in their own minds, turning Protestant,” Paris continued. “Although Mam became Catholic when she and Da married, I don’t remember either one of them being much in the way of churchgoers. But they considered themselves staunch Catholics nonetheless, especially Da . . . and given all that they suffered because of it, I know Da would have seen John’s decision to cast in his lot with . . . this ‘parson’ . . . . ” again, she grimaced, “as the absolute worst act of betrayal against family . . . against the church . . . and I daresay against Mother Ireland herself.”

“Yes . . . Gerald McKenna WOULD have seen John’s decision to follow Parson Lewis in that way,” Ben agreed. “We can be thankful for one thing, however . . . . ”

“What’s that?” Paris asked.

“Parson Meriwether Lewis has been safely locked behind bars at the California State Prison for the better part of the last . . . six, or seven years now,” Ben said.

“I for one hope to heaven the warden had the bloody good sense to throw away the key.”

“Amen to THAT!” Ben wholeheartedly agreed. “I’ve never heard anyone spew out such venomous hatred and bitterness from a church pulpit in my life. I earnestly hope and pray I never do again. Ever.”

“I thank the Good Lord I’ve never had that dubious pleasure,” Paris declared with a wry roll of her eyes heaven ward. “I’m pretty sure I heard more of that so-called parson’s theology than I ever wanted to hear out of John’s mouth when I saw him in Saint Jo. The names he called me— ” She broke off abruptly, and quickly averted her eyes. “I . . . I can’t bring myself to repeat them, Ben.”

“Did those names refer to the time you spent here . . . with me and my two younger boys?” Ben asked, noting the flush of deep crimson on her cheeks.

Paris nodded, unable to speak or look him in the face.

“Paris . . . please. Look at me?”

She swallowed nervously, then slowly, reluctantly lifted her head. The way she clutched the edge of her blanket and held it tight to her chest . . . the lower lip, gently clamped between her teeth to hide its trembling, and most especially the way she looked up at him through those enormous big blue eyes . . . she looked for all the world like a naughty little girl, who had just been caught with her hand deep in the cookie jar . . . .

. . . or sitting near the edge of the lake, with fishing pole in hand, on a beautiful spring morning, which also happened to be a school day . . . .

 

Ben once again saw Stacy’s face on that particular day, as she turned and peered up at him with the same great big blue eyes, filled with astonishment and a healthy measure of trepidation, biting her lower lip, as Paris did now . . . .

“How like . . . yet so very unlike,” Ben silently marveled. “Both so strong, so stubbornly independent, yet so terribly vulnerable.” He remembered Paris as a young woman, vivacious, passionate, and full of life . . . just like Stacy. It saddened him deeply to see her as she was now, a frail, sickly woman, aged long before her time, her spirit crushed, her zest for life gone, almost as if it had never been.

“Paris,” Ben said gently, speaking aloud, “if you never . . . ever . . . listen to another word I say, I want you to hear this.” He paused briefly, then continued. “I . . . can well imagine what John must have said to you . . . given what the two of us shared. I don’t need to know his exact words . . . and to tell you the honest truth, I don’t really WANT to know . . . because they’re lies. We LOVED each other, Paris. We DID. . . . and though I regret very much the way things ended between us, I feel no shame in the love we shared. Neither should YOU.”

“Oh, Ben . . . Ben, I . . . I’m so sorry, I— ” Paris sobbed.

Without thinking, Ben reached out and gathered her into his arms, as he would his sons and his daughter. Paris hesitated, then slipped her arms around his waist. Her head automatically dropped down onto his shoulder, and she gave release to a small measure of the grief, the anger, and the guilt she had carried around inside of her for so long. As he sat there, gently holding her, he felt the intervening years between the last time he saw Paris McKenna and the present moment, fall away. All of the bewilderment, the anger, and the deep, profound grief she had left in the wake of her abrupt departure had evaporated, like a drop of water on the dry desert sands, at the hottest part of the day.

“Don’t, Paris . . . please don’t,” Ben murmured softly. “Whatever your reasons for leaving . . . they don’t matter. Not now. Not anymore.”

Her heart soared upon hearing his words of forgiveness, then, in less than the space of a heartbeat, plunged to the agonizing depths of hopeless despair. It would be so easy to fall in love with him once again, and though she desired that more than anything in the world, she could never allow that to happen. A ghost stood between them, and would always stand between them. Her name was Rose Miranda.

 

The following morning, at Gerard’s Boarding House in Carson City, Joe woke very early to the heady aromas of bacon frying in the skillet and coffee, freshly made. He sat up and stretched. “Candy?! Hey, Candy . . . . ”

Candy snorted softly, then rolled over, pointedly turning his back to Joe.

“Candy.”

“ . . . uunnngghh?”

“Come on, Candy . . . wake up,” Joe urged. “I think breakfast is almost ready.”

Candy snorted again, louder this time, then drifted off.

“All right, Buddy . . . YOU asked for it,” Joe muttered, as he climbed out of bed. He grabbed hold of his down pillow, then stepped over to the side of the bed Candy occupied. “All right, Mister Canaday . . . up ‘n at ‘em.” With that, he cheerfully smacked his sleeping traveling companion square in the chest with the pillow in hand.

“Unngh?!” Candy snorted again, as his eyes flew wide open.

“Rise and shine, Fella,” Joe greeted Candy with a bright, sunny smile.

“Unnnhh!” Candy groaned, as he reached down and pulled the covers up over his head.

“Oh no you don’t!” Joe murmured, as he tore the covers away. “Time to get up, Candy. I smell breakfast cooking downstairs . . . and I want to get it while it’s still hot.”

“Can I ask ya a really STUPID question?” Candy groused, sparing no energy to conceal his displeasure.

“If you make it quick.”

“Who are YOU . . . and what have you done with my friend, Joe Cartwright?!”

“That was TWO stupid questions,” Joe quipped, “and the answer to both of ‘em is . . . I AM the real, honest-t’-gosh Joe Cartwright. Now up ‘n at ‘em.”

“Since when did YOU become such an early bird?”

“I turned over a new leaf this morning,” Joe snapped. “This Mister Hilliard’s already given us the slip once, be it intentional or mere coincidence . . . and if HE happens to be a firm believer in ‘early to bed and early to rise,’ well . . . he could be up, washed and dressed, hot footing it to the stage depot, with bags packed even as I speak.” He paused briefly. “Candy, please,” he begged. “We can’t let him get away again.”

“All right,” Candy ruefully sighed as he threw aside his bedclothes . . . .

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Gerard,” Joe greeted the owner and manager of Gerard’s Boarding House with a big smile.

“ ‘Mornin’, Boys,” Mrs. Gerard chirped, looking from Joe to Candy, then back once more to Joe. “G’won in the dining room, and sit down. Breakfast will be ready in a jiffy.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Joe said with a cheerful smile.

Candy grunted, then yawned.

“Don’t mind my friend here,” Joe said affably. He placed one arm around Candy’s neck, and patted his cheek as if to revive or sober him up. “He’s no good in the morning, until he gets at least two cups of coffee in him.”

“G’won in and sit down, then,” Mrs. Gerard cheerfully shooed them out of the kitchen. “I’ll bring your coffee right in.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Joe said. He took Candy by the elbow and ushered him out of the kitchen.

“Sarah!” Mrs. Gerard stepped to the back stairs and called for her housekeeper, Sarah Perkins.

“Yes, Ma’am?”

“Please take the coffee on the stove out to the two gents waiting in the dining room. You’ll find clean mugs on the table.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Sarah murmured, as she entered the kitchen from the backstairs. She grabbed a potholder and removed the coffee pot from the stove. “ ‘Mornin’, Gentlemen,” she greeted Joe and Candy politely, upon entering the dining room. “Good strong coffee fresh and hot.”

Candy yawned again, as Joe picked up their mugs. He placed the first mug Sarah had filled down on the table in front of Candy, and kept the second for himself.

“You’ll find the sugar on the table,” Sarah said. “If you’d like milk, I’ll fetch it from the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Ma’am, but I like mine black,” Joe said.

“Me, too,” Candy murmured softly.

“So what brings you fellas to Carson City?” Sarah asked.

Joe took a big gulp from the mug in hand. “We heard that a buddy of ours was passing through,” he said.

“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”

“You probably never heard of him,” Candy said, with a big yawn. “He’s from New York.”

“Mister Hilliard?” Sarah queried.

“Yeah, that’s him!” Joe said, laboring valiantly to keep his voice calm and even. “Is he . . . by chance . . . still around?”

Sarah shook her head. “He left town late yesterday afternoon,” she replied. “On a horse from Baker’s Livery. You guys army buddies of his?”

“You might say that,” Candy said evasively.

“Did he say where he was headed?” Joe asked.

“I remember Mrs. Gerard saying something about him meeting a business associate of his down at the Comstock Hotel yesterday morning,” Sarah replied. “Other than that . . . . ” She shrugged. “Sorry.”

“It’s not YOUR fault,” Candy offered kindly.

“That’s a shame, you guys missin’ him so close,” Sarah said ruefully. “Tell you what. I’ll ask Mrs. Gerard. Maybe he told her where he was headed, after meeting his associate at the hotel.”

“Thank you,” Candy said. “We’d appreciate that very much.”

Sarah turned heel and left the dining room.

“I don’t believe this, Candy,” Joe groaned sotto voce. “We actually missed that guy by a few measly hours.”

“All is not yet lost,” Candy said, lowering his voice. “We may still catch up to him, if he happened to tell Mrs. Gerard where he was headed.”

Mrs. Gerard herself entered the dining room a few moments later, carrying a bowl of fluffy scrambled eggs and a plate of bacon. “Help yourself, Gents,” she said, placing the food on the table. “Sarah’ll be right in with fried potatoes and biscuits.” She paused. “I understand the two of you are army buddies of Mister Hilliard’s.”

“My friend and I heard he was here,” Candy said, favoring Mrs. Gerard with an affable grin, “and we thought it might be nice to stop in and say hello.”

“I’m afraid you boys missed him,” Mrs. Gerard said sympathetically.

“He didn’t happen to mention where he might be headed, did he?” Candy asked.

“Sorry, Boys,” Mrs. Gerard shook her head.

“Oh well, it WAS a spur of the moment kind of thing,” Candy shrugged, while Joe sat next to him seething with angry frustration. “Maybe next time.”

“You boys eat up now,” Mrs. Gerard admonished them.

“I could just scream,” Joe muttered through clenched teeth, after Mrs. Gerard had returned to the kitchen, and Sarah had come and gone, leaving the promised fried potatoes and biscuits behind on the table.

“Don’t scream, eat!” Candy said in a low voice. “After breakfast, we’ll mosey on down to the Comstock Hotel and ask around. At the very least, we should turn up the name of the business associate he came to meet . . . . ”

 

“ . . . Candy and I stopped at the Comstock Hotel, on our way to the stage depot,” Joe recounted in a melancholy tone for his father that night. He sat, perched on the edge of his father’s desk, his head bowed, shoulders slumped, and arms folded tight across his chest. Ben sat behind the desk, with folded hands resting atop its polished surface, listening intently to his youngest son’s report. The grandfather clock, over beside the front door, had chimed the quarter hour past midnight a few moments before.

“The hotel clerk remembered Zachary Hilliard,” Joe continued. “It seems he met with a guest at the hotel . . . a Mister Smith.”

“No first name?”

Joe wearily shook his head.

“You checked the register?”

“Of COURSE I checked the register, Pa,” Joe snapped, giving vent to the volatile emotions churning within, a potent mixture of worry for his young sister, angry frustration over having missed his intended quarry, and plain and simple fatigue. “The man signed in as Mister Smith. Period. No first name, no middle name, no initials. Just . . . plain . . . Mister Smith.”

A strained silence fell between father and son.

“Sorry,” Ben murmured contritely. “I didn’t mean to imply— ”

“I know, Pa,” Joe replied, equally contrite. “We’re BOTH worried about her.”

“Were you able to find out where Mister Hilliard was headed, after concluding his business with Mister Smith?” Ben asked.

Joe sighed, and dolefully shook his head. “The housekeeper at the boarding house where he stayed told Candy and me he went to Baker’s Livery. We stopped by there to see what we could find out, but the man in charge told us he had three customers day before yesterday: the deputy sheriff and the school teacher rented a horse and buggy for an afternoon drive and a scruffy looking old geezer . . . HIS words, Pa, not mine . . . who paid cash for a horse the owner of the livery had decided to put out to pasture. That was it.”

“Could be this Mister Hilliard changed his mind and went to another livery,” Ben quietly observed with a frown. “How about the man he went to see?”

“Mister Smith?”

Ben nodded.

“The desk clerk at the Comstock Hotel remembered Mister Smith well enough to give us a description of him,” Joe replied. “Said he was kind of on the tall side, skinny as a rail, with dark hair and blue eyes. He also walked with a very pronounced limp and he was a real snappy dresser.”

Ben dutifully wrote down the description Joe gave of Zachary Hilliard’s business partner on the back of an empty envelope.

“I’m . . . afraid . . . that’s ALL we got, Pa,” Joe concluded with a doleful sigh. “The desk clerk told Candy and me that Mister Smith checked out yesterday afternoon . . . and from there, he, too, disappears into thin air.”

“Did you check with the stage lines?” Ben asked.

Joe nodded glumly. “There were about half a dozen passengers on the stage that left Carson City at ten o’clock yesterday morning, and a fella named Grant on the two o’clock stage bound for Virginia City,” he replied. “But there was no one by the name of Smith or Hilliard listed.”

An uneasy silence settled over Ben and his youngest son.

“Pa, what do we do now?” Joe asked at length.

“First thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to ride into town and pay a visit to the livery stable where Mister Hilliard rented that rig for his trip to Carson City,” Ben said slowly. “If he left Carson City yesterday morning, after his meeting with Mister Smith . . . . ”

“ . . . then . . . he ought to have returned that horse and buggy to Grainger’s Livery some time today,” Joe finished with a feral grin.

“If not today, then almost certainly tomorrow morning, since he’s no doubt paying by the day,” Ben added. “It might be a good idea to ask Roy if he’ll send a wire to the sheriff over in Carson City. Perhaps HE can ask around . . . starting with the livery stables. If Zachary Hilliard didn’t go to Bakers’ Livery, he had to have gone to another. Simple as that.”

“ . . . AND if Mister Smith didn’t take the stage, perhaps he ALSO went to one of the other liveries.”

“Unless he remained in Carson City . . . staying somewhere other than the Comstock Hotel,” Ben said slowly.

“Why?” Joe queried with a bewildered frown. “What would be the point?”

“It would be an excellent way for a man to cover his tracks,” Ben said grimly

Joe shuddered as an ice-cold shiver ran down the entire length of his spine. “The only reason a man would have for covering his tracks is . . . he’s expecting someone to come after him.”

“That’s right.”

“Meaning . . . whoever this Zachary Hilliard is . . . chances are real good that his intentions aren’t in our best interests?”

Ben nodded.

“It doesn’t make any sense, Pa,” Joe said.

“That someone might be out to harm us?” Ben queried. “I’ve made my share of enemies as well as friends over the years, Son . . . we ALL have. Surely you haven’t forgotten that.”

“Of course not,” Joe hotly defended himself, “but why The Kid? She was an orphan, for heaven’s sake, with no family . . . or even memories of family. What possible reason could anyone have for harming HER?!”

“Anyone who knows us well enough knows that by harming one of us, he’s harmed all of us,” Ben explained. “Think about it, Son. How would YOU feel, if someone hurt your sister . . . your brothers . . . Hop Sing . . . or me, for that matter, in revenge for something you did or something he thought you did?”

“Point taken,” Joe said soberly. “Pa?”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t I go into town tomorrow?” Joe suggested. “That way, I could give Sheriff Coffee a first hand account on what Candy and I found out in Carson City . . . or perhaps more to the point, what we DIDN’T find out in Carson City.”

Ben winced against the self-reproach he heard in his youngest son’s voice. “You did your best, Joe. You and Candy both! I KNOW you did,” he said quietly. He reached over and gave Joe’s shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Thanks, Pa.”

“When you go into town tomorrow, ask Roy if he’s gotten any replies back from the wires he sent to the police department in New York City, and the Pinkerton Agency.”

“I will,” Joe promised. He eased himself off of his perch on the edge of the desk, and stretched. “I’m gonna turn in, Pa. I’ve got a lot to do tomorrow, and I’m thinking I’d like to get an early start.”

“Good idea, Son,” Ben agreed. “I’m coming up right behind you. Oh . . . . ”

Joe paused mid-stride and turned. “Yeah, Pa?”

“Do you know whether or not Eddie Jones is back?”

“Back?” Joe echoed, mildly surprised. “Back from where?”

“He asked for the day off today,” Ben explained, as he and Joe started up the stairs.

“Eddie?!”

Joe grinned. “Well whaddya know?” he murmured softly, as he and his father stepped onto the top landing. “I’m glad t’ hear the man’s not completely alone in the world . . . but I can’t tell ya whether or not he’s back yet.”

 

“Pa?”

Ben was surprised to find Stacy, still dressed, seated in the easy chair in his bedroom, with her injured foot propped up on a small footstool, borrowed from the room that had once belonged to Adam.

“Stacy Cartwright . . . what are you doing up? You should have been in bed hours ago,” he admonished her gently, as he seated himself on the edge of his bed.

“I can’t sleep,” she replied.

“Is it your ankle?” Ben asked.

“No,” Stacy shook her head. “Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“What’s going on? I’ve been wanting to ask you ever since you came home from town yesterday afternoon, but never got the chance. I figured tonight . . . if I waited long enough . . . . ”

“It’s late, Young Woman,” Ben said quietly, “and YOU need your rest. We’ll talk in the morning.”

“Pa, I . . . I KNOW I’m not blood kin to you, Hoss, and Joe, but I AM still part of this family . . . right?”

Her question took him completely by surprise. “Of course you are,” Ben declared, with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Well . . . you’re always telling Hoss and Joe that whatever the problem is . . . we’ll face it together . . . as a family,” Stacy continued, her mouth, her chin set with fierce determination. “Well . . . how can I help you guys face whatever’s going on if I don’t even KNOW what’s going on?!”

“Stacy, I promise you . . . everything’s going to be all right,” Ben said earnestly. “In fact, I fully expect to have matters cleared up within the next few days.”

“Pa, I’m fifteen years old,” she said indignantly. “Next birthday . . . or the day we celebrate as my birthday . . . I’ll be SIXteen. I’m NOT a little kid anymore.”

“No . . . you’re not,” Ben admitted reluctantly.

“ . . . and if you’re worried about scaring me, I have to tell ya . . . knowing that something’s going on, but NOT knowing WHAT, exactly . . . scares me a whole lot more.”

“You . . . have me there,” Ben reluctantly allowed, knowing all too well how easily the imagination could concoct a story a hundred times worse than the plain and simple truth. He closed his eyes for a moment, and took a deep breath. “Last night, Candy told me there was a man in town . . . a stranger, who spent three days asking folks about our family . . . YOU in particular,” he began.

Stacy frowned. “Me?!” she queried, completely taken aback.

Ben nodded.

“Why in the world would anyone be asking questions about me?”

“I don’t know right now, but one way or another I intend to find out,” Ben said.

“Is THAT why you went into town yesterday morning?”

Ben nodded. “I found out the man’s name is Zachary Hilliard,” he continued, “and that he’s from New York City.”

“Zachary Hilliard,” Stacy said the name slowly. She, then, looked up at her father and shook her head. “Never heard of him.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“He could be family, you know.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean YOUR family.”

Her frown deepened. “Are you saying he could be one of the people I was with before Silver Moon?”

Ben nodded.

“Pa, let’s get one thing straight,” she said earnestly, her intense blue eyes meeting his dark brown ones. “You, Hoss, Joe, Hop Sing, and Adam . . . even though I haven’t met him yet . . . YOU guys are my family. Before you, Silver Moon, and the tribe of her father, Chief Soaring Eagle. No one else!” Her tone of voice was firm, resolute.

“You’re not even curious?” Ben asked.

“No,” Stacy said emphatically. “They never came for me, Pa . . . after all the time the commander out at Fort Charlotte spent trying to find them . . . they NEVER came. If . . . if it hadn’t been for YOU guys, I would’ve been sent out to Ohio with that . . . that horrible monster from hell.” Her voice was shaking, and her eyes gleaming with the watery brightness of unshed tears.

Ben silently patted the space on the bed next to him, then held out his arms. Without hesitation, Stacy rose. She paused just long enough to steady herself before crossing the short distance between the easy chair and bed, where she collapsed heavily down on the edge of the bed next to her father. Ben gathered his daughter in his arms and held her close.

Stacy buried her head against his shoulder, and clung tenaciously, as if for dear life. “I . . . I won’t g-go with them, Pa,” she sobbed, angry, fearful, and grief stricken. “I . . . I WON’T. I d-don’t care what ANYONE says— ”

“It’s all right, Stacy . . . you don’t have to,” Ben said, his own voice breaking.

“I don’t?” she queried, lifting her head, so that she might look him in the face.

“No,” Ben said gently. “Mister Milburn told me that because it’s been going on five years now . . . AND because you’re fifteen going on sixteen years old, the choice would be YOURS.”

“Good!” Stacy exhaled an audible sigh of relief, as her head came to rest heavily upon her father’s shoulder once again. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I meant what I said about you guys being my family.”

“ . . . and you’d better not ever forget it, either, Young Woman,” Ben declared, as he hugged her closer. “If anyone ever comes and tries to take you away from us . . . they’ll have to go through me, your brothers, AND Hop Sing.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

“I’m . . . I’m holding you to that, Pa.”

“You’d better.” On impulse, Ben placed a kiss on the top of her head.

“I love you, Pa.”

Ben smiled. “I love you, too, Stacy. You . . . feeling a little bit better about things?”

“A LOT better, now that I know that if this Zachary Hilliard IS one of the people I was with before . . . he can’t take me away from you . . . not now . . . not ever,” Stacy said. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“This Zachary Hilliard couldn’t have had anything to do with my saddle . . . could he?” she asked with a dark, angry scowl.

“I don’t know,” Ben said gravely. “That Zachary Hilliard WAS in Virginia City asking questions at the same time someone cut the cinch strap of your saddle could very well be a coincidence.”

“But . . . you don’t believe it is, do you.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

“I can’t dismiss the possibility of a connection between your saddle and Zachary Hilliard until I know more about him,” Ben said quietly.

“How long will that be?”

“As I said earlier, I hope to have matters cleared up within the next few days,” Ben replied. “Until then . . . I need you to do me a big favor.”

“What?”

Ben took a deep breath and steeled himself for an argument. “I hope you can forgive your worried pa for being overly protective, but I don’t want you going out by yourself.”

Stacy opened her mouth to protest, but the anxious look on his face stopped her cold. “O-Ok, Pa,” she acquiesced, “of course I won’t be able to ride Blaze Face for the next few days anyway . . . ‘cause of my ankle.”

“That’s true,” Ben agreed.

“I guess I can live with that,” Stacy decided.

“Good. You ready for sleep now?”

Stacy’s reply was a nod of her head, followed by a big yawn. She placed both hands down on the bed and pushed herself from sitting to standing, wincing against the painful protest of stiff and sore muscles.

Ben leaned over and retrieved the cane, he had given her, from its place on the floor along side the easy chair. “You want me to see you down the hall?” he asked, as he handed her the cane.

“Thanks for offering, but I can manage,” she said, yawning again. “Good night, Pa.”

“Good night, Stacy. See you in the morning.”

 

“ ‘Mornin’, Sheriff,” Joe greeted Roy Coffee with a big smile, as he sauntered into the lawman’s office the following morning.

Roy looked up from the stack of wanted posters spread out across his desk, and grinned. “ ‘Mornin’ yourself, Joe.”

As he stepped in front of the sheriff’s desk, his eyes were drawn to the grim faces pictured on the wanted posters. “Ummm um! Never saw so much ugly gathered together in one place,” he murmured, shaking his head.

“They’re a hard nosed lot, that’s for dang sure,” Roy agreed. “Say! THIS one ain’t so ugly . . . . ” He picked up one of the posters in the middle and held it out to Joe.

“I . . . I don’t believe this,” Joe said with a grin. “This guy’s the spittin’ image of Eddie Jones.”

“He that drifter your pa hired ‘bout a month or so back?”

“Yeah.”

Roy took the poster back from Joe. “THIS fella’s name’s George Edwards . . . ‘n it seems he’s wanted in several other states . . . California, Texas, Arizona . . . in addition t’ Nevada.”

“That fella sure gets around. What’d he do?”

“Seems he’s some kinda killer for hire,” Roy said grimly, “he’s wanted for three murders in Texas, one in Arizona, two out in California, ‘n one more here. Got a list o’ aliases here ‘bout a mile long.”

“Eddie Jones isn’t on there . . . is he?”

Roy silently scanned the list. “Nope. There’s an Eddie George on here ‘bout mid-way down t’ list, but no Eddie Jones. Besides all that, didn’t your pa send wires to all the places your man said he worked for?”

Joe nodded. “ . . . and Eddie’s claims all checked out,” he said.

“So . . . . ” Roy said, as he gathered the wanted posters together. “What can I do for ya, Joe? I . . . don’t think ya got yourself outta bed so early just to stop by ‘n look at m’ rouges’ gallery.”

“Pa asked me to stop by and find out whether or not you’ve gotten back any replies to the wires you sent,” Joe said, his smile fading.

“Your timin’ couldn’t be better, Joe,” Roy said, as he opened the top right hand drawer of his desk. He pulled two envelopes out of the drawer, both bearing his name, neatly printed with a pencil. “George Ellis brought ‘em over from the telegraph office a couple o’ minutes ago.”

“Hot diggity!” Joe exclaimed, as he snatched the envelopes right out of the sheriff’s hand. He quickly opened the envelope on top and pulled out the single piece of paper.

“I . . . wouldn’t get your hopes up, Joe,” Roy cautioned.

“ ‘Sheriff Coffee,’ ” Joe read the first message aloud. “ ‘Regret to inform you the Pinkerton Agency employs no agent named Zachary Hilliard.’ It’s signed T. Herbert.”

“I figured they were gonna tell me that,” Roy said. “I told your pa the Pinkerton Agency ain’t in the habit o’ givin’ out the names o’ their investigators.”

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I suppose,” Joe sighed dolefully.

“I gotta friend . . . an old army buddy o’ mine,” Roy said. “He’s a retired lawman, AND he worked a few years as a Pinkerton man.”

“You think maybe he’d be willing to do some digging?” Joe asked hopefully.

“Like y’ just got through sayin’ yourself . . . nothin’ ventured, nothin’ gained,” Roy replied. “Ol’ Judd owes me a few favors, ‘n I kinda thought now’d be as good a time as any t’ call in on a couple. I’ll send that wire t’ Judd first thing.”

“Thank you, Sheriff Coffee,” Joe said gratefully. “I appreciate that very much . . . and I know Pa, Stacy, and Hoss will, too.” He stuffed the reply from the Pinkerton Agency back into its envelope, and turned his attention to the reply from New York.

“Joe . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?” Joe queried, as he lifted the flap and removed the second message.

“The reply from the New York City Police Department’s pretty much the same as the Pinkerton Agency,” Roy said with much reluctance.

Joe’s face fell. “You mean . . . they don’t know anything about Zachary Hilliard?”

“He ain’t gotta criminal record, leastwise not in New York,” Roy explained. “The police chief went on t’ say the Hilliard family’s been a pillar o’ the community for many, many years now . . . ‘n that a lotta folks in New York have high regard for ‘em.”

“Damn,” Joe angrily muttered between clenched teeth. “That puts us right back to square one.”

“Ben told me he was gonna send you ‘n Candy over t’ Carson City t’ nose around,” Roy said. He invited Joe to sit down with a broad, sweeping gesture of his arm toward the two hard backed chairs, next to the front of his desk. “You fellas turn up anything?”

“Candy and I found out Zachary Hilliard WAS there,” Joe began, as he straddled one of the chairs backwards. “He arrived in Carson City . . . . ” he fell silent for a moment to do some mental figuring, “ . . . I guess its been three days ago now. He stayed overnight at Mrs. Gerard’s boarding house and the following morning, met with a business associate of his at the Comstock Hotel. After that, he just up and disappears right into thin air.”

“Y’ checked t’ livery stables? . . . the stagecoach depot?”

“Yeah . . . we did all that,” Joe said, exasperated. “Mrs. Gerard’s housekeeper told Candy and me that Zachary Hilliard stabled his rig at Baker’s Livery. That’s the one closest to her boarding house. When we went there, we were told they had no record of a customer by the name of Zachary Hilliard.”

“What about the business associate he met with at the Comstock Hotel?”

“He registered at the Comstock as Mister Smith,” Joe replied. “The desk clerk said he checked out in the afternoon, day before yesterday. From there, he, too, disappears into thin air.”

“Seems these two fellas are goin’ t’ whole a lotta trouble t’ cover their tracks,” Roy murmured softly

“Pa said the same thing last night.”

“We know for fact that Zachary Hilliard rented a rig from Tony Grainger’s livery. That rig’s gotta be returned sometime. You check with him?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied. “Just before I came here. Tony said that Mister Hilliard’s not yet returned the rig. I . . . asked him to let you know the minute he does. I hope that was alright . . . . ”

Roy nodded. “Might be better if I follow up with Zachary Hilliard instead o’ you or your pa,” he said quietly.

“I was wondering if you might see your way clear to sending a wire to the sheriff over in Carson City,” Joe said. “Pa was thinking that Zachary Hilliard might have used another livery instead of Baker’s. He also thought the two of ‘em . . . Zachary Hilliard AND Mister Smith . . . may have actually stayed on in Carson City.”

Roy nodded. “It’s possible. I’ll send Amos a wire, ‘n ask him t’ nose around a li’l,” he promised. Amos Dudley was the sheriff over in Carson City, and numbered among Roy Coffee’s oldest and closest friends.

Joe rose to his feet. “Thanks again,” he said, as the sheriff also rose.

“I’ll letcha know what Judd ‘n Amos hafta say, the minute I hear,” Roy promised as they walked across the room toward the door.

“Have you been able to find out anything more about Stacy’s saddle cinch being cut?” Joe asked.

“I got a list with the names o’ the men workin’ in the corral that day,” Roy replied, “about a dozen in all. Your pa got ‘em from Hoss. I’ve questioned all but three of ‘em— ”

“ . . . and?” Joe pressed.

“They were just as surprised as you folks no doubt were, when y’ found out that cinch’d been cut deliberate,” Roy said.

“Which three haven’t you had a chance to question?”

“Tom Parsons . . . Mark O’Connor . . . ‘n Eddie Jones,” Roy rattled the names right off the top of his head. “If it’s alright with your pa, I’d like t’ come out this afternoon ‘n talk to ‘em.”

“Eddie left this morning with Dan Eberhardt and Arch Campbell to repair the fence around the northwestern side of our winter pasture,” Joe said slowly. “All the wind and rain we had last month knocked that whole section down.”

“How soon y’ expect Eddie back?”

“Three days . . . four, maybe five at the very outside,” Joe replied. “I know Pa won’t mind one bit if you come out today to question the other two men.” He smiled. “In fact . . . you COULD come out LATE this afternoon, and stay for supper.”

“Thank you, Joe. I just might take y’ up on that . . . . ”

 

“ . . . Hop Sing, that was without a doubt the best meal I’ve had in a long time,” Roy Coffee declared with a contented smile, as he gently patted his full stomach. “Glad t’ see you ain’t lost your touch.”

“Thank you, thank you very much,” Hop Sing said, grinning from ear to ear. “Now go in living room, sit down. Hop Sing clear table, then bring coffee.”

“Anything to keep you in a good mood,” Ben said, rising from his place at the head of the table.

“Shoo,” Hop Sing quipped, as he set himself to the task of clearing the table.

“Hey, Hoss . . . how about a game of checkers?” Stacy asked, as she fell in step along side the biggest of her three brothers.

“Hmpf!” Joe snorted in mock indignation. “You only wanna play him because you can’t beat me with a stick.”

“Fat lot YOU know, Grandpa,” Stacy retorted, without missing a beat. “The real reason I wanna play with Hoss is . . . HE doesn’t cheat.”

“I do NOT cheat,” Joe declared, favoring his young sister with the most ferocious scowl he could possibly summon. The mischief sparking in his hazel eyes wasn’t lost on Hoss or Stacy.

“Yeah, WE know, Li’l Brother,” Hoss chortled. “You don’t cheat . . . y’ just get real creative with the rules.”

“ . . . and don’t either one of you ever forget it,” Joe returned.

Roy turned and graciously offered his arm to the Cartwrights’ houseguest. “Miss McKenna, it’s good seein’ you again,” he said in a tone of voice that was polite, yet cool.

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Paris replied, accepting the proffered arm. “It’s good seeing you, too. I trust you’ve been keeping yourself well?”

“Can’t complain.” It was on the tip of Roy’s tongue to inquire after Paris’ well being. He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again, upon remembering her delicate state of health.

“Apart from that terrible storm the first night I came . . . the weather’s been quite lovely,” Paris observed, after an interminably long moment of strained silence.

“Yes ’m,” Roy grunted, as he led her over to the blue chair next to the fireplace.

Joe leaned over and fished the footstool out from under the chair. “Here y’ are, Miss Paris,” he said quietly, as she half collapsed into the chair. “Something to prop up your feet.”

“Thank you,” she replied, lifting up one slippered foot, then the other.

“Can I get you a cushion?”

Paris shook her head. “I’m fine, Joe . . . thank you.”

Satisfied that he had left Paris in capable hands, Roy glanced up, making eye contact with the Cartwright clan patriarch. Ben nodded.

“Joe . . . Miss McKenna . . . I hope you’ll both excuse me,” Roy said, looking from one to the other, inwardly relieved to be free of Paris’ company, if only for a little while. He remembered how devastated Ben was . . . how devastated Hoss and Joe were, too, after she had up and left so suddenly, without a word, without so much as leaving a note to say good-bye. He had never forgiven her for that, nor did he expect he ever would. However, the intense anger he still felt toward her alarmed and surprised him.

“You’re excused, Sheriff Coffee,” Joe said, noting that his father had turned and started toward the front door. He silently hoped and prayed that the sheriff might have some news to impart.

Roy Coffee silently followed Ben out onto the front porch, closing the door behind him. “How’s Stacy doin’ with that sprained ankle?” he asked, as the two of them walked across the yard toward the corral fence next to the barn.

“Much better,” Ben replied. “The swelling’s gone down quite a bit, though she’s still walking with a slight limp. Roy . . . . ”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“Joe said you wanted to talk with Tom Parsons and Mark O’Connor.”

“ . . . ‘n Eddie Jones, too, when HE gets back,” Roy replied.

“Did you—?!”

Roy nodded. “I talked to Tom ‘n Mark. Both of ‘em denied havin’ anything t’ do with cuttin’ the cinch strap on Stacy’s saddle,” he reported. “They claimed they was over in t’ other corral, workin’ with Hank Carlson ‘n Dan Eberhardt. Since Hoss backed ‘em up, I’m inclined t’ believe ‘em . . . leastwise for now.”

A strained silence fell over both of them, as they stepped up to the corral fence.

“Sorry I can’t give ya anything more definite, Ben,” Roy murmured contritely.

“You needn’t apologize,” Ben said quietly. “I know you’re doing your best. It’s just that I was hoping to . . . well, if not have matters completely resolved, then to at least know more about this Zachary Hilliard and . . . whoever it was that cut the cinch on Stacy’s saddle.”

“Joe told me he asked Tony Grainger t’ let me know when this Hilliard fella returns the rig he borrowed a few days ago,” Roy said. “I’ve asked the owners o’ the other liveries in town t’ do the same thing, and Clem’s been checkin’ with Hiram Peabody every day, t’ see if anyone, answerin’ t’ the description Mrs. Braun gave o’ Zachary Hilliard, has come in on the stage.”

Ben nodded.

“I also sent that wire t’ Amos over in Carson City, too, Ben,” Roy continued. “He wired back ‘n told me he’d nose around . . . ask questions. I’m hopin’ to hear somethin’ back from him in t’ next couple o’ days.”

“ . . . and Joe told me that you’d wired another friend of yours and asked HIM to see if he could squeeze any information out of the Pinkerton Agency.”

“Yep.” Roy nodded his head.

“Sounds like you’ve got everything pretty much covered,” Ben sighed. “I just hope and pray something useful turns up in the next couple of days. I . . . told Stacy that I didn’t want her going out by herself until I knew more.”

“I was just gettin’ ready t’ suggest y’ do that . . . for her own protection,” Roy said. “I know that li’l gal’s well able t’ look after herself, most o’ the time. You, Hoss, ‘n Joe’ve all seen t’ that. While she can like as not give a good account o’ herself against any critter out there, who tried t’ make a meal of her . . . those TWO legged critters . . . when THEY’RE hell-bent on doin’ a body harm, they can be a lot more wily than the FOUR legged ones, if y’ get my meanin’.”

“I do indeed,” Ben replied, “and so far Stacy’s been content to abide by my restrictions the few days her ankle’s kept her out of action. However, now that she’s feeling and doing much better— ”

“She’s gonna be chompin’ at the bit t’ be out ‘n about.”

Again, Ben nodded. “Especially with the school being closed due to the teacher being ill,” he added. “Any word yet as to when classes will resume?”

“ ‘Fraid not, Ben . . . but don’t you worry none. With all the irons we still got in the fire, I’m sure somethin’ will turn up in the next couple o’ days,” Roy said with confidence. “In the meantime, you tell that li’l gal o’ yours t’ sit tight, ‘n be patient.”

“I will, Roy,” Ben murmured softly, knowing all too horribly well, that such was far easier said than done.

 

The woman was tall and slender, clad in darkness, her face veiled with thick impenetrable shadow. She looked away, terrified by the thought of seeing the woman’s face, or worst of all, her eyes. The woman called to her. She heard the urgency and fear in the woman’s voice. For the first time, she realized that the woman called her by another name. Though the name was not her name, or a name known to her, it’s sound, the flow of consonants and vowels into their own unique patterns of syllables, terrified her.

Stacy woke up suddenly, the remnants of a scream dying in her throat before it could issue forth. For a time, she just laid there, unmoving, with no idea as to where she was or how she had come to be there. Somewhere, off in the far distance, she heard a door close, then footsteps . . . .

“My room!” she gasped, unaware that she spoke aloud. “Dream . . . . ” She pulled her quilt up around her, shivering violently in spite of the warmth of late spring that had begun, even at this early hour, to fill her bedroom. She closed her eyes, and tried to focus on her breathing. In, out, deep, even breaths. Even with her eyelids squeezed shut, she felt the walls of the room closing in on her.

Stacy opened her eyes, and glanced at the clock, hanging on the wall next to her door. The time was a few minutes before six, plenty of time, she realized to get in a short ride on Blaze Face before breakfast. She threw aside the covers with a strength born of a desperate need to escape the claustrophobic confines of her bedroom and the house. She quickly dressed and made her way downstairs.

“Good morning,” Ben greeted her from behind his desk in the area set aside as his study, clad in nightshirt, robe, and slippers. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

He had woken up hours ago, while it was yet dark. After spending the better part of an hour restlessly tossing and turning, he had finally thrown aside his bed covers in disgust. “Maybe now’d be a good time t’ at least start reading over that lumber contract,” he mumbled very softly, under his breath, as he hauled himself up out of bed, and groped in the darkness for his robe . . . .

He had spent the better part of the last hour and a half reading and re-reading that first paragraph until the words blurred to an indecipherable mass of consonants, vowels, and punctuation, devoid of any and all meaning. The tedious process of trying to make some sense of the all too precise legal wording of the document coupled with his increasing concern about Stacy’s safety left him feeling mentally drained and on edge physically. He set the papers on the desk in front of him and massaged his temples against the beginnings of a rip-roaring headache.

Startled by the sound of her father’s voice and his presence, combined with the fear and claustrophobia left in the wake of her dream, Stacy nearly jumped right out of her skin.

Ben rose, an anxious frown knotting his brow. “Stacy, are you alright?”

She swallowed, and took a deep, ragged breath. “I . . . I will be, Pa,” she replied, her voice shaking. “I just need to get out in the open for a little while. There’s enough time for Blaze Face and me to take a short ride before breakfast— ”

“Stacy . . . the night before last, you promised me you wouldn’t go out by yourself until we could resolve this matter concerning Zachary Hilliard,” Ben said. “Remember?”

In her fright and panic, she had completely forgotten. “Pa, can you come with me?”

“Now?!”

Stacy vigorously nodded her head.

“I’m not even dressed,” Ben pointed out the obvious in a reasonable tone of voice.

“Please? It wouldn’t take you long to— ”

“Even if I went up now, by the time I finished getting washed and dressed, it would be almost time for breakfast,” Ben protested. “Tell you what! AFTER breakfast, we can saddle up, and— ”

“Pa, I can’t wait that long!” Stacy wailed. “If I stay in this house another minute I . . . I swear . . . I’m gonna run mad!”

“Stacy— ”

“What?” she rounded on him furiously.

“I think you’d better go up to your room and stay there until you calm down,” Ben said firmly.

“Pa . . . . ”

“Now.”

Stacy exhaled an audible sigh of anger and frustration, before turning heel and fleeing to the upper environs of the house. Her loud angry footfalls echoed through the house, culminating with the slamming shut of her bedroom door.

Ben picked up the document, and tried again to read it. Within less than five minutes, he threw it back down on the desk again in angry frustration. “Might as well get dressed,” he sighed, rising.

“Good morning, Ben,” Paris greeted him in the hallway, an hour later, after he had dressed and shaved.

“Good morning, Paris.” He was pleased to see that not only was she up and about, but for the first time since her arrival she had gotten dressed. Her clothing bagged loosely on her thin, emaciated frame, but Hop Sing’s good cooking would solve that problem in short order. “You’re looking very well today. How are you feeling?”

“You lie through your teeth, Ben Cartwright,” Paris returned playfully. “Truth be known, I probably look like I’ve been tied to the underside of a stagecoach and dragged the entire length and breadth of Virginia City a hundred times over. I AM feeling much better, however . . . . ” She fell silent for a moment. “Ben?”

“Yes, Paris?”

“I’m so glad you insisted on my coming to the Ponderosa.”

“My pleasure,” Ben said sincerely. Their passage toward the stairs took them past the closed door to Stacy’s room. “Paris, can you make it downstairs on your own?”

“Yes, I can,” she replied.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” he said. “There’s somebody I have to talk to.”

“Sure, Ben,” Paris said, remembering the footsteps earlier that sounded for all the world like a cattle stampede, and the slamming door. “See you downstairs.”

Ben turned his attention to the fast closed door. He took a deep breath, and knocked. “Stacy, it’s Pa.”

“Come in,” a small, contrite voice invited from within.

Ben opened the door and walked in. Stacy stood before the window with her back to the door, head bowed and arms folded across her chest. Ben crossed the room and took his place beside her. “I’m sorry I took your head off earlier,” he said quietly, placing his arm around her shoulders. “Reading legal documents always leaves me a feeling little irritable. I had no right to take it out on you.”

“I’m sorry, too, Pa,” Stacy said, her voice unsteady.

Ben saw a single stray tear slip over her eyelid and roll down her cheek. “If you’d like, the offer is still open to go for a ride after breakfast,” he said, handing her a handkerchief.

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy said, accepting the proffered handkerchief and olive branch. “I’d like that very much.”

“It’s settled,” Ben said. “Breakfast should be ready in a few minutes . . . . ”

“I’ll be right down.”

“I’ll see you in a few minutes downstairs in the dining room,” he said, then left her alone, satisfied that all was right between them, at least for the time being. “It’s been . . . what? Three days now? . . . and she’s already chomping at the bit,” Ben mused in uneasy silence. “I sure hope Roy turns up something soon . . . . ”

 

“The kid and her pa just came out of the house, Sarge. Looks like they’re headed for the barn,” Alexander Deveraux observed in a smooth, oily tone, as he lowered the telescope in hand. He was a short, portly man, with a full head of black hair slicked back with an overabundance of hair cream. His round, flabby face and eyelids almost overwhelmed his black, piercing eyes, lending him a look of stupidity. He had served in the U.S. Army during what many referred to as the War Between the States, rising to the rank of corporal. In the years since, he had become an aimless drifter, with a voracious appetite for rotgut whiskey, games of chance, and women of dubious reputation, in that order. “I have a clear shot at the girl. All YOU have to do is . . . give the word.”

“Put away your weapon, Corporal. Now!” Jeff Collier, the man addressed as Sarge, curtly rebuked his companion. “First of all, our position is too far distant— ”

“No, it ain’t,” Alexander rudely cut the sergeant off mid-sentence. “With my rifle— ”

“Rifle or no, it’s still too risky from our position,” Jeff countered, sparing no effort to conceal his growing annoyance with the corporal, “ . . . and even if it WASN’T too risky, we’ve been given new orders. The captain doesn’t want her killed. Not yet. He wants us to continue our surveillance of the Cartwright family, especially the girl, and take note of their comings and goings. That is ALL!”

“We’ve been out here . . . for what’s gotta be going on close to a whole solid month . . . doing nothing BUT watch the damned Cartwright family,” Alexander groused through clenched teeth.

“Two weeks and three days,” one of the younger men within their circle said in a clear, crisp tone of voice. His name was Seth Harris. He was tall, with chest and shoulders broad and well muscled, that tapered down to a trim, narrow waist. His hair, according to his indulgent mother, was the color of wild buttercups and liquid sunshine. He had cut his once thick, wavy locks, down to the nubs the day he enlisted in Mister Lincoln’s army that he might do his part in the fight to preserve the union, and had maintained it thus, ever since. His father had rather sardonically remarked that his shorn hair reminded him of a grassy pasture, after a flock of sheep had finished grazing. His mother was grief stricken.

“Two weeks ‘n three days . . . two days ‘n three hours?! Who the hell cares?!” Alexander groused. “Still SEEMS like a blamed month o’ Sundays, when a body’s been sleeping on the cold, hard, sometimes WET ground . . . sweltering under a hot sun all day . . . freezin’ his butt off all night . . . livin’ on nothin’ but cold beans, beef jerky, ‘n water so we can watch the Cartwrights doin’ the same ol’ things day after day after day . . . . ” An exasperated sigh exploded from between his lips, thinned with anger. “I’m beginnin’ t’ have a whole lotta second thoughts about my joining up with this . . . this damned chicken outfit . . . . ”

“You may entertain all the second thoughts you want, Corporal Deveraux,” Jeff Collier countered in a low, menacing tone, “just so long as you DON’T think about deserting.”

Alexander unconsciously stepped back, and raised his arms to shield his face against the cold, angry glare on the sergeant’s face, and the hard glint of cold steel in his eyes.

“No one leaves until our mission is complete.”

Alexander reluctantly placed his rifle aside, leaning it up against the boulder behind him, just to his right. “All right, Sergeant Collier . . . how much longer are we supposed to remain here, watching the Cartwrights?”

“Until we’re told otherwise,” Jeff replied.

“ . . . and who’s the idiot that changed the orders?” he groused.

“The captain,” Jeff snapped, his scowl deepening.

Alexander blanched. “S-Sorry . . . I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“I’ll let it pass THIS time, Corporal,” Jeff said in a voice, stone cold. “In the future, however, I would strongly advise you to give thought to your words before you speak them.”

“Yes, Sir,” Alexander murmured. “Would it be outta line for me to ask why?”

“Why . . . what?” Jeff demanded.

“Why the captain changed our orders.”

“He has his reasons,” Jeff said curtly. “We’ll know what they are when and IF we need to know.”

Alexander lapsed into a sullen silence.

Jeff cast a look of disgust at his companion, then returned to his vigil, just in time to see Stacy and Ben walk out of the barn, leading their saddled horses. His thoughts drifted back to the war and the battle at Antietam Creek.

It was during the attack on the bridge, that would be known in later years as Burnsides’ Bridge, he was severely wounded, and left for dead among the dead. The attack began during the late afternoon, early evening hours of September 17, 1862. He was among the men ordered to cross and hold that bridge. The bridge was taken, but with heavy losses. Five hundred Confederates held out against nine thousand Union soldiers. They pressed forward with their attack, pushing Longstreet’s men back towards the town of Sharpsburg, Maryland. They had General Lee and his men boxed in and on the run. Had it not been for the arrival of General A. P. Hill and his men from Harper’s Ferry, AND General McClellen’s refusal to send in reinforcements, the Army of Northern Virginia would not have lived to fight another day, let alone the next two years.

The day, that might have gone down in the history books as the day the Army of Northern Virginia was crushed and the back of the Confederacy broken, instead became known as the single, bloodiest day of fighting during the course of the American Civil War. All because, for whatever reason, General McClellen refused to send in reinforcements at two critical junctures, one of them being the battle at the bridge, where Jeff Collier was wounded and almost certainly would have died along with so many others, had it not been for one John McKenna.

During the night, his commanding officer, then Lieutenant John McKenna, returned for him and carried him back to safety. McKenna was given a field promotion to captain for that act of foolhardy bravery. Furthermore, McKenna saw to it that he received the medical attention he needed. He, as a small way towards repaying the debt he owed the captain, had privately vowed his undying loyalty.

The sergeant intended to honor that vow, no matter how distasteful he might find doing so personally. The thought of killing a young woman in cold blood . . . a young woman not much more than a child, a little older perhaps than his eldest daughter, Annabelle . . . left a bitter, rancid taste in his mouth. The captain’s obsession with the girl’s demise was very troubling to say the least, but his was not to question. His duty was to obey, and trust that the captain had valid reasons for his actions. While there was no question in his own mind that he would carry out any orders issued him, he still found a measure of guilty relief in the change.

 

Father and daughter stood side by side, holding the reins of their horses atop a rocky promontory overlooking a panoramic vista of lake, field, and the pine trees for which Ben Cartwright had named their home. Overhead, the sky was clear, and in the distance they could see the mountains. Adam Cartwright had named this place Ponderosa Plunge the first time Ben brought him here, more years ago now than he cared to contemplate. From that time on, this spot had become Adam’s special place, as it had been a place where he and Marie enjoyed visiting together. Now, Ponderosa Plunge had become one of several favorite places for his daughter.

“Well, Stacy? Is this enough open space for you?” Ben asked, gesturing to the view below them.

“Yes hardly seems adequate,” Stacy replied. “ ‘O God, how excellent is Your Name in all the Earth . . . when I consider Your Heavens, the work of Your Fingers, the Moon and Stars which You have ordained, what is man . . . or woman . . . that You are mindful of them, or their sons and daughters that You visit them?’ [8] ”

“Taken from Psalm Eight,” Ben said, pleasantly surprised. Though he and Stacy occasionally sat down with the enormous, ancient family Bible that had been handed down for many generations on his mother’s side of the family, he had no idea that she had done any reading on her own.

“I stand here this day
With Earth, My Mother and Sky, My Father;
With the Moon and Sun,
My Grandmother and My Grandfather;
With My Aunts and Uncles,
The Winds, and Rains,
The Snows, and Storms;
With My Sisters and Brothers,
ALL that live, breathe, and have being
Upon Earth, Our Mother,
Under Sky, Our Father.

I stand here this day
Before My Ancestors, who came before me,
And My Descendants, who will come after me,
Shining down upon me
As Stars in the night sky.

I stand here this day
In the very center of my life;
With Earth and Sky,
With Sun and Moon,
With the Wind, Water, and Fire;
With all the plants and animals;
Between my Ancestors and Descendants;
Where North and South,
East and West together meet.

O Great Spirit,
Mother . . . Father . . . Lover . . . .
And Creator of all that is,
Help me to remember
That I am but a single strand
Of the Great Web of Life.”

“Pa, that’s beautiful!” Stacy exclaimed with delight. “Paiute?”

Ben nodded. “Chief Red Hawk, an old friend, taught me that prayer many years ago,” he said. “Interesting how the psalm and the prayer inspire awe in the beauty of nature . . . and put us humans in our place at the same time.”

Both lapsed into companionable silence as they stood contemplating a breathtaking vista they would over the course of their lifetimes always return to again and again.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I hope and pray we humans don’t ever forget our place,” Stacy said soberly.

“Me, too,” Ben agreed. He turned and studied her for a moment. “Is everything . . . all right?” he ventured hesitantly.

“It is now, Pa,” Stacy replied.

For a quick, fleeting moment, Ben sensed that she held back on him. His mind replayed their initial argument earlier, and he realized for the first time that something had to have upset her, more than likely another dream. In the next instant, he realized with a pang of regret that he had never even asked.

“Really, Pa, I’m ok now,” she said again, looking over at him quizzically. “Sometimes when I feel like things are closing in on me, I just need to get outside in the open, you know . . . to put things in perspective.”

“Yes, I know,” Ben agreed, astonished at how she could sometimes read him so easily. He accepted her explanation at face value, realizing that he needed to allow her time and space to work things through on her own.

By unspoken agreement, they turned from the edge and began walking back toward their horses. “Can we stop by the corral?” Stacy asked. “I’d love to see that new golden stallion that just came in off the range.”

“How’s the ankle?” Ben asked, as he prepared to climb onto Buck’s back.

“Fine,” Stacy said quickly.

“Let me see you walk a few steps,” he said.

Stacy shrugged and complied. “See, Pa? All better!”

“MUCH better, perhaps . . . ALL better, no,” Ben observed wryly.

Stacy’s face fell.

“However, I think you ARE doing well enough to begin working out with that stallion,” Ben continued. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You can start as soon as we reach the corral, if your brothers have no objections.”

“Thanks, Pa,” Stacy said, as she climbed up onto the back of her own mount. “Let’s go.”

 

“Ben! You’re back!” Paris exclaimed, mildly surprised and thoroughly delighted, as he entered through the front door, with hat in hand. She stood over behind the desk, perusing the titles making up Ben’s personal library. The massive grandfather clock had just struck the quarter hour before eleven. “How was your ride out to Ponderosa Plunge?”

“Stacy and I enjoyed it very much. I think it did both of us a world of good to just take the morning and ride out to someplace beautiful,” Ben replied, as he placed his hat on one of the pegs beside the door, then set himself to the task of removing his gun belt.

“Where’s Stacy now?”

“I left her with Hoss and Joe at the horse corral.”

An anxious frown deepened the lines and furrows already indelibly etched into the plain of her brow. “Will she be alright?”

Ben nodded. “Her brothers and Candy will look after her.”

“Tea and cookies for Mister Cartwright and Miss Paris,” Hop Sing blithely announced, as he ambled into the great room bearing the silver tea service, with two cups and saucers, and a small plate with a half dozen sugar cookies, “fresh and hot just out of oven. Help put meat on Miss Paris’ bones.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing,” Paris said with a smile.

“Read later, Missy,” Hop Sing admonished, as set the tray down on the coffee table. “Come. Eat. You, too, Mister Cartwright. Come. Eat now, while still hot.”

“Well, I, for one am NOT going to turn down cookies, fresh and hot, right out of the oven,” Paris declared, as she moved out from behind the desk.

Ben placed his gun belt on the credenza, then walked over and offered Paris his arm.

“Thank you,” Paris murmured softly, as she slipped her small hand through the crook of his elbow. Her heart pounded with excitement and a healthy dose of trepidation, when he reached over and covered her hand with his own, and gently squeezed.

Ben gallantly steered her over in the direction of the settee, and gestured for her to sit down. Paris nodded, then seated herself primly square in the middle of the settee.

“Tea?” Ben queried, as he sat down close beside her.

“Yes, I— ” Paris, much to her chagrin, felt the hot rush of blood to her cheeks, upon hearing the nervous squeak in her voice. She took a deep ragged breath, and cleared her throat. “Thank you, Ben. I’d love some,” she replied, her voice husky, and at least two whole octaves lower.

An amused smile tugged hard at the corner of Ben’s mouth, as he poured each of them a cup of tea. “Earl Gray,” he remarked, handing her a cup and saucer.

Paris kept her eyes pointedly focused on the tea within her cup. “S-So nice of Hop Sing to remember after . . . after all these years,” she marveled.

“Cookie?” Ben asked, as he lifted the plate of cookies from the silver tea tray and held them out.

“Thank you.” Paris took a sip from her cup, then set it and saucer down on the coffee table.

“Paris?” Ben queried with an anxious frown. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, Ben. Honest. I’m just fine, really and truly,” she babbled, as she reached for one cookie, then another. She set one of the cookies down on her saucer, and took a big bite from the one in hand. “Wonderful cookies! Absolutely wonderful! Ben, you’d better grab your share quick, before I . . . before I devour the entire plateful.”

Ben laughed. “Go ahead. You’d make Hop Sing the happiest man on Earth.”

“Anything to make Hop Sing happy . . . . ” Paris murmured softly. As she sat drinking her tea, and making very short work of Hop Sing’s sugar cookies, memories of another time, long ago, when she and Ben Cartwright found themselves alone in this house together rose, unbidden. She again felt the sudden rush of blood to her cheeks.

“Paris?”

“Y-Yes, Ben?”

“A penny for your thoughts.”

“Why do I have the distinct feeling that you already know what my thoughts are?” Paris demanded. Though she turned and looked him in the face, her eyes fell just short of meeting his.

“Probably because I’m remembering that other time, too.”

Paris immediately averted her eyes to her lap. “Oh, Ben, we shouldn’t.”

“Is that what you want?”

Paris exhaled a loud sigh of exasperation, then turned and, this time, boldly met his dark eyes with her intense blue ones. “You know damned well that ISN’T what I want, Ben Cartwright. I’m . . . I’m trying to be sensible, that’s all.”

“I’m not so sure I want to be sensible, Paris,” he said gently, with all sincerity.

“If we had the common sense God gave a horse’s arse, we WOULD be sensible,” she snapped. “It’s been sixteen years, Ben . . . almost seventeen. That’s almost . . . . ” Her short burst of temper dissipated, leaving sadness, and a multitude of bitter regrets. “Almost seventeen years . . . that’s nearly half my life,” she said wistfully.

“Paris, what matters is the years that lie ahead,” Ben said, as he took the cup and saucer from her hands and placed it down on the coffee table, “not the years gone by . . . . ”

“You’re wrong, Ben,” she said, her voice breaking. “Those years DO matter . . . they m-matter a great deal. So much has happened, I . . . I can’t ever go back to being the wide-eyed innocent young girl I was then— ”

“I don’t expect you to,” Ben said, taking both of her hands in his own. “I . . . suspect . . . you’ve traveled a good deal, you’ve met a lot of people, and have been involved in different lines of work.

“Although I’ve remained here . . . on the Ponderosa, I’ve seen my eldest leave to make his own place in the world,” Ben continued. “He’s since married a lovely woman, and settled down with her and their two children. I find myself traveling to Sacramento a lot more often and staying longer.

“ . . . I’ve seen my younger boys, Hoss and Joe, grow and mature into men, I’m not only very proud to call my sons, but men I’ve come to trust and respect as my peers, as well. I’ve also adopted a daughter . . . seen her, and my sons through a lot of ups and downs . . . and I’ve learned a lot of hard lessons myself in the process. Neither one of us are the same people we were seventeen years ago, Paris.”

“N-No . . . I d-don’t suppose we are . . . . ”

“Tell you what,” Ben said, as he placed his arm around her shoulders. “How about the two of us taking things slowly? Just let unfold whatever is going to unfold at its own pace and time. Would you be willing to do that?”

Her mind raced. She wanted so much to say yes, but . . . dear God, if he EVER found out about Rose Miranda, he would despise her. A week ago, it wouldn’t have mattered, but now . . . after having spent the last few days here, falling in love with him all over again despite her best intentions . . . .

“I can’t bear the thought of him hating me, I can’t,” she lamented in silent misery.

“How CAN he find out about Rose Miranda?” a small, strident voice deep within asserted itself. “Your brother’s hardly likely to show up here on Ben Cartwright’s doorstep . . . and all the others who know about Rose Miranda are dead.”

Dared she hope?

“Ben?” she said aloud.

“Yes, Paris?”

“I . . . I AM willing to . . . to let be . . . and let happen whatever is MEANT to happen,” Paris said.

 

“I’m a soldier gol’ dammit, a SOLDIER!” Alexander Deveraux angrily groused under his breath. “I fought in the trenches right along side the best of ‘em. I killed MORE ‘n my share o’ Rebs . . . and what’ve they got me doing?! Playing messenger boy!”

Ok, so he had fallen asleep while on watch five days ago . . . but that was hardly his fault. Sergeant Collier was the one who had ordered him to go into town and lay in some fresh food and other supplies. While he was in the general store, trying to settle up with the crabby proprietress, he bumped into his brother-in-law, Noah Brown. Noah invited him over to the Silver Dollar Saloon for a beer and a chat . . . well, suffice it to say, it would have been very rude to refuse. He had accepted his brother-in-law’s invitation, intending to have one beer, maybe two . . . but no more!

That first beer had almost immediately led to the second when one of the locals sauntered in, bold as brass, and bought a round drinks for the house. He had no sooner finished that beer, when Noah insisted on buying him a third. In the interest of good manners, he had accepted, then bought a drink for Noah in return. Instead of beer, his brother-in-law ordered a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. In the further interest of good manners, he had accepted the second glass. He couldn’t just sit there, like a lump, and let Noah drink alone . . . .

After all . . . it was the first time he and his brother-in-law had laid eyes on each other in fifteen years. Surely THAT was worthy of a celebration . . . .

Wasn’t it?

Alexander remembered the two of them polishing off that bottle of whiskey in very short order. He and Noah had another beer after that, then another. The rest of the night was lost in a hazy, drunken blur. He was found in the livery stable by Lieutenant Hilliard and that snotty little upstart, who had served at the unit’s drummer boy, sprawled on top of a mound of straw, “snorin’ louder, ‘n more obnoxious than a thousand head o’ cattle, stuffed up with head colds . . . all lowin’ at the same time,” according to that mean ol’ coot, a little squint of a man by the name of Lafe. [9]

He had tried to explain, but they wouldn’t listen . . . and THAT rankled!

Still ‘n all, Alexander Deveraux was a soldier, and a good one. As such, he was prepared to take his punishment, no matter how unjust and unfair it may be. Lieutenant Hilliard, however, had opted to make an example of Sergeant Collier instead, as a “harsh, but necessary object lesson.” After all, a leader is responsible for his subordinates. The sentence was fifty lashes from the lieutenant’s riding crop against the tender skin of the sergeant’s back. Sarge had borne it all in his usual stoic way, but afterwards, it seemed all the men in their unit hated him with a passion.

“ . . . ain’t MY fault the lieutenant ordered Sarge to take my punishment,” Alexander muttered under his breath, as he dismounted from his horse, and tethered its lead to the hitching post on the street in front of Fuhrman’s Lumber and Hardware . . . “six long blocks from where I’m s’posed to be.”

He had served under Captain John McKenna for the duration of the war. Though he admired and respected the captain for his ability, bravery, leadership, and tactical prowess, he had disagreed completely with his high notions of chivalry and honor. Now, as far as the Cartwright girl was concerned, it looked as though the captain had decided to do away with all those snooty, inconvenient, high fa-lootin’ ideals . . . and that suited Alexander Deveraux just fine.

He turned and gazed over at the Silver Dollar Saloon, directly across the street from the hardware store, contemplating. A glance at his pocket watch told him the time was six minutes before the hour of eight o’clock. His meeting with the lieutenant was scheduled for five minutes after eight, leaving him a total of eleven minutes to kill.

Alexander gazed longingly at the Silver Dollar, trying to determine whether or not he had time to run in for a quick beer. In the end, he discarded the idea. The lieutenant had issued strict orders, forbidding him to imbibe so much as “a single drop of beer, whiskey, or other ‘spirited’ drinks.”

“Is the lieutenant here?” an inner voice, sounding too close to that of his late, unlamented step-father, chided him derisively.

“No . . . . ”

“Then, who’s to know?”

“The lieutenant. He has his ways . . . and sooner or later, he’d find out. He always does.”

Alexander sighed, wondering again for the umpteenth time why he had agreed to sign on with this rag-tag chicken outfit. He hadn’t eaten a decent meal in . . . he couldn’t remember when, and though the sergeant was a decent enough cook, meal after meal after meal of beans and beef jerky for days on end, had worn thin a long time ago.

“Can’t eat . . . can’t even sit down ‘n have a lousy mug of beer . . . so help me, when this mission’s done, I’m gonna go to a real posh restaurant somewhere and order me the biggest steak they got, and a bottle of their finest champagne to wash it down,” Alexander groused, as he made his way down the street toward the Bucket of Blood Saloon.

Upon reaching his destination, Alexander stepped up to the door and peered inside. His beady, pig-like eyes moved along the line of tables up against the back wall. The object of his search had obviously arrived early, and now sat alone at the table in the corner furthest from the bar, half hidden in deep shadow. He discreetly made his way through the sparsely populated saloon toward his quarry, grateful now that he hadn’t given in to the temptation of stopping by the Silver Dollar first.

A moment later, Alexander Deveraux stood at rigid attention before the table, occupied by the man he had come to meet. “Lieutenant Hilliard,” he said stiffly, taking care to keep his voice low, “Corporal Deveraux reporting as ordered.”

The grizzled, gray haired man, seated at the table, glanced up sharply. He wore a pair of ragged flannel slacks, and a white linen shirt yellowed in the front due to age and countless exposures to the sun. “My NAME is Bill Taylor,” he said tersely, through clenched teeth, while leveling a deadly withering glare at the man standing before him. “Remember?”

“Yes, Sir,” Alexander managed politely, all the while silently bristling against the reprimand.

“At ease, Mister Deveraux, sit down,” Zachary Hilliard ordered. His eyes darted furtively over the room and the small handful of patrons. “Report.”

“The girl’s kept to the house for the last three days or so,” Alexander began.

“Why?” Zachary snapped out the question.

For a moment, Alexander stared over at Zachary with a bewildered frown.

“WHY has the Cartwright girl kept close to the house?” Zachary asked again, taking no pains to conceal impatience.

Alexander shrugged with an air of supreme indifference. “How should I know?!”

“Find out.”

“Why?”

“I gave you a direct order, Mister Deveraux,” Zachary said in a tight, angry voice. “You WILL find out why the Cartwright girl has kept to the house for the past three days.”

“I don’t see what difference it makes— ”

“It might make a big difference if she’s keeping to the house because of that botched attempt YOUR man made on her life,” Zachary replied in a wry, sardonic tone.

“I don’t see how,” Alexander whined.

“That girl may be keeping close to the house because her father’s suspicions have been aroused,” Zachary explained, in the same condescending tone of voice he might use to explain a difficult concept to a very dull witted child. “That would mean our mission has been compromised. At worst, we may end up having to abort the mission entirely. Should THAT come to pass, Mister Deveraux, I will personally turn you over to the captain’s tender mercies to answer for it. Do I make myself clear?”

Alexander blanched, and nodded his head vigorously.

“ . . . and since we’re on the subject of your man’s botched attempt on the Cartwright girl’s life,” Zachary continued, “it rudely came to my attention last night that you left a loose end dangling.”

“Loose end?!” Alexander echoed, whining. “WHAT loose end?”

“Your man himself,” Zachary replied. “I believe he calls himself Eddie Jones . . . among others?”

“What about him?”

“Mister Jones paid a visit to my lodging last night, Mister Deveraux,” Zachary replied. “That incompetent simpleton actually had the audacity to blackmail me.”

“What?!”

“You heard me. He told me straight out that if I didn’t pay him ten thousand dollars in cash by tomorrow tonight, he would go straight to the sheriff.”

“Damn!”

“You will tie up that loose end, Mister Deveraux,” Zachary ordered. “I don’t care how, but you WILL tie it up. Permanently.”

“Yes, Sir,” Alexander murmured contritely.

“Please continue with the remainder of your report.”

“The Cartwright girl . . . umm, left the house with her old man this morning,” Alexander continued. “First time she’s b-been out in the last three days.”

“I gathered that,” Zachary said in a wry tone of voice. “Where did they go?”

“I dunno. Out. Somewhere . . . a ways off, I s’pose . . . they took their horses.”

“Find out WHERE they went,” Zachary ordered, his voice filled with disdain. “I will expect that, along with the reason the girl’s kept to the house for the past three days included in your next report.”

“Y-Yes, Sir.”

“What time did they leave the house?”

“The girl and the old man?”

“Yes,” Zachary said curtly. “The girl and the old man. What time did they leave the house?”

“It was . . . well, it was this morning,” Alexander stammered.

“I did NOT ask you what time of day, Corporal. I asked you what TIME.”

“I . . . dunno.” Alexander began to squirm. “It was LATE morning . . . sometime after they ate their breakfast, and . . . and got their h-horses saddled. But I dunno what time it was . . . exactly.”

“What time did they return?”

“I dunno.”

“You will answer THOSE questions in your next report as well, Corporal Deveraux,” Zachary said curtly. “What of the girl’s regular schedule?”

“Y-You mean . . . before she . . . before she started keeping herself inside the house?”

Zachary nodded.

“So far as I could tell, she pretty much did the same things every day,” Alexander reported. “You know . . . get up . . . do chores with her brothers . . . eat breakfast . . . head off for school. Usual stuff, though . . . . ”

“What?” Zachary snapped.

“For the past week or so, she’s not been in school.”

“Why not?”

“The teacher’s been sick for the past week,” Alexander replied, vastly relieved he knew the answer to this question. “Bad cold, maybe pneumonia. There’s been talk of bringing in a substitute, but the school board’s not decided.”

Zachary nodded, satisfied with the corporal’s answer. “Continue,” he ordered.

“Well . . . with her not being in school, she’s been leaving the house after breakfast with her brother— ”

“WHICH brother?”

“The big lummox.”

“What is his NAME, Corporal?” Zachary demanded in a tone that dripped icicles.

“I dunno . . . they call him Horse, or something like that . . . . ”

An long exasperated sigh escaped through Zachary Hilliard’s thinning lips and clenched jaw. “You WILL learn the names of the entire Cartwright family,” he ordered, “and the next time you give report you will refer to them BY NAME.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Continue.”

“The girl and the big man have been going down to the corral, where the Cartwrights break and train their horses,” Alexander continued, regretting now that he hadn’t indulged himself in a beer at the Silver Dollar. “She’s been helping the big guy train ‘em, once they’ve been broke. They come back to the house for their noon meal, then they’ll either go back to the horse corral, or take care of some other chores at the house.”

“What kind of chores?” Zachary asked.

“I dunno . . . exactly,” Alexander replied. “Whatever kinds of chores they do on a farm or big ranch . . . like . . . well, they gotta muck out the stalls in the barn, I expect, and . . . their Chinese cook keeps chickens, which means someone’s gotta feed ‘em and gather the eggs, ‘n all . . . . ”

“Mister Deveraux, you have just wasted . . . . ” Zachary’s eyes darted over to the regulator clock hanging on the wall near the saloon door, “ . . . nearly an hour of MY precious time. When we meet again, three days hence, I expect a FULL and COMPLETE report. I want to know WHAT the Cartwrights, especially the girl, do and WHEN they do it. When they leave the Ponderosa I want to know WHERE they go, WHEN they go, and WHY they go. I also want names, dates, and exact times. Is that clear?”

“Y-Yes, Sir.”

“You will also deal with Eddie Jones,” Zachary continued. “If he comes to my lodging again, demanding payment, you will personally answer to the captain.”

“I dunno . . . exactly,” Alexander replied. “Whatever kinds of chores they do on a farm or big ranch . . . like . . . well, they gotta muck out the stalls in the barn, I expect, and . . . their Chinese cook keeps chickens, which means someone’s gotta feed ‘em and gather the eggs, ‘n all . . . . ”

“Mister Deveraux, you have just wasted . . . . ” Zachary’s eyes darted over to the regulator clock hanging on the wall near the saloon door, “ . . . nearly an hour of MY precious time. When we meet again, three days hence, I expect a FULL and COMPLETE report. I want to know WHAT the Cartwrights, especially the girl, do and WHEN they do it. When they leave the Ponderosa I want to know WHERE they go, WHEN they go, and WHY they go. I also want names, dates, and exact times. Is that clear?”

“Y-Yes, Sir.”

“You will also deal with Eddie Jones,” Zachary continued. “If he comes to my lodging again, demanding payment, you will personally answer to the captain.”

“S-Sir, I can’t— ”

Zachary cut off Samuel’s protests with a curt gesture. “MY needs are minimal,” he whispered. “As I recall, Mister Yates, YOU have an elderly, infirm mother . . . . ”

It HAD been a long while since he’d last sent anything to his oldest brother toward the care of his mother . . . two, going on three months at the very least. “Thank you, Sir,” Samuel replied, accepting the money with much reluctance. “I’ll pay you back when . . . when the captain’s able to pay US.”

“Mister Yates . . . Samuel . . . I consider you a loyal soldier and . . . and trusted friend,” Zachary said earnestly. “We’re our positions reversed, I KNOW you’d be the first to dig into his pocket.”

“Thank you, Sir . . . I appreciate your generosity . . . more than you’ll know.” Samuel cast a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder, noting with satisfaction and a measure of relief that all of the patrons were clustered around the bar. “ . . . uhhh, Mister Taylor . . . permission to speak freely?” he queried in a low voice, as he returned his attention to Zachary.

“Permission granted.”

“I . . . couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between you and the corporal, Sir, and . . . frankly? I’m worried.”

“About Corporal Deveraux specifically?”

“Yes, Sir,” Samuel replied. “From the sound of things, he . . . Sir, he . . . his actions could seriously jeopardize our mission, if they’ve not done so already.”

“The thought has crossed MY mind as well, Young Man,” Zachary said. “You may rest assured, I AM well aware of the man’s ineptitude . . . and that I have the entire situation under control.”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” the young man stammered. “I . . . I’m sorry, I should have realized— ”

“No apologies necessary, Mister Yates. You’ve done nothing wrong in voicing your concerns,” Zachary said quietly. “In fact, I applaud your candor and your powers of observation.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

 

Late yesterday afternoon, she, Hoss, and Joe had moved the palomino stallion, taken from the range several days ago, to the corral next to the barn. “ . . . all the better for ‘em to keep tabs on me like . . . like I’m some little kid!” she grumbled very softly, under her breath, then sighed. “I know Pa only wants to protect me, but it’s still not fair!”

Blaze Face, her horse, nickered a soft greeting as she stepped inside the barn.

“ ‘Morning, Blaze Face,” Stacy murmured softly, as she walked over to his stall. She gently, lovingly stroked his muzzle. “Sorry we haven’t been going out as often as we’re used to, what with me spraining my ankle and now, Pa won’t let us go out by ourselves because somebody cut the cinch strap on my saddle and someone else is asking folks in town questions about me . . . . ”

Blaze Face snorted.

“I don’t like it either, but I promised Pa,” Stacy sighed. She wrapped her arms loosely around his neck and buried her face against his coarse mane for a moment, before digging out a handful of the pellets from the supply she maintained in the bottom right pocket of her jacket. Stacy rubbed his neck as he ate. “I’ll see you later, Blaze Face,” she said.

Stacy let herself out of the barn and walked over to the corral to see palomino stallion she had named Sun Dancer, for his golden coat and high spirits.

The stallion, upon catching sight of her, tentatively approached, stopping in the middle of the enclosure. Stacy nickered softly, as she stepped up to the corral fence, then turned her back. She heard Sun Dancer nicker in return. He ventured closer, his steps halting and uncertain. At length, he reached the fence and gently nuzzled Stacy’s hair and neck. She reached into her pocket, and drew out a handful of the same pellets she had given Blaze Face, taking great care to keep her movements slow and even. Sun Dancer cautiously sniffed then ate greedily.

“You’re a sweet boy, Sun Dancer,” Stacy said quietly. “Yes, you are!”

The sound of the front door opening, then closing startled Sun Dancer, and sent him scurrying to the other side of the enclosed pasture. Stacy looked up and saw her brother, Hoss, still clad in nightshirt and robe, crossing the yard with a grim determined look on his face. She instinctively braced herself.

“There y’ are,” Hoss greeted her tersely. “Li’l Sister, to say you’re in a world o’ trouble right now is puttin’ it mildly.”

“Hunh?! What did I do?” Stacy demanded looking at him askance.

“All I know is, when Pa went upstairs t’ tell ya breakfast is ready, and found your bed empty and you not in the house . . . . ” The roll of Hoss’ eyes told Stacy more than she cared to know. “Better come on back inside ‘n get this over with.”

“Hoss . . . . ” Stacy had to run to keep up with him, as he made his way back to the house, “for cryin’ out loud! I was just in the barn, then by the pasture— ”

“Don’t tell me, tell Pa,” Hoss said.

Stacy scowled. “I will,” she said through clenched teeth.

“There you are, Kid,” Joe greeted her as she stepped through the door. “You’re in deep cattle crud now.”

“Get stuffed, Grandpa,” Stacy snapped, her anger rising.

Joe opened his mouth to utter the sharp retort that sprang to the tip of his tongue. Hoss placed his hand on Joe’s shoulder and shook his head.

“I think it might be a real good idea for us to g’won out to the barn right about now,” Hoss said sotto voce, as Stacy walked resolutely toward their father, standing behind his desk.

“The barn?!” Joe protested. “Are you crazy, Big Brother? We’re not even dressed.”

“It’s either that or stay in the house.”

Joe stole a furtive glance at the wrathful scowl on their father’s face and their sister’s stiffly erect posture. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I’m beginning to see your point . . . . ”

 

“ . . . and just where have you been, Young Woman?” Ben demanded, as Stacy came to a stop in front of his desk.

“In the barn and out by the corral,” Stacy replied, bewildered and angry.

“You promised me you wouldn’t go out on your own until we got this matter of Zachary Hilliard resolved,” Ben hastened to remind her.

“I wasn’t!” Stacy hotly defended herself. “I only went out to SEE Blaze Face . . . and Sun Dancer, too. I didn’t ride— ” She stopped abruptly mid-sentence, as the blood drained right out of her face. “Oh no!” she whispered, as she stared over at her father through eyes round with horror. “No! Pa, you didn’t mean— ”

“Yes, I DID,” Ben said sternly. “When I said you weren’t to go out on your own, I meant out of this house.”

“Pa, I was just out in the barn . . . and by the corral right in front of the house,” Stacy wailed in dismay.

“You think nothing can happen to you there?” Ben rounded on her furiously.

“But I was right out in front of the house . . . in full view of the windows!”

“I’m beginning to think you don’t understand the seriousness of this situation,” Ben said in clipped angry tones.

“Oh, yes, I do,” Stacy countered, her rising fury pushing her to the edge of tears. “I’m under house arrest for something that . . . that son-of-a-bitch Zachary Hilliard did, and it’s not fair!”

Ben’s scowl deepened. “Stacy Cartwright, your choice of words leaves a whole lot to be desired,” he reprimanded her sharply.

“I don’t care,” Stacy obstinately stood her ground. “He IS a son-of-a-bitch, and it’s still not fair!” With that, she abruptly turned heel and fled upstairs.

“Damn!” Ben swore vehemently, giving vent to his own anger, frustration, and fear for his daughter’s safety.

Breakfast was a strained affair, with Stacy Cartwright being most conspicuous by her absence. Ben sat in his place at the head of the table, scowling down at a virtually untouched plate. While Hoss and Paris ate with good appetite, Joe spent most of his time pushing around the food on his plate, congealing everything into a large, unsavory, gray lump.

“I have a good mind to make her stay in her room the rest of the day,” Ben angrily broke the uncomfortable silence that had settled over the breakfast table.

“Pa, you can’t do that,” Hoss protested, drawing a sharp glance from his father. “Stacy and I started workin’ with Sun Dancer yesterday. We gotta on keep workin’ with him, until we earn his trust. I can’t do that by myself.”

Ben let out a curt, frustrated sigh.

“Pa . . . . ” Hoss ventured hesitantly.

“What?” Ben snapped.

“It seems to me Stacy’s bein’ punished enough by the restrictions you’ve had to put on her,” Hoss pointed out in a quiet, yet firm tone.

“Are you telling me that I’M being unreasonable?” Ben demanded in an ice-cold tone that made his youngest son flinch.

“No . . . I ain’t sayin’ that at all,” Hoss countered, maintaining his ground. “Y’ did what ya did for her own protection. I know that. Deep down, Stacy knows it, too.” He paused. “But, that don’t make it any easier to live with, Pa.”

Ben sighed again, and shook his head. “I know that, Son,” he said, his anger dissipating. “I just hope and pray we get some answers within the next couple of days.”

“Ben?”

“Paris!” Ben murmured softly. He had half forgotten she was even there. “Paris, I . . . I hope you’ll accept my apologies for— ”

“You don’t need to apologize, Ben,” Paris gently cut him off. “I . . . was just thinking that . . . well, on the off chance the Zachary Hilliard you’re looking for IS the same man who served with my brother? You might send a wire to his mother. Her name is Henrietta Hilliard, and last I heard, she was living with a sister of hers in New York. It runs in my mind that Zachary and his mother were very close, and . . . I thought that she might be able to shed some light on where he is and what he’s up to.”

“Thank you, Paris,” Ben said gratefully. “I’ll see to it this morning.”

 

Hoss wisely waited until Ben had left for Virginia City to send that wire to Mrs. Henrietta Hilliard in New York, before going upstairs to fetch Stacy from her room. Initially, the girl was uncharacteristically quiet and subdued. Hoss could tell by her red cheeks and swollen eyelids that she had been crying. He decided, again wisely, that the less said about that now, the better.

Hoss and Stacy spent the better part of the next two hours with the wild stallion working to strengthen the tenuous bonds established the previous day. Sun Dancer began to approach them when they stood at the fence with their backs to him, with more confidence.

“Hoss?” Stacy said, her voice just above the decibel of a whisper.

“Yeah, Li’l Sister?”

“I’m going to try going into the enclosure,” Stacy said quietly, “to see if he’ll come to me when I run away from him.”

“You be careful now,” Hoss warned. “We’re makin’ good progress, but he’s still a wild one.”

Stacy nodded, then slowly climbed up over the fence, and dropped down lightly on the other side, under the watchful eyes of her big brother. The stallion immediately retreated to the far end of the corral. “It’s ok, Sun Dancer . . . . ” she crooned softly, as she made her way toward the center of the corral, keeping her pace and body movements slow and easy. “It’s ok, Boy . . . it’s ok . . . . ” She nickered softly, then turned heel and ran away from the stallion, back toward the corral fence where Hoss stood watching.

Sun Dancer watched her for a moment, then ran after her. He approached, then turned before coming within ten feet of her, always maintaining a discreet distance. Stacy repeated the exercise with Sun Dancer several more times. Although he eagerly chased after her, he continued to keep himself well away.

“We need to wind things up, Stacy,” Hoss said. “It’ll be dinner time soon. We gotta let the horses out of the barn and clean their stalls before we eat.”

Stacy nodded, then sprinted over toward the fence and climbed back over. She and Hoss once again leaned up against the fence. This time, Hoss called the stallion’s name and nickered. Sun Dancer’s ears perked up with interest. He circled the pasture, then ran immediately over to the place occupied by Stacy and Hoss, nuzzling both, before lowering his face towards the pocket holding the feed.

“He’s a smart one,” Hoss declared with a grin, as Stacy offered him a handful of pellets. “If we don’t look out, he’s gonna be the one trainin’ us.”

“Hoss?”

“Yeah, Li’l Sister?”

“What makes you so sure he’s NOT?” Stacy asked. “Training US, I mean?”

“Good question, I— ” Suddenly his entire body went rigid.

“Hoss? Hoss, what IS it?” Stacy demanded.

“Horses,” Hoss murmured in a voice barely audible. “Stacy, you g’won . . . get in t’ house. I’ll wait ‘n see who it is.”

“Why? It’s probably Pa.”

“No, it ain’t,” Hoss said tersely. “I hear TWO horses . . . maybe more. Now you git, y’ hear?”

A curt exasperated sigh exploded from between her lips. “Hoss— ”

“Don’t you stand there arguin’ with me, Gal,” Hoss turned on her, exasperated and anxious. “Now you do like I told ya.”

Stacy muttered a string of Paiute expletives under her breath, as she turned and stomped across the yard.

Hoss winced when he heard the front door slam. “I sure hope Hop Sing didn’t have nothin’ bakin’ in the oven,” he sighed. “If he did, there’s gonna be the devil t’ pay.”

“Hey, Hoss . . . why the long face?”

Hoss glanced up, just in time to see Arch Campbell and Dan Eberhardt come around the barn and enter the yard, with a packhorse in tow.

“Aww, it ain’t nothin’,” Hoss replied. Glancing over at the packhorse, a big gelding named Geraldine, he noted that, with the exception of a leather bag containing tools, the animal’s back was bare. “Looks like you fellas made short work o’ repairin’ that fence,” he observed with a satisfied, if surprised smile, “ ‘n ya got it done a couple o’ days early, t’ boot.”

“What we could of it,” Arch said, as he and Dan brought their horses to a halt. “The damage was more than we thought. We only had enough supplies to repair half of what got knocked down.”

“We came back to fetch the supplies we need to finish,” Dan added.

“Why don’t you boys g’won home t’ your wives, ‘n sit down t’ a decent meal,” Hoss said. “After y’ finish, come back ‘n get whatever y’ need, then start out again fresh tomorrow mornin’.”

“Thanks, Hoss,” Arch murmured gratefully.

“Me, too,” Dan replied with a grin.

“Say . . . what happened t’ Eddie?”

“I . . . dunno, Hoss,” Arch replied. “He just up ‘n quit.”

Hoss frowned. “He quit?!” he echoed, incredulous. “When?”

“Day before yesterday,” Arch replied, shaking his head in complete bewilderment. “When we reached the road? Eddie turned the other way . . . toward town. Dan ‘n me started joshin’ him about it, and . . . well, he got real uppity like, ‘n told me he was sick ‘n tired o’ workin’ so blamed hard. We had words, Hoss. I tried t’ keep my temper, but . . . . ” He shrugged helplessly. “The upshot of the whole thing is, Eddie finally told Dan ‘n me t’ tell your pa that he quit.”

“We was just joshin’ him, Hoss . . . about goin’ the wrong way,” Dan said, very much on the defensive. “He never got mad before. He’d either laugh it off, or say somethin’ smart back.”

“Any idea what DID set him off?” Hoss asked.

“No,” Arch glumly shook his head. “It just happened right outta the clear blue.”

“Don’t you worry none about it, Arch,” Hoss said kindly.

“You’ll tell your pa?” Arch queried.

“Yeah. I’ll tell him. Now you boys g’won home, ‘n get some decent food in ya.”

The two men nodded, then climbed back into their saddles.

 

Ben, meanwhile, made his way back toward the sheriff’s office, where he had left Big Buck tethered to a hitching post, with a heavy heart. A friend of Roy’s checking on the Pinkerton Agency . . . the sheriff over in Carson City asking questions at all the livery stables and places of lodging . . . and now the wire he had just dispatched to the mother of the Zachary Hilliard, Paris McKenna’s brother knew . . . he felt as if he were desperately grasping at straws.

“ . . . and very flimsy straws at that,” he groused silently.

He had just gotten through talking with Tony Grainger . . . again.

“Sorry, Mister Cartwright,” the young man said before he had a chance to ask the first question, shaking his head apologetically. “Mister Hilliard’s STILL not returned that rig, and . . . truth t’ tell? I’m gettin’ a mite worried, seein’ as t’ how it’s been four days now . . . ‘n he only told me he was gonna rent that horse ‘n buggy for ONE day.”

. . . and with poor Stacy at home, chomping impatiently at the bit, the last four days seemed like four YEARS. Not that he could entirely blame the girl . . . .

Then, for one brief, almost reckless moment, Ben allowed himself to consider the possibility that Zachary Hilliard had found the answers he sought, whatever they were, and had simply moved on. He hoped this to be the case with every fiber of his being, for the sake of the free and independent spirit he knew and loved as his daughter, Stacy. Yet, despite his desperate hopes and desires, every instinct he possessed warned him loud and clear that Zachary Hilliard remained somewhere close by, just out of sight.

“Where?” Ben silently demanded, raising his eyes upward, toward the heavens. By all appearances, the man had vanished right off the face of the Earth as if he had never been.

As he turned, with the intention of crossing the street, Ben collided with a gray haired man, with posture slightly stooped, dressed in a pair of ragged flannel slacks, and a white linen shirt now yellowed in the front, due to age and countless exposures to the sun.

“Y-You alright, Mister?” Ben asked, his dark eyes round with alarm, as he reached out to steady the man’s precarious balance.

“None t’ worse for wear,” the man mumbled.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Ben apologized. “I’m afraid I wasn’t paying real close attention to where I was going.”

“Must have a lot on your mind, Mister Cartwright.”

Ben frowned. “Do I know you, Sir?”

“We . . . ummm, ain’t met, not formal like, but I’ve heard a lot about ya. Seems most everyone ‘round here knows t’ Cartwrights.” Had the man been speaking just a tad bit faster, he would have been babbling. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and upon opening his eyes once again, he held out his hand. “M’ name’s Bill Taylor.”

Ben and the man, who had just introduced himself as Bill Taylor, shook hands. “Pleased to meet you, Mister Taylor, and again . . . please accept my apologies for nearly running you over.”

“ ‘S ok, Mister Cartwright . . . no harm done,” the gray haired man said, with an ingratiating smile, that fell very far short of reaching his eyes.

 

“Hey! Is dinner ready yet?” Joe Cartwright called out, as he stepped through the front door.

“Dinner ready,” Hop Sing said tersely, as he sauntered into the great room. “Mister Hoss, Miss Stacy, Miss Paris all at table. Little Joe, g’won in kitchen, wash up.”

“You don’t hafta tell ME twice,” Joe quipped as he beat a straight path toward the kitchen. “I’m about ready to keel over from starvation!”

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Kid?” Joe paused, en route toward the kitchen.

“You didn’t happen to run into Pa along the road . . . did you?” Stacy asked, her voice edged with a small measure of trepidation.

Joe frowned. “Pa’s not here?!”

“No,” Hoss replied, shaking his head. “He went into town.”

“He did?! I was under the impression he was gonna stick close to home today,” Joe said.

“It’s MY doing I’m afraid,” Paris said quietly. “This morning, after breakfast, I remembered the name of Zachary Hilliard’s mother . . . that is . . . the Zachary Hilliard my brother knows . . . . ”

“Pa went into town t’ send a wire askin’ the lady if she knows what her son’s up to these days,” Hoss explained. “I kinda thought he’d be back by now.”

“Knowing Pa, he probably figured since he was in town anyway, he might as well check with Tony about the rig Zachary Hilliard rented from him a few days ago, and Sheriff Coffee about the wires he sent to his friend, Judd Something-Or-Other, and the sheriff over in Carson City,” Joe speculated. “You know how Tony is sometimes, Hoss . . . . ”

“That li’l rascal can talk the ears right off your head, if he’s of a mind,” Hoss replied, rolling his eyes heavenward.

“After he got through talking to Tony, he probably saw that the hour was getting late, and decided to eat in town,” Joe said.

“Then you . . . you don’t think it’s . . . that it’s MY fault?” Stacy ventured, half afraid to ask that question, yet more afraid not to ask.

“YOUR fault?!” Joe echoed, incredulous.

“Now where in the world would ya get an idea like that, Li’l Sister?” Hoss gently probed.

“I guess ‘cause I . . . ummm . . . I don’t think I’ve EVER seen Pa get so mad as he did at me this morning,” Stacy said ruefully.

“I have,” Joe said with a big grin.

“You have?! Really?” Stacy queried dubiously.

“Yep,” Joe affirmed, with an emphatic nod of his head.

“What did YOU do to make Pa so mad?” Stacy asked, intrigued in the midst of her own trepidation and remorse.

“Hoss and I robbed a bank,” Joe replied.

“You’re joshin’!” Stacy accused, outraged and deeply offended that Joe would make fun of her.

“I’m NOT kidding, Stace!” Joe immediately replied, upon seeing the hurt, angry look on her face. “Honest! I’m telling you the pure, unvarnished truth. Hoss . . . . ”

“He’s tellin’ ya the pure, unvarnished truth alright, Li’l Sister,” Hoss confirmed with an agonized grimace.

“R-Really?” Stacy queried, looking over at Hoss, then back to Joe.

“Really!” Hoss replied.

“ . . . and to say that Pa was real mad at Hoss and me would be to grossly understate the case,” Joe said soberly.

“Between that wiry li’l fella ‘n Pa . . . . ” Hoss grimaced again and wryly rolled his eyes heavenward.

“ . . . neither one of us could move too well or sit down for a good month of Sundays at least . . . maybe even TWO,” Joe groaned.

“I dunno, Li’l Brother,” Hoss murmured softly. “I’m thinkin’ it was more like three or four months o’ Sundays . . . . ”

“The, ummm Mighty Ponderosa’s never been quite the same since,” Joe said, his face contorting with agony, all too well remembered.

“Mine, neither!” Hoss quipped, his own face mirroring the exquisite pain and suffering reflected with crystal clarity in Joe’s.

“Why did you guys rob the bank?” Stacy demanded, as the trepidation, guilt, and remorse she had been nursing since that angry confrontation with Pa earlier, momentarily gave way to her curious, inquisitive nature. “And who’s the wiry fella? Was he an accomplice or something?!”

“Boy! If you aren’t the nosiest— ” Joe began, heartened to see his young sister’s mood lifting.

“Does that mean you’re not gonna tell me?!” Stacy demanded.

“Some things are best forgot, Li’l Sister,” Hoss gamely pointed out.

“Yep,” Joe immediately responded, his head slowly bobbing up and down. “Yep! Sometimes, it’s best just to let sleeping dogs lie.”

“Hoss . . . Joe . . . . ”

“Yes, Miss Paris?” Joe responded.

“If you two don’t go back to the beginning of this tale right now, this very instant . . . ‘n tell it straight through to the end . . . I swear . . . by all that I hold holy, I SWEAR . . . I’m gonna tan both your hides and nail ‘em right there over the fireplace mantle,” Paris adamantly vowed.

“ . . . uhhh, Hoss?”

“Yeah, Joe?”

“I, ummm . . . think she means it.”

“She means it all right,” Stacy said very solemnly.

“Well,” Joe said, grinning from ear-to-ear. “I guess it all started the day Pa ‘n Adam had to go away on business . . . and left ME in charge of running things while they were gone . . . . ”

“ . . . which meant I ended up doin’ all the dirty work!” Hoss growled, leveling a ferocious glare over at his younger brother.

“Aww . . . come ON, Hoss . . . a few chores,” Joe immediately countered, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Just a few light, easy chores— ”

“ . . . like puttin’ three coats . . . count ‘em, THREE! . . . o’ whitewash on t’ smoke house . . . the, ummm . . . . ” Hoss’ face suddenly turned beet red.

“I did NOT have you whitewash, ummm . . . THAT!” Joe defended himself in tones of mock outrage, his own face flushed pinker than usual as his eyes strayed over toward their houseguest.

“Oh, yes you did, Li’l Brother.”

“I did NOT!”

“I remember it just as clear as . . . as if it happened yesterday!”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Then your memory’s faulty, Big Brother!” Joe declared with an emphatic nod of his head.

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“ . . . uhh . . . Boys . . . . ” Paris interjected the minute she was able to get in a word edgewise, “why don’t you begin with the bank robbery?” Though she tried hard to project a decorous prim and proper demeanor, she simply could not keep the amused smile from her lips.

“Well . . . I guess the whole thing REALLY got started when I went to the telegraph office to wire a man about a bull,” Joe once again took up the reins of the story . . . .

The boys gave their young sister and house guest a wry, humorous account of all that had transpired the day they robbed the Virginia City Branch of Harrison’s Bank. [10]

Stacy laughed until her sides ached, nearly upsetting her chair a couple of times. Every time her laughter began to diminish, Joe would burst into a fit of the giggles, setting her off once again. As the story neared its conclusion, she was nearly doubled over, with her arms wrapped tight around her sides.

“So you . . . y-you caught the men who robbed YOU . . . recovered the money, and . . . and s-saw that it was returned to the . . . the depositors . . . . ” Paris laughed, as she wiped the tears borne of her merriment from her eyes and cheeks.

“Pa and Adam actually returned the money to the bank and saw that it was returned to the depositors,” Joe confessed. “I sure wish we could’ve seen the look on ol’ man Harrison’s face though . . . . ”

“Yeah,” Hoss agreed with a wistful smile. “From what Adam told us . . . he was fit t’ be tied.”

“Why DIDN’T you guys get to see Mister Harrison’s face?” Stacy asked, as her mirth finally began to subside.

“I’m afraid there way one tiny loose end Hoss and I had to tie up,” Joe replied.

“Yeah. We had to return the mules we, ummm borrowed,” Hoss explained, wincing at the memory.

“After HE got through with us . . . we had to come home and face PA,” Joe continued. “To say HE was fit to be tied was the understatement of the century!”

“Was he . . . was he really as mad as he was this morning?” Stacy ventured hesitantly.

“No, Li’l Sister . . . he was lots madder ‘n that,” Hoss said soberly.

“Really?”

“Really,” Joe replied.

“But . . . why?” Stacy asked. A bewildered frown creased the smooth plain of her brow. “You guys kept that greedy ol’ Mister Harrison from stealing money that belonged to the folks who had it deposited in his bank. Doesn’t that kinda make you heroes?”

“Yeah, I guess maybe it does,” Hoss replied, “but the whole time Pa ‘n Adam were tryin’ t’ find us? They didn’t know WHY we did it. All THEY knew was that Joe ‘n me robbed Harrison’s Bank in Virginia City.”

“Pa ‘n Adam were worried about Hoss ‘n me, Kiddo,” Joe continued. “REAL worried.”

“Same as Pa’s worried about YOU right now, Li’l Sister,” Hoss said, “ ‘n sometimes . . . when folks get really worried ‘bout someone they love very much, and they don’t find ‘em where they’re s’posed t’ be— ”

“Like . . . me being out in the barn and . . . by the corral, instead of in the house?”

Hoss nodded. “Well . . . when that someone DOES turn up . . . alive ‘n well . . . without a scratch on ‘em . . . . ”

“ . . . or HER,” Joe added.

“ . . . a lotta times, the one doin’ the worryin’ ends up gettin’ mad,” Hoss concluded.

“They do?” Stacy queried with a puzzled frown.

“Yep.” Hoss nodded his head.

“That doesn’t make a whole lotta sense.”

“No, Kiddo, it doesn’t,” Joe agreed, “but, it’s the truth . . . and I’ll tell ya something else.”

“What’s that?” Stacy queried in a glum tone of voice.

“I’ll betcha anything Pa’s feeling every bit as bad as YOU are about that fight you two had this morning,” Joe said quietly.

“Really?”

“Yep,” Hoss replied. “Pa didn’t wanna put y’ on restriction . . . AND he hates like anything havin’ t’ keep ya on restriction . . . more, I think, than YOU hate bein’ on restriction. But, he’s doin’ it ‘cause he loves ya . . . and he doesn’t want anything bad t’ happen to ya.”

“I know, Hoss,” Stacy sighed. “That’s why I feel bad about getting so mad at him this morning.”

“Maybe t’ next time y’ feel yourself chompin’ so hard at the bit, y’ might try ‘n remember that Pa wants t’ protect ya because he DOES love ya . . . a whole lot,” Hoss suggested.

“I’ll try,” Stacy promised.

“You won’t be on restriction forever, Kid,” Joe said. “I know it’s taking us longer than we thought to get matters cleared up as far as this Zachary Hilliard’s concerned, but we’re GONNA get things resolved . . . and soon.”

“I hope so, Grandpa. I sure hope so.”

 

 

While his family and guest sat down to their noon meal at home, Ben caught sight of a dark silhouette circling overhead within his peripheral vision, a little past the halfway point between town and the Ponderosa. He brought Buck to a complete stop, and lifted his head. It was a vulture, a carrion bird. Another dark silhouette joined the first, followed by another and yet another. They seemed to be circling above the area just up over the next rise. He urged Buck to a brisk trot, and headed over toward the spot directly below the ominous circling birds.

In the field beyond the rise, lying amid the tall grass several yards from the road, was the body of a man, lying on his stomach with his wrists bound together behind his back. Ben quickly dismounted to investigate. The man had been shot once in the back, and again in the head. Ben leaned closer for a look at the man’s face, profiled against the patches of grass and soil. He was astonished to discover that the dead man was Eddie Jones, a drifter he had hired a couple of months ago.

“Mister Cartwright?”

Ben straightened upon hearing his name, turned, and glanced back toward the road. It was Candy.

“Trouble?” Candy queried, and he climbed down off of Thor’s back.

“You might say that,” Ben said wryly.

Candy silently walked through the grass, leading his horse behind him. Upon reaching Ben’s side, he stood, gazing down at the body for a long moment. “If I didn’t know better . . . I’d say that was Eddie Jones,” the junior foreman murmured softly.

“It is,” Ben replied.

“What—?!” Candy favored his employer with a puzzled frown. “H-How can that be?” he demanded. “Didn’t Eddie ride out with Arch and Dan . . . what? Day before yesterday?!”

“He was supposed to,” Ben said grimly.

“Then . . . what’s he doing HERE?”

“I’d like to know the answer to that one myself,” Ben replied. He knelt down for a closer look at the dead man.

“What happened?”

“He was shot twice,” Ben replied. “Once in the back . . . there . . . . ” He pointed to a wound to the left of the spinal column, just under the rib cage. “ . . . and again there . . . in the back if his head.”

“Think, maybe he was bushwhacked?”

“I don’t know what else it could have been,” Ben replied, as he carefully reached into the dead man’s back pocket and slipped out his billfold.

“Seems to me that whoever killed him, went out of his way to make sure he was dead,” Candy remarked, as he quietly moved in behind his employer.

Ben opened the wallet, and glanced through its contents, while Candy silently studied the dead man lying in the grass before them. He found a faded picture of a young woman and a girl, with names and a date, barely legible, inscribed on the back, along with a thick wad of paper money. “Whoever bushwhacked him wasn’t after money,” he said quietly. “There’s got to be at least a hundred dollars here . . . if not more.”

“That would more than likely be a month’s pay he won from me and a couple of the other guys in a poker game the night Joe and I got back from Carson City,” Candy said.

“If THAT’S so, I’d say Eddie Jones was remarkably lucky that night,” Ben observed wryly. “He . . . WAS . . . lucky that night?”

“If you’re asking whether or not he was cheating, the answer’s no.”

“ . . . and no one accused him of it?”

“No, Sir,” Candy replied, “not while I was around to hear anyway . . . . ”

Ben handed the billfold over to Candy, then set himself to the grim task of searching Eddie Jones’ other pockets. He found a comb, with half its teeth missing in the other back pocket, along with a quarter, two pennies, a nickel, and a lucky rabbit’s foot in the left hand pocket of his pants. “Candy,” he said, as he placed the items into his junior foreman’s large, well-muscled hands, “you’d better ride back to the Ponderosa and get the buckboard. I’ll stay here and make sure our fine-feathered friends . . . . ” He glanced upward toward the still circling vultures, “ . . . don’t make a meal of Eddie Jones’ body.”

“Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Candy?”

“Will you be all right here . . . by yourself?” Candy asked with an anxious frown. “The man who killed Eddie Jones may not be far off.”

Ben shook his head. “I don’t think so . . . . ” he said complacently.

“How can you be so sure?” Candy demanded.

“First off, Eddie’s been here . . . ohh, I’d say at least the better part of a day . . . maybe a day and a half,” Ben said. “Whoever killed him doesn’t have to be overly bright to realize that it’s in his best interest to head west to California or toward the south east for Arizona, Texas, or even Mexico.” He paused briefly, then added, “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” Candy queried dubiously.

“I’m sure. Now get on with ya. The sooner you leave, the sooner you’ll get back here.”

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“What is your full name, Stacy?” Paris asked, as she sliced, with relish, into the large, tender slab of roast beef dominating the better portion of her plate.

“Stacy Cartwright.”

“No, no, no, no,” Joe said, wagging his head back and forth with each no. His eyes, deep emerald green in the natural light shining in through the dining room window, sparkled with mischief. “Miss Paris asked for your FULL name, Kiddo. Full name means first, MIDDLE, and last.”

Stacy grimaced. “Miss Paris, do I HAVE to tell you what my middle name is?”

Paris couldn’t help but smile at the farcical look of disgust on the girl’s face. “No, you don’t have to tell me,” she said. “That bad, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if STACY doesn’t tell you, Miss Paris, I sure will,” Joe threatened with a devilish grin.

“You do, and you’ll get a face full of mashed potatoes,” Stacy vowed, as she scooped up a generous portion with her spoon.

“ . . . . and YOU’LL get a face full of peas, comin’ right back atcha!”

“Dadburn it, is that how the pair of ya’s been taught to act when we have company?” Hoss growled, glaring at Joe first, then Stacy.

“HE started it!”

“ME?!”

“Yes, YOU!”

“Whoa! Back up a minute, Little Sister! As I recall, YOU were the one who threatened to hurl that spoonful of mashed potatoes in my face FIRST.”

“I don’t care which one o’ ya started it, if ya don’t knock it off, I’M gonna finish it,” Hoss declared, “in the horse trough out front.”

“Yes, PA!” Joe and Stacy chorused in unison, their eyes dancing with mischief.

Through out the exchange between Stacy and Joe, Paris laughed uproariously. “Please, Eric . . . . ” she said, as her mirth began to fade, “please, don’t hold them back on MY account.”

“I ain’t holdin’ ‘em back on YOUR account, Miss Paris,” Hoss said grimly. “I’m holdin’ ‘em back, on account o’ Hop Sing sayin’ he’d quit right on the spot if he had t’ clean up after one more food fight between the two babies o’ the family.”

“Oh dear! We certainly can’t have THAT,” Paris agreed.

Stacy sighed. “I guess I may as well tell you what my whole name is.” She reluctantly surrendered to the inevitable. “It’s Stacy Louise Cartwright.”

“I prefer to pronounce it Stacy LOO— ” Joe began.

The blood drained right out of Paris’ face taking with it what little color she had so recently regained. She stared over at Stacy through eyes round with shocked horror.

“M-Miss Paris?!” Joe stammered, half afraid the woman was going to faint right there on the spot.

“I-I’ll be alright in a moment,” Paris said, her head reeling. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take deep, even breaths.

“I-I hope it wasn’t something I said,” Stacy murmured contritely, her face a twin mask to the horrified look on Paris’.

“Stacy . . . m-my mother’s name was also . . . Stacy . . . L-Louise,” Paris said, her voice trembling.

Stacy suddenly felt light headed, and very frightened.

“Hey, Kiddo, YOU alright?” Joe queried anxiously, noting the sudden lack of robust color in her face and cheeks.

“Yes . . . NO!” She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Hoss slid his untouched glass of water over in front of his young sister. “Take a swallow o’ that, Li’l Sister,” he ordered in a gentle, yet firm tone.

Stacy seized hold of the glass tightly in both hands and raised it to her lips.

“Take it easy,” Hoss murmured quietly. “Don’t gulp. Sip . . . nice ‘n easy.”

Stacy took one more sip from the glass, then turned to face Paris. “When I . . . when I reached the tribe of Chief Soaring Eagle?” she began haltingly. “I had one thing from my life before. A small heart shaped locket on a gold chain. It was made for a-a child. My name . . . Stacy Louise . . . was etched on the front.”

Paris remembered seeing a similar locket tucked away inside a simple rough-hewn wood jewelry box, that held her mother’s meager possessions. They were treasured keepsakes of the life she had led before her marriage to Gerald McKenna and subsequent rejection, total and complete, by her family. None of the pieces had any monetary value. Their worth derived from the memories each piece invoked. Among the treasures was a heart shaped locket, with Stacy Louise, her mother’s name, engraved on its front.

“That’s the only reason anyone even knew my name,” Stacy continued. “When Silver Moon found me, I couldn’t remember anything. Who I was, where I’d come from, who my ma and pa were. I was like a slate, with the first five years of my life erased.”

“Stacy, do you still have that locket?”

Stacy nodded. “I keep it in what Silver Moon called a medicine bag up in my room,” she replied. “I also have keepsakes of my foster parents, Silver Moon and Jon Running Deer; my grandfather, Chief Soaring Eagle; and Running Antelope, my blood brother. I . . . I don’t like looking in the bag very much, though . . . . ”

Paris, seeing the girl was on the edge of tears, reached across the table and gave her hand a gentle, affectionate squeeze. “Now I’m the one who’s made YOU sad,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“ ‘S ok, Miss Paris,” Stacy said in a small, tremulous voice. “I . . . I know you didn’t mean to . . . . ”

A strained silence fell upon the four seated at the table. The sound of a single horse entering the yard, followed a few moments later by a loud, insistent pounding on the door mercifully broke the silence.

“I’ll go,” Hoss said, rising. He strode briskly toward the front door, pausing briefly at the credenza to remove his revolver from its holster. “Who is it?” he asked, as he cautiously stepped over in front of the door.

“Candy.”

Hoss opened the door and gestured for the junior foreman to enter. “What’s up?”

“Your father found Eddie Jones by the side of the road,” Candy said tersely. “He’s dead, Hoss.”

“Dead?!” Hoss echoed, incredulous.

“What in the world is he doing lying dead along the road to town?!” Joe demanded, with a bewildered frown, as he moved from the dining room into the great room. “Hoss, didn’t Eddie go with Arch and Dan— ”

“He was supposed to, but didn’t,” Hoss said grimly. “Seems he just up ‘n quit the day the three of ‘em left. Arch ‘n Dan stopped by ‘n told me just before we sat down t’ dinner.”

“He just up ‘n quit . . . like that . . . right out of the clear blue?!”

“I’ll tell ya what I know later, Joe,” Hoss said, before returning his attention back to Candy. “Where’s Eddie ‘n Pa now?”

“Out in that field ‘bout half way between here and town,” Candy replied. “Your father sent me after the buckboard.”

“I’m comin’ with ya,” Hoss decided. He turned to his younger brother, now standing at his elbow. “You stay here ‘n keep an eye on things?” His eyes momentarily darted over in Stacy’s general direction.

“Yeah,” Joe replied.

“Candy, I’ll get Mitch ‘n Bobby t’ help me with gettin’ the horses hitched to the buckboard,” Hoss said as he turned to grab his hat and gun belt. “Meantime, you g’won in the bunkhouse ‘n gather up Eddie’s things. Sheriff Coffee’ll wanna have a look at ‘em.”

Candy nodded curtly, then set off toward the bunkhouse.

Joe, meanwhile, returned to the dining room table, where Paris and Stacy still remained.

“Joe?”

“Yeah, Kid?”

“What’s going on?” Stacy asked.

“Well . . . for starters, I just found out why Pa didn’t make it home in time for dinner,” Joe replied.

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“It seems he found one of our men lying dead out in the field half way between here and town,” Joe said, as he returned to his place at the table.

“D-Dead?” Stacy echoed, her voice barely audible.

Joe nodded.

“Which one?”

“Eddie Jones,” Joe replied. “You know . . . the big guy who’s been working in the horse corral with us?”

“Oh yeah . . . . ” Stacy murmured softly, then glanced up. “Joe?”

“Yeah, Stace?”

“How’d he die . . . exactly?”

“Seems somebody bushwhacked him,” Joe replied.

“Bushwhacked him?!” Stacy echoed with a bewildered frowned. “Why?”

“I dunno, Kid. We’ll just have to wait until Pa and Hoss get home to find out.”

 

“ . . . then I looked up and saw vultures circling over that big meadow, half way between here and the Ponderosa,” Ben wearily recounted in the Virginia City sheriff’s office two hours later. “I thought it was an animal at first. I wanted to see whether or not it was one of ours, so I walked over to the spot below the vultures and . . . THAT’S where I found Eddie Jones’ body.”

Roy dutifully wrote down everything Ben had just told him, then turned to the ponderosa’s junior foreman. “How ‘bout YOU, Candy?”

“I had the afternoon off, so I decided to ride out to Dressler’s Pond,” Candy replied. “Sometimes I’ll get a hankerin’ for trout and go fishing, but today, I was going for the peace and quiet. I was on my way out there when I saw the vultures, then saw Mister Cartwright in the field right below them. I was just as surprised as he was to see Eddie lying there.”

Roy quickly made note of what Candy had just told him, then set his pencil aside. “Ben . . . Candy . . . ‘n you, too, Hoss!” he said curtly, glaring at each of the three men seated before him. “I gotta ask this next question . . . for the record, y’ understand, and I’d really appreciate it if’n ya wouldn’t take m’ head off.”

“All right, Roy,” Ben warily promised, speaking for his son and junior foreman as well.

“Ben . . . Candy . . . Hoss . . . did YOU kill Eddie Jones?”

“No,” Ben said evenly.

“Hoss? Candy? I need ya t’ answer for yourselves,” Roy prompted when no answers were forthcoming from the two younger men.

“No. I did NOT kill Eddie Jones,” Candy replied through clenched teeth, outraged, even though he knew the sheriff had spoken rightly about having to ask.

“No, Sir,” Hoss replied to the question, with a curt wag of his head for emphasis.

“All right . . . next obvious question . . . do the three of ya know of anyone who might’ve wanted Eddie dead?” Roy asked.

“I can’t think of anyone,” Candy replied.

“Nor can I,” Ben said.

Hoss merely shook his head.

“Ben, when I came out t’ the Ponderosa t’ question the men workin’ in the corral the day someone tampered with Stacy’s saddle, you told me Eddie’d gone out to the north pasture with a couple o’ other men t’ repair the fence that got knocked down by all the heavy snow we had last winter,” Roy said. “That right?”

“Yes . . . . ”

“It’s clear Eddie didn’t go,” Roy wryly stated the blatantly obvious. “You got any idea as t’ why?”

“No,” Ben replied. “That’s why Candy and I were so surprised to find him lying there dead. Up until then, I had no idea in the world that Eddie DIDN’T go.”

“The other two men he went with— ”

“Arch Campbell and Dan Eberhardt,” Ben said.

“When do ya expect ‘em back?”

“They’re back,” Hoss said.

“Arch and Dan?” Ben queried, astonished.

“Yes, Sir. They came back just as we were sitting down t’ have dinner,” Hoss explained. “Seems there was more fence knocked down ‘n torn up than we thought. They fixed what they could, then came back t’ get more supplies.”

“Did THEY tell ya why Eddie Jones wasn’t with ‘em?” Roy asked, turning expectantly toward Hoss.

“Yep,” Hoss replied. “They told me he just up ‘n quit.”

“He quit?!” Ben echoed, staring over at his big middle son with a look that clearly questioned the existence of Hoss’ sanity.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss replied.

“Why?” Ben demanded.

Hoss told his father, the junior foreman, and the sheriff about the incident that, according to Arch and Dan, had led to Eddie’s angry resignation.

“I don’t believe it!” Ben exclaimed, wagging his head back and forth slowly.

“WHAT don’t ya believe, Ben?” Roy asked.

“This business of Eddie quitting because he’s tired of workin’ so hard,” Ben replied. “He was, as ALL of ya know, a great, big, strong, healthy ox of a man, who did the work of THREE men without so much as breaking a sweat.”

“That’s true,” Hoss agreed, “ . . . ‘n more often than not, he’d pitch right in ‘n help the others after he got done what he was s’posed t’ for the day. No one ever asked him to, either.”

“How well did Eddie get along with Arch ‘n Dan?” Roy asked.

“Roy!” Ben exclaimed, surprised and outraged. “You’re not accusing THEM of—?!”

“No, Ben, I ain’t. Leastwise, not right now,” Roy replied. “But you think about it a minute. If Arch ‘n Dan AIN’T the very last men t’ see Eddie Jones alive ‘n kickin’, then they NUMBER among the very last. ‘N takin’ into account how li’l traveled that road leadin’ away from your house ‘n barn, is . . . Arch ‘n Dan had damn near all the opportunity in the world t’ kill Eddie before they reached the road, if’n they was of a mind t’.”

“Roy, first off Arch ‘n Dan had no reason t’ wanna kill Eddie,” Hoss said very quietly, “especially Arch.”

“Why ‘especially Arch,’ Hoss?”

“You remember when Arch ‘n Mary’s li’l gal died?”

Roy slowly nodded his head. “Yeah, Hoss,” he murmured somberly. “I remember.”

“ . . . it was a week or so after Eddie came t’ work for us,” Hoss continued. “Arch’d gotten Amy a li’l pony and was just startin’ t’ teach her how t’ ride.”

The darksome magic worked by Hoss’ words transported Ben away from the sheriff’s office, away from present time and place, back to the Ponderosa two months prior. Arch Campbell had given in to his daughter’s demands that she be taught how to ride, over and above the vehement protestations of his wife, Mary, who insisted the girl was too young.

Ben saw Amy Campbell again, every bit as clear and as vivid as he had seen her that day . . . .
. . . riding into the yard alongside her father on the back of her beloved pony, Flower, dressed in a pair of old dungarees that had belonged to her older brother, John, and a dark green riding coat that complimented her red hair.

“RACE YA, PAPA!” she all of a sudden cried out, her voice filled with the same wild joyful abandon he had heard many times before in the voices of his youngest son, Joe, and Marie, his late third wife and mother of that headstrong, impulsive youngest son.

Before Arch or Ben himself realized what was happening, Amy had spurred Flower, from a brisk trot to a fast gallop, the instant she and her father had come into view from around the backside of the barn. Ben remembered opening his mouth to warn Amy to slow down, but before he could give utterance to those words, the child was dead, killed instantly when Flower stepped into a deep chuckhole and stumbled, breaking his leg in three places.

The child never even had time to scream.

Arch, his face pale and eyes round and staring, shuffled woodenly across the dozen or so feet between him and his daughter. With a surprising, yet dreadful calm, he slipped his revolver from its holster and put poor Flower out of his misery, then hefted Amy’s remains gently into his arms and rode off without speaking, without stopping or looking back.

In the days that followed, Ben and his family had done all they could, were STILL doing all they could to offer what comfort and support they could to the bereaved Campbell family, but, oddly given the man’s reclusive nature, it was to Eddie Jones they turned to the most for much needed comfort and strength. He would never, not if he lived to be a hundred, forget the sight of Eddie, standing before Amy’s open grave along side her anguished parents, with tears streaming down his face.
“ . . . uhhh, Ben?”

Roy’s quiet, yet succinct prodding, brought Ben back to present time and place.

“Y’ all right, Pa?” Hoss asked, favoring his father with an anxious frown.

“Fine,” Ben replied, shaking his head as if to physically dislodge the last remnants of the odd vision that had seemingly risen up from out of nowhere and overtaken him so suddenly, and so completely. “Sorry . . . . ”

“ ‘S ok,” Ben,” Roy said. “Look. We don’t hafta to do this right now, if ya ain’t feelin’ up to it,” the sheriff kindly offered.

“Roy, I’m fine. Honest,” Ben hastened to reassure. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather get this over and done . . . SOONER as opposed to later.”

Roy nodded. “Alright,” he continued, “Hoss, YOU just got through tellin’ me why Arch wouldn’t have wanted t’ kill Eddie. How ‘bout Dan?”

“Roy, you know as well as I do that Dan’s a real mellow, easy goin’ sort o’ guy,” Hoss said. An amused grin tugged hard at the corner of his mouth. “He has t’ be, with that li’l spitfire he’s married t’.”

This last remark prompted a soft “oh brother!” from Candy, accompanied by a sarcastic roll of the eyes heavenward.

“Why, I have trouble picturin’ ol’ Dan killin’ a pesky housefly, let alone a man,” Hoss continued.

“I still need t’ talk with the both of ‘em,” Roy said, as he finished writing down everything Hoss had just gotten through telling him about Arch Campbell and Dan Eberhardt. “So when the three of ya get home, YOU tell ‘em t’ stay put until I do.”

“Yes, Sir. I’ll do that.”

“Roy, when, exactly, do you plan on coming out to talk with Arch and Dan?” Ben asked.

“I’ll be out t’morrow mornin’, first thing,” Roy promised, “if’n that’s alright with YOU?”

“Tomorrow morning will be fine,” Ben assented.

Roy took a fresh piece of paper from the bottom left hand drawer of his desk, and began a list of things to do. First thing on that list was to question Arch Campbell and Dan Eberhardt. “How well’d Eddie get along with the other men workin’ for ya?” he asked, glancing over at Ben.

“He made an honest effort, I think, to get along with the other men,” Ben said slowly, “but he tended to keep to himself a great deal.”

“Shy?” Roy asked.

“Absolutely not!” It was Candy, who replied. “He had no trouble speaking up if he felt the need, but he just, plain ‘n simply, wasn’t what I’d call a social butterfly.”

“Did he have a buddy or two, perhaps? Someone he mighta played checkers or sat down to a game o’ cards with?” Roy asked. “A buddy he might’ve come into town with on a Saturday night?”

“Nope,” Candy replied. “For him it was lights out after he’d finished his supper and cleaned up.”

“Includin’ Saturday night?” Roy queried, with eyebrow slightly up raised.

“Including Saturday night,” Candy said firmly.

“Church goin’ man?”

“Nope,” Candy replied.

“Mighta been a PRAYIN’ man, though,” Hoss said quietly, drawing a surprised look from his father and an openly skeptical one from Candy.

“Why do y’ say THAT, Hoss?” Roy asked, the looks on Ben and Candy’s faces not lost on him.

“I saw him in town the Friday after Pa paid him his wages for the first time,” Hoss explained. “He was comin’ outta Saint Mary’s in the Mountains. I, uuhhh . . . . ” His cheeks flushed a slightly deeper shade of pink. “Aw, dang it all, maybe I shouldn’t have done it, but I . . . well, I couldn’t help joshin’ him a little ‘bout bein’ in church ‘n all . . . . ”

“How’d he take it?” Roy prompted when Hoss didn’t immediately resume.

“He didn’t get mad or nothin’ like that,” Hoss replied. “He told me he’d gone in t’ light a candle for someone real special.” He shrugged. “Only someone special he ever mentioned was his ma, so I kinda thought he might’ve lit the prayer candle for HER.”

“You know whether or not he went t’ St. Mary’s t’ light a prayer candle regular?”

“No, Sir,” Hoss ruefully shook his head. “I’m afraid I DON’T know.”

The second item on his list of things to do was to question the priests at Saint Mary’s in the Mountains. If Eddie Jones had made a regular practice of lighting a prayer candle at the church for “someone real special,” one of them, at the very least, had to know about it.

“Sheriff Coffee?”

“Yeah, Candy?”

“As I recall, the only time Eddie EVER went into town was the Friday after payday . . . in the morning,” Candy said slowly.

“What for?” Roy asked.

“First thing Eddie did after getting his first pay check was open a bank account,” Ben replied. “He’d go into town to do his own banking. He’d also pick up my mail and run errands.”

“He tell ya what he was savin’ his money for?” Roy asked.

“No,” Ben said ruefully.

Roy added bank to his list. “Was Eddie a drinkin’ man?”

“He kept a flask of whiskey for medicinal purposes, but . . . I’ll put it THIS way, Sheriff Coffee. Mister Cartwright spoke true when he said Eddie was a big, HEALTHY ox of a man,” Candy said. “Between now and the date Mister Cartwright and I hired him, I can count the number of times I saw Eddie ‘take his medicine’ on one hand.”

“Yep,” Hoss agreed.

“Ok, he wasn’t a drinker,” Roy said, as he made note of that fact. “How ‘bout gamblin’?”

“Gambling’s not allowed in the bunk house, of course,” Candy said very quickly, “but Eddie told me once . . . recently, in fact . . . that he’d sit in on an occasional poker game if he felt lucky.”

“Any idea as t’ how often Eddie felt lucky?”

“Only one time that I know of,” Candy said with a grimace.

“Was that the game in which your month’s wages ended up amongst the money I found in Eddie’s wallet a little while ago?” Ben asked.

“I’m afraid so, Sir,” Candy said ruefully.

“Candy . . . . ”

“Yes, Sheriff Coffee?”

“This game Ben just mentioned . . . when did ya play?”

“The night Joe and I returned home from Carson City empty handed,” Candy replied.

“You wanna tell me a li’l more ‘bout that night?” Roy asked.

“Well . . . after Joe and I got back, we went to Grainger’s Livery to get our horses,” Candy began. “We decided to stop by the Silver Dollar on the way home for a beer to wet our whistles. Eddie was there, seated at that big round table in the center of the room with a big stack of money in front of him, getting ready to deal another hand.”

“ ‘Bout what time was that?” Roy asked.

“When Joe and I got to the Silver Dollar?”

Roy nodded.

“Well . . . it was sometime after nine o’clock when Joe and I got off the stage,” Candy began. “We got our bags and walked over to Grainger’s. Joe and I settled our accounts, and Tony helped us with getting our horses saddled. All in all, I’d say that took twenty minutes, maybe a half hour at the very outside.”

“So we’re lookin’ at you boys leavin’ Grainger’s Livery somewhere between twenty minutes after nine ‘n nine thirty,” Roy said.

Candy nodded his head slowly. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

“ ‘N you said Eddie was there when you ‘n Joe arrived at t’ Silver Dollar?”

“Yes,” Candy replied. “Joe and I went to the bar, and stood each other a round. Then he got to talking with Lotus O’Toole, and I, much to my everlasting regret, ended up in that poker game with Eddie.”

“Who all was playin’?”

“Eddie Jones and me, of course,” Candy replied, “Dick Faraday from Miller’s Folly, Bill Lomax and Leo White from the Shoshone Queen, and an old man . . . I don’t recall his name.”

“Can ya remember what this ol’ man looked like?”

“He had this big mop of scraggly gray hair,” Candy replied. “He was on the tall side, but not what I’d call REAL tall . . . like Hoss here. He was more . . . I’d say about YOUR height, Mister Cartwright. His clothing was old and worn, but clean, and when he stood up to leave? He stood up real straight and tall, the way people might expect of a prince, or a king, or . . . or maybe an army general.”

“Kinda sounds like Bill Taylor,” Roy observed, as he made note of the description Candy had given of the old man.

“Bill Taylor,” Candy said the same very softly. “Bill Taylor.” Then, the light of revelation suddenly dawned. “Yeah. Taylor. I remember Eddie callin’ him Mister Taylor.”

“You ever see him BEFORE that poker game?” Roy asked.

“I . . . think I’ve seen him around town a couple o’ times,” Candy said slowly, “but I don’t recall seeing him at the Silver Dollar before that night.”

“I . . . quite literally . . . bumped into him earlier today,” Ben said. “Judging from the old clothes had on, I can’t for the life of me figure out where in the world he came by enough money to sit in on a poker game.”

“He could be one o’ those eccentric ol’ geezers, who keeps a small fortune stashed up under his mattress, all the while he’s cryin’ poor,” Roy pointed out.

“True,” Ben had to agree. “You know anything about him, Roy?”

“Not a whole lot, I’m afraid,” Roy replied, “only that he’s old . . . doesn’t get around real well . . . ‘n he’s been livin’ in one o’ the upstairs rooms at t’ Bucket o’ Blood since around t’ time o’ Miss McKenna’s arrival.” He jotted down the names of the men playing poker with Candy and Eddie Jones night before last, then once again set aside the pencil in hand. “I’m right in assumin’ Eddie was the big winner?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Candy replied, nodding his head.

“Ben, how much money’d ya find in Eddie’s wallet?”

“I didn’t count it, Roy,” Ben replied. “But, I’d say it was around a hundred dollars.”

“With six men playin’ after YOU joined the game, Candy, I’m kinda surprised there wasn’t MORE money in his wallet,” Roy said.

“Well . . . Leo had the good sense to leave the game while he still had money,” Candy explained. “Dick’s loss amounted to a bunch of I.O.U.s he won’t have to cover now, and the old man . . . Mister Taylor . . . left the game after the first couple of hands.”

“ ‘Bout what time did the game end?” Roy asked.

“For ME the game ended when I ran out of money,” Candy said with a wry grimace. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you what time that was, exactly . . . only that Joe and I left the Silver Dollar right after that.”

“Did the game go on after ya left?” Roy asked.

“Eddie, Dick, and Bill Lomax were getting ready to deal another hand, when Joe and I left the Silver Dollar,” Candy replied. “How long they played after that . . . . ” He shrugged.

“Where’d you ‘n Joe go after ya left the Silver Dollar?” Roy asked.

“Back to the Ponderosa,” Candy replied.

“What time did the two of ya get home that night?”

“I . . . . ” Candy wracked his brains, trying to remember. Finally, he looked up at the lawman and simply shrugged. “Sorry, I can’t remember.”

“Roy?”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“I’m not quite sure exactly when Joe and Candy arrived home that night,” Ben said, “but, I DO remember the clock in the great room striking the quarter hour after midnight while we were talking about their trip to Carson City.”

Roy made note of the approximate times given. “What about Eddie?” he asked. “Any idea what time HE got back that night?”

“No.” Candy shook his head. “Only thing I can tell ya for sure is . . . when I woke up the next morning, Eddie was in his bunk.”

“All right, Ben . . . what do ya know ‘bout Eddie Jones himself?” Roy continued.

“I hired him about a month after he arrived in Virginia City,” Ben replied. “He was a big, strapping man, looking for steady work, and I was shorthanded. He told me that he had spent the last year or so working on a couple of spreads in Arizona. The year before that, he worked on a spread in Texas.”

“You checked out his claims?”

“Of COURSE I did!” Ben replied, indignant and outraged that Roy would in any way suggest that he had somehow been negligent in his responsibilities.

“All right, let’s start with the name o’ those spreads,” Roy said, taking another fresh sheet of paper from the bottom drawer.

“What for?!” Ben demanded.

“ ‘Cause I’M gonna hafta check Eddie Jones’ claims, too, Ben,” Roy said sharply.

Ben sighed. “Eddie worked for the Rising Sun and the Circle K in Arizona. Both are about ten . . . fifteen miles north of Tucson,” he replied. “In Texas, he worked as top hand on a big spread called Bar None, located near a little town called Barclay Junction.”

“How well do ya know the owners?”

“I’m very well acquainted with the owners of the Circle K and Bar None,” Ben replied. “I’ve done business with the Circle K off ‘n on over the years, and the Texas cattle Adam and I bought and bred into OUR line came from Bar None.”

“When was the LAST time ya did business with Circle K ‘n Bar None?” Roy asked.

“Last year, I sold the owner of the Circle K a brood mare and two saddle broken cutting horses,” Ben replied.

“ ‘N Bar None?” Roy prompted.

“I haven’t done any business with Bar None since Elias died,” Ben said a mite sheepishly.

“Elias?” Roy echoed. “He the owner?”

“WAS the owner . . . and I considered him a good friend,” Ben replied. “Elias Tanner died . . . two, maybe three years ago. I heard that his oldest son, Jack, took over the running of the ranch, but apart from sending each other Christmas cards every year . . . . ” He shrugged.

“What did the owners o’ the Circle K, Bar None, ‘n Risin’ Sun hafta say ‘bout Eddie Jones?” Roy asked.

“All three confirmed that Eddie did, indeed, work for ‘em . . . AND they gave him glowing references,” Ben replied.

“Can ya remember anything o’ what they said?”

“Pretty much the same as Candy, Hoss, and I’ve already told you about Eddie.”

Roy added sending wires to the owners of the Bar None Ranch, Barclay Junction, Texas, and the two in Arizona. “Did Eddie ever say anything about family? Where he came from?”

“When Candy and I hired him, Eddie told us that he was born and raised in a little town somewhere in upstate New York,” Ben replied, “and that he’d been pretty much on his own since his mother died, when he was fifteen.”

“That all?”

“That’s all, unless . . . . ” Ben glanced expectantly at Hoss first, then Candy.

“He’s never told ME any more than that,” Candy replied.

“Me, either,” Hoss said.

“Anyone ever ask?”

“Sure,” Candy replied, “but he never gave a straight answer. He’d grunt, then change the subject.”

“I kinda got the feelin’ Eddie never LIKED much talkin’ ‘bout himself,” Hoss added.

“You folks said y’ collected Eddie Jones’ things from t’ bunkhouse ‘n brought ‘em with ya?” Roy asked, after making note of what little Cartwrights and Candy were able to tell him about the man.

“Yeah,” Hoss replied. He set the nearly empty duffel bag on top of the sheriff’s desk. “Eddie didn’t have much . . . . ”

“Let’s see what he had,” Roy said, as he rose and opened the bag. Inside, he found a brand new pair of work pants, two shirts, a pair of long johns, and undergarments that had long ago seen better days. Toiletries consisted of a shaving cup and brush; a razor, and a well-used bar of soap. There was also a pint bottle of whiskey, half empty. Roy carefully placed everything in the center of his desk, then peered once more into the bag. “Ben . . . . ”

“Yes, Roy?”

“There’s some envelopes lyin’ at t’ bottom o’ this bag,” Roy said, “looks like ‘bout half dozen or so.” He reached in and pulled out one. “Now THIS is damn’ peculiar,” he muttered softly, just under his breath.

“What?” Ben demanded.

“This envelope’s addressed t’ George Edwards,” Roy said.

“George Edwards?!” Ben echoed, incredulous. “Who the hell is George Edwards?”

“I dunno, Ben,” Roy replied. Though he knew beyond any doubt whatsoever that he had spoken true, the voice of intuition, his mother’s voice he called it, insisted loud and clear that if he didn’t know that name, he should. He placed the envelope in hand down on the desk before him and reached into the open duffle bag for the remaining five, all the while wracking his brains, trying to recall when or where he had heard that name.

Ben, meanwhile, picked up the envelope lying on the sheriff’s desk. “George Edwards . . . Virginia City, Nevada,” he slowly read the name and address written on the face of the envelope in bold, angular script.

“George Edwards . . . George Edwards . . . George Edwards . . . George Edwards,” Roy read aloud the name written on four or the remaining envelopes as he shuffled through them. “These’re ALSO addressed t’ Virginia City, Nevada.”

“What about THAT one?” Ben asked, pointing to the thick envelope at the very bottom of the stack Roy had just taken from Eddie’s duffle bag.

“Now THIS one’s addressed t’ a PRIVATE Edwards,” Roy said, noting that the handwriting on this envelope was in the same bold, angular script as the others. “No address . . . must’ve been hand delivered.”

“But . . . who in t’ ever lovin’ world is George Edwards?” Hoss queried, with a bewildered frown. “ . . . ‘n what’s Eddie doin’ with his mail?!”

“I don’t believe this . . . . ”

Joe’s voice.

Roy’s thoughts drifted back to the day before yesterday, when Joe had stopped by to find out whether or not there had been replies to wires sent to the New York City Police Department and the Pinkerton Agency, seeking information on Zachary Hilliard.

“This guy’s the spittin’ image of Eddie Jones . . . . ”

“Roy?!”

At the sound of Ben’s voice, anxious and insistent, the reverie vanished as quickly and as unexpectedly as it had come.

“Ben, I . . . think . . . I know who this George Edwards is after all . . . . ” Roy said slowly.

All of the butterflies that had been flitting about in the pit of Ben’s stomach since he and Candy found Eddie Jones’ body, coalesced into an ice cold lump upon seeing Roy’s sickly ashen gray complexion and trembling hands.

“Candy . . . Hoss . . . .” Roy said in as steady a voice as he could possibly muster, “would one o’ boys mind handin’ me that stack o’ papers lyin’ in m’ basket?”

“These the ones ya want?” Hoss asked, as he scooped up the half dozen wanted posters sitting on the very top.

“Yeah.” Roy nodded his thanks, as he accepted the wanted posters from Hoss. “Ben, these just come in . . . day before yesterday, a li’l bit before Joe stopped by.” He pulled a poster out of the middle of the stack and handed it to Ben.

Ben felt the blood drain right out of his face, the instant his eyes fell upon the sullen, angry face that stared out from the wanted poster. Though crudely drawn, the likeness to Eddie Jones was unmistakable. “Killer for hire . . . wanted in Nevada . . . California . . . Texas, and . . . and Arizona . . . . ” he read aloud the information in a voice barely above that of a whisper, his dark eyes round with horror. “Dear God! W-Was . . . was Eddie Jones hired to . . . to KILL my daughter?!”

“That makes no sense to me . . . no sense at all,” Candy said, with a puzzled frown. “Why in the world would ANYONE want to kill a girl who was orphaned before she came to you . . . with no other family . . . no other life to speak of before she was found with the Paiutes!? It doesn’t make any sense!”

“Over the years, I’ve made almost as many enemies as I have friends,” Ben said in a somber tone of voice. “Some of them would have no qualms at all about killing Stacy or my sons either, for that matter . . . to get back at ME. If . . . if Eddie Jones WAS hired to kill my daughter— ”

“Now, Ben, don’t you go jumpin’ t’ conclusions b’fore— ”

“He was, Pa,” Hoss said very quietly, cutting off the sheriff’s stern admonition mid-sentence.

All eyes immediately turned to Hoss, seated next to his father in one of the hard backed chairs facing the sheriff’s desk. His mouth had thinned to a near straight line, his jaw was set with the hardness of granite, and his bright blue eyes burned with raw fury.

“Now, Hoss— ” Roy protested, his head reeling.

“Eddie Jones WAS hired t’ kill my li’l sister. Ain’t no question about it. It’s all right here.” Hoss angrily threw the two envelopes he had in hand down onto the center of the desk.

Ben reached out and picked up the envelope that had landed on top. He turned it over and read the return address scrawled on the flap. “This was mailed from the Comstock Hotel in Carson City . . . a . . . a f-few days before I hired Eddie Jones,” he said in a hollow voice, barely audible. “Candy, isn’t that—?!”

“Yeah,” Candy replied. “That’s the hotel where Zachary Hilliard met Mister Smith.”

“Lemme see that, Ben,” Roy said.

Ben silently handed Roy the envelope he held in his hand.

Roy slipped the single page missive out of its envelope. “ ‘Private Edwards,’ ” he slowly read aloud, “ ‘ your orders: get a job working for Ben Cartwright, as soon as possible. Await further orders.’ It’s signed Corporal Alexander Deveraux for Lieutenant Zachary Hilliard.” He paused, just long enough to slip the brief missive back into its envelope. “Hoss, this note don’t say a blessed thing about— ”

“Read the other one,” Hoss said tersely.

“Alright . . . . ” Roy placed the envelope in hand back down on his desk, and picked up the second. “This was also mailed from Carson City on . . . . ” He glanced up sharply. “ . . . the date on this looks t’ be a day or two before Miss McKenna arrived.”

“May I see that envelope, Roy?” Ben asked.

Roy nodded curtly.

Ben snatched the envelope out of Roy’s hand and looked at the postmark date. “This was mailed three days before Paris arrived,” he said grimly, before giving the envelope back to Roy.

Roy removed another single page letter from the envelope Ben had just given back to him. “ ‘Private Edwards,’ ” he again read aloud. “ ‘Enclosed is the five hundred you asked for up front. Another thousand t’ come when job’s complete. Await further orders.’ This one’s also signed by Corporal Alexander Deveraux for Lieutenant Zachary Hilliard.’ ”

As Roy read the letter, Ben’s eyes strayed over to the bulky envelope, lying on the desk beside the clothing and toiletry items taken from the duffle bag that belonged to the man he knew as Eddie Jones. He picked up the envelope and lifted the flap. Inside was a thick stack of bills, in varying denominations, all upright, facing the same way. “Roy . . . . ”

Roy Coffee cast a sharp glare over at as he slipped the letter he had just finished reading back into its envelope.

“ . . . this has to be the five hundred dollars Alexander Deveraux and Zachary Hilliard mentioned in that last letter,” Ben said grimly. His face was a few shades paler than normal, and his hands were shaking.

“We’ll find ‘em, Pa,” Hoss said in a firm, resolute tone of voice. “So help me . . . we’ll find ‘em if we gotta tear this whole blamed town apart board by board.”

“Now you just settle yourself down right now, Hoss,” Roy said sharply, as he took the envelope containing the money from Ben. He closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “Alright,” he said finally, laboring mightily to keep his voice calm. “I gotta admit that puttin’ together the instructions for Eddie . . . uhhh, George, t’ get a job workin’ for YOU, Ben . . . ‘n the cut cinch on Stacy’s saddle adds up t’ one helluva piece o’ circumstantial evidence. But, neither one o’ them letters say a thing about Stacy, nor do they say anything ‘bout doin’ her harm.”

“You sayin’ you ain’t gonna arrest ‘em?!” Hoss growled, the dark, angry scowl on his face deepening.

“I can’t . . . NOT for tryin’ t’ harm Stacy, anyway,” Roy replied. “Now, I CAN bring ‘em in ‘n question ‘em about George Edwards’ murder . . . and I will, soon as I find out where they are. But, as things stand right now, there ain’t a thing here that links Alexander Deveraux ‘n Zachary Hilliard t’ Stacy’s saddle.”

“Why ELSE would they have told Eddie . . . George . . . whoever the hell he is . . . to get a job working for me?!” Ben hotly demanded.

“ . . . and what other reason could this Zachary Hilliard’ve had for asking questions about Stacy?” Candy added. “I can half way understand why he might ask questions about the Cartwrights and the Ponderosa . . . but I was told most of his questions were about Stacy.”

“I’ve not ruled out the possibility o’ him bein’ a Pinkerton man, workin’ maybe for her blood kin,” Roy pointed out, “ ‘n I won’t, ‘til I hear somethin’ back from Judd.”

“Then why would he and this Corporal Deveraux tell Eddie to get a job working for Mister Cartwright if it wasn’t to spy on Stacy and the rest of the family?” Candy demanded.

“ ‘Cause the Ponderosa’s one o’ the biggest . . . if not THE biggest . . . spreads in t’ whole state o’ Nevada,” Roy said. “Hell! If’n I had a friend just come t’ town, ‘n I knew he was lookin’ for work . . . I’d send him t’ see Ben first. So would a lotta folks ‘round here ‘cause Ben’s a good man t’ work for . . . ‘n with the size o’ the Ponderosa, he’s mostly likely t’ have work.”

“It would also be a real good place for a man to lie low, if he’d come here with the intention of doing something illegal,” Candy added.

“It wouldn’t be t’ first time, either,” Hoss growled.

“Candy . . . Hoss . . . ‘n you, too, Ben!” Roy said sternly, glaring at each man in turn. “The three of ya jumpin’ t’ conclusions like that, before we get enough o’ the facts t’gether ain’t gonna help Stacy, ‘n it sure as hell ain’t gonna help me do what I gotta do.”

Ben immediately opened his mouth to protest.

“Hear me out, Ben,” Roy held up his hand, effectively silencing the tirade sitting at the very edge of Ben’s tongue. “What we got right now’s like pieces uva jigsaw puzzle. They show some o’ the picture . . . Alexander Deveraux ‘n Zachary Hilliard hirin’ Ed—George! t’ do a job for ‘em f’r instance, or Zachary Hilliard goin’ ‘round askin’ folks questions ‘bout Stacy, but I don’t have a damn thing here that connects any of ‘em t’ the cut cinch on Stacy’s saddle.”

“You’re WRONG, Roy,” Hoss said.

“Now you listen t’ me ‘n you listen good, Hoss Cartwright!” Roy vented, succumbing, finally, to his own rising the anger and frustration. “You ain’t gonna— ”

“Read THIS!” Hoss said curtly. He handed the single page note in hand along with its accompanying envelope over to the sheriff. “You read that over real good, then tell me again what kinda connections we can make with everything we got right here.”

Roy took the note from Hoss with a weary sigh and read it over a couple of times, very slowly.

“Well?!” Ben prompted, sparing no energy to conceal his ever-increasing impatience. “Come ON, Roy . . . what does it say?”

“ ‘Private Edwards,’ ” Roy read aloud through clenched teeth. “ ‘The word is given. You are hereby ordered to carry out Operation Fall From Grace, at your discretion, as we agreed. Make damn sure it looks like an accident. Instructions for payment on balance due to follow, after the job is complete,’ signed yet again by this Corporal Deveraux for Lieutenant Zachary Hilliard.’ ”

“Is THAT proof enough for ya?” Ben angrily demanded.

“NO, Ben. It ain’t!” Roy returned, every bit as angry and exasperated. “I wish more ‘n anything I could say it WAS, but I can’t.”

“Roy, I may not be the smartest fella in the whole wide world, but I can still see how this so called Operation Fall From Grace has gotta mean Stacy fallin’ off a horse . . . ‘cause her saddle’d been tampered with,” Hoss argued.

“Alright, Hoss! YOU read that letter . . . then you tell me—NO! Dang it, you SHOW me where it says anything . . . anything at ALL . . . ‘bout doin’ Stacy harm,” Roy challenged, the scowl on his face deepening.

“Maybe it don’t say so in so many words— ”

“Well it’s GOTTA say so in so many words,” Roy rounded furiously on the middle Cartwright son, “otherwise it’s their word against yours.”

Hoss lapsed into a cold, stony silence.

“Alright, Roy . . . you’ve made it quite clear what you DON’T have,” Ben said, his voice rising slightly. “How about telling us now what the hell we DO need to prove those men tried to kill my daughter?!”

“Our case would be a whole helluva lot stronger if we could turn up a witness or two who actually saw George Edwards cut the cinch strap o’ Stacy’s saddle,” Roy said bluntly. “But, everyone I talked t’ told me they didn’t even know her saddle’d been tampered with.”

“What ELSE do we need?” Ben snapped out his next question.

“Right now it ain’t a question o’ what WE need, it’s a question o’ what I need,” Roy angrily shot right back, “ ‘n what I need most right now is for the three o’ YOU t’ back off ‘n let ME do m’ job. That goes for Joe, too!”

His words, and the vehemence by which he had uttered them left a stunned silence in their wake.

“Ben,” he continued at length, in a calmer, more kindly tone of voice, “Ben, I promise ya . . . I give ya my word . . . I’m gonna do everything that’s in m’ power t’ find out who cut the cinch strap on Stacy’s saddle, ‘n whilst I’m at it, I’m gonna find out who killed Eddie Jones. But I’m gonna do it within the bounds o’ the LAW.”

“Fine, Roy . . . you DO that!” Ben growled back, as he, Hoss, and Candy slowly rose to their feet. “But you bear THIS in mind, too. I am going to do everything . . . and I do mean EVERYTHING . . . within MY power to protect my daughter.”

“Ben, I got no problem with that” Roy said quietly. “None whatsoever. As her pa, I expect ya t’ take whatever steps y’ hafta t’ keep Stacy safe. You just make damn sure y’ stay within t’ bounds of the law. If ’n you or your boys go steppin’ OVER that line . . . . ” He let his voice trail away to an ominous, strained silence. “I . . . hope we understand each other?”

“I understand perfectly,” Ben replied. “Hoss . . . Candy . . . let’s go home.”

 

Ben, Hoss, and Candy wearily rode into the yard between the log ranch house and the barn as the silver-gray twilight began to give way to the approaching dusk. The tops of the tallest pine trees were already lost within the darkening sky above and the murky shadows of the coming night.

“Mister Cartwright?” Candy ventured, as the three dismounted.

“Yes, Candy?”

“I’ve been kicking myself over and over for not saying something about this while we were in the sheriff’s office,” Candy said ruefully, “but . . . I didn’t even think of it until we were well on our way home.”

“I have a feeling we’re all going to be thinking of and remembering things we should have told the sheriff over the course of the next few days,” Ben said. “If whatever’s on your mind now turns out to be something important, we can ride into town and tell Roy tomorrow morning.”

“Sure thing,” Hoss agreed.

Candy sighed. “It MAY be important . . . then again it may be just a case of my overactive imagination looking for plots against you and the rest of your family behind every tree and under every rock,” he said, “but . . . try as I might, I keep coming back to the military element in all this.”

“Military element?” Hoss echoed. “Whaddya mean, Candy?”

“The way those men referred to themselves by army rank in the letters they wrote to Eddie . . . George . . . whoever he really was, for instance, and the wording of those letters—” Candy explained.

“ . . . like military orders!” Ben suddenly realized.

“Yeah,” Candy agreed, then continued, “and the way we found Ed—the body! . . . with his hands tied behind him, and the gunshot wound to the head . . . if memory serves, that’s how the Army carries out executions on the field, during the course of a battle or immediately after.” He paused briefly. “Now I could be ‘way off the mark here, but still . . . I can’t help but wonder . . . is it possible these guys are army buddies?!”

“Of course . . . . ” Ben responded softly, his voice barely above the decibel of a whisper. “Curse me for a fool, I should have realized . . . . ”

Hoss frowned. “Candy . . . Pa . . . . ” he ventured, looking from one to the other, “what makes ya think those men might be army buddies?”

“It’s not uncommon for men who have served in the army or other branches of the military, to answer to the last rank they held,” Ben explained, “though I’d always thought that applied to men who had achieved the rank of captain or higher.”

“So did I,” Candy admitted.

“Pa . . . ‘n you, too, Candy . . . had either one o’ ya ever heard o’ Eddie Jones . . . or George Edwards . . . before he came t’ Virginia City?” Hoss asked.

“No . . . . ” Ben replied, taken aback by his middle son’s question.

“Me, neither, Big Guy,” Candy replied. “Why do ya ask?”

“ . . . ‘n NONE o’ us’d ever heard o’ Alexander Deveraux or Zachary Hilliard either, ‘til now.”

“I haven’t,” Candy replied.

“Hoss . . . what’re you getting at?” Ben asked, as his thick brows came together to form a puzzled frown.

“Any way we can find out the name o’ their captain?” Hoss asked. “Could be HE’S givin’ the orders t’ this Zachary Hilliard ‘n Alexander Deveraux . . . . ”

“We COULD send a wire to the War Department in Washington, but given that it’s part of the Federal Government, it’d probably be a whole month of Sundays before we get back a reply,” Ben said slowly, “that’s assuming we get a reply at all.”

“Mister Cartwright . . . Hoss . . . I recently found out that a good friend of my father’s is stationed in Washington D.C.,” Candy said. “You probably know him, too.”

“Oh?” Ben queried.

Candy nodded. “It was a good number of years ago, but at one time, he was the commander at the fort where the two of you and Joe first met Stacy.”

“Not Major Baldwin!” Hoss exclaimed with a scowl.

“No.” Candy immediately shook his head. “Major Sean McGuinness.”

“Yes . . . I DO remember Major McGuinness,” Ben said. “I had no idea in the world that YOU know him as well.”

“He and my father were close friends from the day they first met as a couple of raw recruits until the day my father was killed in battle,” Candy explained. “His son, Dash, and I grew up together.”

“Dash?” Hoss queried. A smile tugged hard at the corner of his mouth. “Short for Dashel McGuinness?”

“Yeah,” Candy replied with a grin.

“When we met Stacy, Sergeant Dashel McGuinness was the man in charge o’ the horses,” Hoss explained.

“ . . . and the only one who was able to earn a measure of Stacy’s trust,” Ben said quietly.

“I’d forgotten about that,” Candy said softly. “At any rate, Dash’s father is now a general, with more than enough clout, I’m sure, to shake loose answers to our questions, quickly and efficiently. I’ll be more than happy to wire him. However . . . . ”

“Yes?” Ben prompted, after a long moment of silence.

“I . . . haven’t been in direct contact with him for . . . well, I’m afraid it’s been a very long time, Mister Cartwright,” Candy ruefully confessed. “But . . . out of the goodness of his heart and remembering his friendship with my father . . . . ”

“Hey, Candy, nothin’ ventured . . . nothin’ gained,” Hoss sagely observed.

“I’ll see to it first thing in the morning,” Candy promised.

“ . . . uhhh, Pa?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“With the two men who, like as not, killed Eddie ‘n TRIED t’ hurt or kill Li’l Sister referin’ to themselves by Army rank, ‘n doin’ things the way they did ‘em when they were in the Army . . . y’ think it’s possible they’re goin’ about their business now like it was some kinda military operation?” Hoss asked.

His middle son’s query sent an ice-cold chill running down the entire length of Ben’s spine. He shuddered, as his eyes darted from one opaque shadow to the next, searching . . . .

“Pa?! Hey, Pa . . . you all right?” Hoss queried with a puzzled frown.

“Hoss . . . Candy . . . I think we’d better continue our discussion in the house,” Ben said, making a point of lowering his voice.

“Sure thing, Pa,” Hoss said. “Why don’t you g’won in? Candy ‘n me’ll be along, as soon as we take care o’ the horses.”

Ben nodded his thanks, then turned and began walking at a brisk pace toward the house.

 

Joe closed the book in hand and placed it down onto the coffee table, upon hearing the front door open. “Pa, I’m glad you’re back,” he said by way of greeting, as he rose from his seat in the blue chair, over next to the fireplace.

“Everything alright?” Ben asked, as he removed his hat, and set himself to the task of removing his gun belt.

“Fine,” Joe said, as he walked over toward his father. En route, he paused just long enough to cast a quick, furtive glance upstairs.

“I take it Stacy and Paris are upstairs?”

Joe nodded. “They’re in their rooms,” he said. “You want me to call them?”

“No, not just yet,” Ben replied, as he and Joe made their way over toward the furniture grouped around the massive, gray stone fireplace.

“So. What did you find out about Eddie Jones?” Joe asked, as he sat down in the middle of the settee. “Hoss told me that you and Candy found his body lying out in Potters’ Field. Wasn’t he supposed to have gone out with Arch and Dan?”

“Yes . . . . ”

“So . . . what happened? Why DIDN’T he go with them?”

“To cut right to the heart of the matter, Arch and Dan told Hoss that Eddie just up and quit, the minute they reached the road,” Ben replied.

“Y-You’re kidding!” Joe exclaimed, his eyes round as saucers.

Ben shook his head.

“Did they tell Hoss WHY Eddie just . . . up ‘n quit?”

Ben shared with Joe everything that Hoss had told Candy, Roy, and himself at the sheriff’s office that afternoon, regarding Eddie Jones’ sudden decision to quit his job on the Ponderosa.

“This business of us working Eddie too hard . . . Pa, that doesn’t make one lick o’ sense!” Joe declared, shaking his head in complete and utter disbelief. “I mean . . . for cryin’ out loud! Eddie did the work of THREE men without even blinkin’ an eye.”

“I know, Son. I have to admit it made no sense to me either . . . at first.”

“Whaddya mean it made no sense to you either . . . at first?!” Joe demanded.

Ben half sat-half fell into his favorite red leather chair, and reached for the bottle of brandy sitting in the middle of the coffee table. “His name wasn’t Eddie Jones, Son . . . it was George Edwards.”

“George Edwards . . . George Edwards . . . . ” Joe murmured softly, as he ran a hand through the tangle of thick, brown curls atop his head. “George . . . Edwards. Pa, for some reason, that name’s familiar to me.”

“His picture’s on a wanted poster, Joe . . . one that Roy had just received the day you went into town to ask if he had any replies back from wires we sent to the Pinkerton Agency and the New York City Police Department,” Ben said, as he poured himself a generous glass full of good strong brandy.

Joe felt the blood drain right out of his face. “Pa . . . Sheriff Coffee s-said this . . . this George Edwards was some kinda killer f-for hire,” he stammered in a voice barely audible.

“Yes,” Ben replied.

Joe was afraid to ask his next question, but knew he must. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and mentally braced himself. “Pa,” he began, surprised at how calm his voice sounded in his own ears, “w-was Eddie . . . I mean George . . . was he hired to kill someone?”

Ben cast a quick glance over his shoulder toward the stairs. Upon returning his attention to his youngest son, he continued, taking great care to lower his voice. “From the letters that Candy found in and among Ed—, I mean George’s things . . . I’m inclined to believe that he was hired to harm . . . perhaps even kill your sister by two men . . . one of them being this wily Zachary Hilliard who always seems to keep himself a step ahead of us.”

For a moment, Joe sat, still as a rabbit or a deer caught in the light of a fire or a hunter’s lantern. He stared over at his father, through eyes round with shocked horror, too stunned to speak or even move. “P-Pa . . . . ” he finally ventured, the minute he found his voice, “why?!”

Ben raised the brandy glass in hand to his lips and downed half its contents in a single gulp. “At this point, I don’t know, Son.”

“So how, exactly . . . did Eddie . . . I mean George Edwards . . . die?”

“He was shot,” Ben replied. “Once in the back, and once in the back of his head.”

“Bushwhacked?” Joe asked.

“I thought so . . . until I opened his wallet and found a hundred dollars inside.”

“Chiminey Christmas!” Joe whispered, shaking his head. “Any idea who killed him?”

“No,” Ben replied. “Not really. However, in my own humble opinion . . . for what it’s worth . . . if Zachary Hilliard and his accomplice, a man by the name of Alexander Deveraux, DIDN’T murder Eddie . . . George . . . or whoever he was . . . they have a real good idea who DID.”

“Even if they had nothing to do with his death, they still have plenty to answer for concerning Stacy’s saddle,” Joe said with a dark, angry scowl. “That’s MY humble opinion . . . for what its worth.”

“I agree completely, Son,” Ben said.

“Is Sheriff Coffee gonna arrest ‘em?”

“He’s going to bring ‘em both in for questioning,” Ben replied, “assuming, of course, he can find them.”

Joe silently digested everything his father had just told him. “Pa?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“I . . . think . . . maybe . . . I WILL have that glass of b-brandy after all . . . . ”

Ben poured Joe a glass of brandy, then filled him in on all the remaining details.

“Pa . . . . ” It was Hoss. He and Candy entered the house, and walked over to join Ben and Joe, after removing their own hats and gun belts. Hoss seated himself in the blue chair, while Joe made room for Candy on the settee. “Candy ‘n I got t’ horses unsaddled, ‘n gave ‘em a good brushin’. Mitch ‘n Bobby are seein’ to their food ‘n water.”

“You said you wanted to continue our discussion in here,” Candy said bluntly.

“Yes,” Ben said.

“You brought Li’l Brother here up t’ speed on things, Pa?” Hoss asked.

“Yeah . . . he did,” Joe replied. “I’m still trying to take it all in.”

“Call me paranoid if you’d like,” Ben said, continuing on with the matter utmost in all their minds, “but when Hoss pointed out that the letters, we found with Ed—with GEORGE’S things, were written in the style and manner of military orders, I . . . well, to put it bluntly, I started to wonder if those men might have us all under a surveillance of some kind.”

“Surveillance?!” Joe echoed, incredulous.

Ben nodded.

“Y-You’re giving me a real bad case of the willies, Pa,” Joe said soberly.

“I’m giving myself a real bad case of the willies, too, Son,” Ben admitted, with a shudder, “but, for the life of me, I can’t shake it.”

“It makes sense, actually,” Candy said quietly, “though with George Edwards working here, they probably didn’t have to watch all that closely. Now, that he’s gone . . . . ”

“ . . . they’re going to be paying closer attention,” Ben said grimly.

“That could work to our advantage, Mister Cartwright,” Candy pointed out.

“How so?” Ben asked.

“So far, they’ve taken great pains to cover their tracks and conceal their whereabouts,” Candy explained. “With this George Edwards now permanently out of the picture, they’re, like as not, going to be watching closer, just as you said. That’s going to increase their risk of exposure.”

“But . . . what, exactly, are they looking FOR?” Joe asked.

“Another opportunity, more ‘n likely,” Hoss said with a dark, angry scowl.

“Another opportunity to . . . to . . . . ” Joe turned and gazed up toward the upper environs of the house.

“If these men ARE watching us, I’d say they’re more than likely trespassing,” Candy ventured. “We could organize search parties— ”

“No,” Ben immediately vetoed the idea. “We do that, they’ll go deeper into hiding and bide their time. I want to put them out of business now, not later.”

“What do ya want us t’ do, Pa?” Hoss asked.

“If Zachary Hilliard and Alexander Deveraux want to play at being soldiers . . . I think we should play right along with them,” Ben said slowly, his voice filled with grim resolve. “Candy . . . . ”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright?”

“After we finish talking, I want you to ride out to the foreman’s house and tell Hank I want to see him as soon as possible,” Ben said. “When he comes, I’ll bring him up to date on everything.” Hank Carlson was his senior foreman.

“Pa . . . won’t they expect us to do something like that?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied, “but I’m figuring within the next day or so, they’ll assume I asked Hank to come here so that I might tell him about Eddie Jones’ death. In the meantime, you’re to say absolutely nothing to the other men. I want them to go about their business as usual.”

“All right, Pa . . . . ” Hoss murmured softly.

Joe and Candy silently nodded ascent.

“I want the three of YOU . . . and Hank . . . to be on the look out for strangers passing through . . . for campsites and other signs of human habitation . . . I think you get the picture,” Ben continued.

“ . . . and if we find someone trespassing or signs they’ve passed through?” Joe asked.

“For now, deal with the situation as we usually do,” Ben replied. “If Zachary Hilliard and Alexander Deveraux ARE watching us . . . and I think that very likely . . . I want to them to think we’re completely ignorant of their presence.”

Candy grinned. It was a mirthless, feral grin. “Lull them into a false sense of security, Mister Cartwright?” he asked.

“Yes,” Ben replied. “Men who feel secure more often than not forget about being careful. They grow smug and arrogant before long . . . . ”

“ . . . ‘n men that cock sure o’ themselves make mistakes,” Hoss thoughtfully finished his father’s train of thought.

“Exactly,” Ben replied.

“One of us needs to stay here,” Joe pointed out.

“For now, Hoss is the logical choice,” Ben decided, “since he and Stacy are in the midst of working with that stallion . . . . ”

“ . . . which I, for the life of me, can’t understand why,” Joe said with a puzzled frown leveled in the direction of his big brother. “I say turn him loose in the corral with our brood mares ‘n let him do what he does best. Why waste the time ‘n energy to saddle train him?”

“I . . . know we ain’t had Sun Dancer all that long, Li’l Brother,” Hoss began, “but from what I’ve seen so far, he seems to be even tempered ‘n real easy goin’.” He grinned. “He’s also taken quite a shine t’ our li’l sister.”

“Hoss . . . if you and Stacy are having thoughts of her riding that animal in the Independence Day Race . . . the two of ya’d better put ‘em out of your minds right now,” Ben said very sternly. “No daughter of mine is going to participate in a horse race and that’s THAT.”

“Yes, Pa,” Hoss replied with a doleful sigh.

“I mean it, Hoss,” Ben warned. “I’m counting on the two of ya working with Sun Dancer to lift Stacy’s morale and keep her from chomping so hard at the bit what with having to keep her so close to home right now . . . but I am NOT going to change my mind about her riding that animal in the Independence Day Race.”

“Mister Cartwright, supper ready twenty minute,” Hop Sing announced, as he ambled into the great room. “Make sure Miss Stacy and Miss Paris know.”

“I’ll tell ‘em,” Joe volunteered.

 

Jeff Collier, known as Sarge to friends and acquaintances, sat behind a small, round table in a dark, out of the way corner of the Bucket of Blood Saloon. He wore a pair of faded, well-worn denim jeans, a yellow-beige cotton shirt with its long sleeves rolled to three quarter length, and a brown flannel jacket. A full glass of whiskey, untouched, sat on the table before him.

Tonight, the joint was “a-leapin’ an’ a-jumpin’ like a bunch o’ big ol’ bull frogs a-goin’ after the same fly,” to quote his youngest brother, Harvey. He had heard the raucous merriment and the piano, the minute he had turned the corner a block up the street. The patrons stood around the bar three and four deep, most well pickled, despite the early hour . . . .

“ ‘Evenin’, Farmer Boy,” cooed a low, throaty voice that dripped of magnolia and mint juleps. “Buy me a drink?”

He slowly lifted his head and found Belinda Everett, one of the barmaids standing over him. Tonight she wore a satin dress of bright scarlet, with a plunging neckline and hem that reached just above her knees. The garment clung to her voluptuous, womanly figure, as if she had been heated to a liquid and poured into it. His eyes lingered appreciatively on her generous, well rounded bosom for a moment, then slowly followed the gentle, curving lines that flowed into a trim waist and nicely rounded hips, culminating in a pair of long shapely legs.

“You must have a lot on your mind, Farmer Boy,” Belinda purred, low, soft, and inviting, as she pulled out the only other chair at the table.

“Yep,” Jeff grunted.

“You wanna talk about it over a bottle of whiskey and two glasses?” she asked, placing her hand over his. “We can go up to my room ‘n talk private, if ya like.”

“Sorry . . . no,” Jeff immediately declined, as he gently, yet very pointedly lifted her hand off of his. He, then, reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a single bill. “Here y’ are, Miss. If you happen across another farm boy this evening with lots on his mind . . . buy him and yourself a beer on me.”

“Thank you kindly, Farmer Boy,” she said stiffly, as she rose, and provocatively stuffed the dollar bill between her breasts. She, then, turned heel, and strode briskly toward the bar without sparing a backward glance.

“Pretty girl.”

Jeff glanced up and saw Lieutenant Zachary Hilliard, dressed as the elderly derelict, Bill Taylor, leaning believably on his cane. He respectfully rose to his feet, but did not salute. “In her own way, I suppose. Compared to Eileen . . . well, I’ll be gentlemanly, Sir, and simply say she comes up sorely wanting.”

“Eileen was truly one of a kind, Sergeant. Beautiful, every bit as intelligent as the blue stockings from whence I came, yet with all the genteel charm and grace of a lady from the old south,” Zachary said quietly, his voice filled with great respect. “I was very sorry to learn of her death.”

“Thank you, Mister Taylor,” Jeff said quietly. “Would you care to sit down?”

“Thank you, Mister Collier,” Bill Taylor, alias for Zachary Hilliard, said crisply. He pulled out the other chair and eased himself down into it. “At ease.”

Jeff nodded curtly and sat down. “I have two copies of my report, Sir. One for you and one for the captain,” he said, producing a stuffed envelope from the inner pocket of his jacket. “It details the Cartwright Family’s movements over the past three days, including all the why’s and wherefores . . . among other things.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Zachary said crisply. He took the envelope and slipped it under his shirt.

“I want to bring two things to your immediate attention, however,” Jeff continued. “First, Mister Cartwright’s very much aware that his daughter is in danger.”

Zachary felt the blood drain right out of his face. “Oh no,” he groaned softly. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“The captain will not be pleased,” Zachary said, his eyes round with fear.

“No,” Jeff agreed somberly.

“How much does Mister Cartwright know?”

“He knows the girl’s in danger,” Jeff replied. “I know that much. I’m still working on finding out the answers to how and why.”

“That’s why he’s keeping the girl close to home?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Any idea as to what alerted Mister Cartwright to his daughter’s peril?”

“The failure of Operation Fall From Grace,” Jeff replied. “It HAS to be. The older son, the big man they call Hoss, discovered the cut cinch almost immediately.”

“Damn it!” Zachary swore, angry and frustrated, yet fearful.

“Sir . . . far be it from me to . . . well . . . to, uhhh . . . criticize your actions . . . . ” Jeff hesitantly ventured.

“Spit it out, Mister Collier,” Zachary ordered tersely.

“The Cartwrights know that a man by the name of Zachary Hilliard was in town a few days ago, asking questions about the girl,” Jeff said with reluctance.

Zachary blanched. He closed his eyes, and forced himself to take a deep breath, long, slow, even . . . .

“ . . . and hold . . . two . . . three . . . four, his voice teacher chanted once again, now exhale . . . two . . . three . . . four . . . . ”

His eyes suddenly snapped open. “Mister Collier, are you trying to tell me that Ben Cartwright and his sons can connect my discreet questions with the attempt made on the girl’s life?” Zachary demanded.

“I don’t know, Sir,” Jeff replied, “not for certain. MY guess is . . . Mister Cartwright’s suspicions have been aroused, but he’s not one hundred percent certain.”

“For making a guess, you sound very sure of yourself,” Zachary caustically observed.

“I am a soldier as you well know, Mister Taylor,” Jeff said quietly. “But I am also a father. Given the same set of circumstances . . . a saddle cinch that was deliberately cut, and a stranger in town asking questions about my family, I’d be keeping MY daughter close to home, too, if I were in Mister Cartwrights shoes . . . until I could learn more.”

“It’s imperative that we find out exactly what Mister Cartwright knows and how he came to find out about it,” Zachary said, his tone of voice terse, his syllables clipped and words over enunciated. He quickly slid his hands off the table and into his lap, that the man, seated across the table from him, not see their trembling.

“I will do my best, Sir,” Jeff dutifully promised, “but surveillance will be more difficult now with Mister Edwards’ sudden demise.”

Tiny beads of cold sweat dotted Zachary Hilliard’s brow. His stomach lurched, and for one brief, horrifying moment, he half feared he was going to loose the meager supper he had eaten less than an hour before. “You KNOW?!”

“About Mister Edwards?”

Zachary nodded.

“Yes, Sir. I know.”

“What . . . exactly . . . do you know about Mister Edwards’ sudden demise?” Zachary asked. It took every ounce of will and resolve he possessed to maintain his outward appearance of stoic calm.

“I don’t know anything regarding the circumstances of his death, Mister Taylor,” Jeff replied. “I only know that Mister Cartwright and Mister Canaday found his body lying in a field several yards from the main road between Virginia City and the Ponderosa . . . and that they and Mister Cartwright’s older son, Hoss, took the private’s body into town, presumably to the sheriff.”

“Dammit!” Zachary swore under his breath.

“Sir?!” Jeff queried, taken aback by the lieutenant’s sudden burst of temper.

“Mister Collier, what I am about to impart is, for the time being, for YOUR ears only,” Zachary said stiffly. He fell silent for a moment to give consideration to the words he would utter next. “It . . . recently came to my attention that Mister Edwards was about to commit what amounts to being an act of high treason.”

Jeff’s jaw dropped. He stared over at Zachary Hilliard through eyes round as saucers, too stunned to utter a word.

Private George Edwards was what many contemptuously referred to as a mercenary, a soldier for hire. Lieutenant Hilliard and Corporal Deveraux had hired him to do espionage work and to carry out a special mission. Jeff knew nothing of the particulars concerning said special mission, nor was he the slightest bit curious. If his superior officers decided it was necessary for him to know, they would tell him.

Private Edwards’ espionage work, however, had been nothing short of exemplary. Though he quite literally stood head and shoulders above most, he was a quiet, unobtrusive man, with sharp ears, and an excellent memory for details. The man had also displayed an uncanny knack for remembering conversations, word for word. Jeff had come to know early on that he could trust the man to provide accurate, detailed information.

His thoughts momentarily drifted back to his very last meeting with Private Edwards . . . .
“Sergeant Collier, I’ve killed a good number o’ men over the last six or seven years,” Private Edwards wearily confessed. “So not t’ speak ill o’ the dead, I’ll just say that most of ‘em were mean, ornery sons-of-bitches, who had it comin’. I’ve never killed a woman, though I been tempted a time of two . . . ‘n I never killed any children. Never. I . . . thought . . . maybe I could, if I was paid enough . . . . ” He sighed then, and dolefully shook his head. “I was wrong.”

“ . . . uhh . . . why are you, um, telling ME this, Private?” Jeff asked.

George Edwards eyes met his own with a piercing stare that “cut clear through all the muckity muck, right straight to the heart of the matter,” to quote his sainted mother, Leah Collier. “You know damned well why I’m tellin’ YOU this, Sergeant . . . . ” he replied in a quiet, deathly calm tone of voice.

He knew.

Jeff Collier had never voiced a word of his own misgivings about this mission to anyone, least of all to a man who, for all his good work, remained a stranger to him. “How?” he silently, fearfully wondered.

Did Private Edwards possess some uncanny way of knowing?

Or were his own feelings that obvious? Jeff shuddered at the thought.
“Mister Collier.”

The sound of Lieutenant Hilliard’s voice, terse, with syllables clipped, forced Jeff from his uneasy musings with a violent start.

“That is the THIRD time I’ve called to you,” Zachary admonished the man seated with him at the table, his annoyance clearly heard.

“M-My apologies, Sir,” Jeff said, while inwardly struggling to compose himself. “Though he was not part of our unit, Mister Edwards’ work was exemplary and his conduct above reproach. I’m astonished and dismayed to learn he was on the verge of committing high treason.”

“As was I,” Zachary said, slightly mollified by Jeff’s apology and explanation. “My . . . source, however, is reliable . . . impeccably so.”

Jeff nodded. “Yes, Sir,” he quietly affirmed.

“I ordered Corporal Devereaux to resolve the matter,” Zachary continued, his anger and frustration rising. “Unfortunately, that . . . that incompetent son-of-a-bitch can’t carry out a simple assignment in a bucket. I should have realized something was amiss when the sheriff came around to see Bill Taylor this evening just before supper time.”

Jeff blanched. “Surely the sheriff d-doesn’t suspect . . . . ”

“I’m reasonably certain he doesn’t,” Zachary said curtly. “I . . . that is Bill Taylor . . . played a couple of hands of poker with Private Edwards and others, including Mister Canaday.”

Jeff Collier mulled over everything that Zachary Hilliard had just told him, with fear and trembling. He remembered the incident concerning the Cartwright girl’s saddle, and, though he had his suspicions, he had no idea that Private Edwards had been responsible.

Until now.

Frankly, Jeff was amazed Private Edwards would have left so much to chance. From what little he had been able to observe for himself, the private appeared to be very meticulous in his planning, always taking into account the unexpected.

“Sergeant Collier, I’ve killed a good number o’ men over the last six or seven years . . . . ”

George Edwards’ words once again echoed in his mind.

“ . . . I’ve never killed a woman, though I been tempted a time of two . . . ‘n I never killed any children. Never. I . . . thought . . . maybe I could, if I was paid enough . . . . I was wrong.”

“ . . . uhh . . . why are you, um, telling ME this, Private?”

“You know damned well why I’m tellin’ YOU this, Sergeant . . . . ”

“Does the captain know about any of this?” Jeff asked.

“Not yet.”

An uneasy silence fell between the two men, like a heavy pall.

“I . . . WILL . . . personally . . . see that the captain is . . . informed,” Zachary added. When he felt the time was right. He fervently hoped and prayed that some of the more zealous members of the unit, like the hero worshipping Matthews boys, didn’t beat him to the proverbial punch.

Jeff nodded, relieved and deeply, profoundly grateful the responsibility of reporting Private Edwards’ death and the circumstances surrounding it didn’t fall on his shoulders.

Zachary leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. For a moment, he sat with eyes closed, gingerly massaging his temples. “Do you have anything else to report, Mister Collier?” he asked, finally.

“Yes, Sir . . . I do,” Jeff replied. “It may be nothing of consequence, but in the interest of keeping you and the captain fully informed . . . . ”

“What is it?” Zachary demanded, mentally bracing himself.

“Mister Canaday was seen leaving the bunkhouse shortly after the noon hour, carrying a duffle bag that appeared to be half full,” Jeff replied.

Zachary felt his heart plummet to his feet like a granite millstone dropped into a very deep body of water. “Private Edwards’ things?”

“I can’t say for absolute certain . . . not without inspecting the contents of that bag myself, Sir, but I’d say it was more than likely, given that Private Edwards was the only one of Ben Cartwright’s men who traveled that light,” Jeff said grimly. “I know that Corporal Deveraux corresponded with Private Edwards several times on your behalf . . . . ”

“Are you saying that the correspondence between Corporal Deveraux and Private Edwards is in the hands of the sheriff?!” Zachary demanded, fearful and angry.

“Again . . . I can’t answer yea or nay for certain without seeing for myself,” Jeff replied. “Though I would assume that Private Edwards was ordered to destroy any and all correspondence from the corporal.”

That, of course, was standard procedure, but given the way Corporal Deveraux had botched nearly everything to which he had sent his hand ever since their arrival in Virginia City, Zachary, unfortunately couldn’t be sure that Private Edwards had been told.

Not that it mattered . . . .

Zachary Hilliard knew with dread certainty that Private Edwards had kept every last one of those damning letters, with the intention of using them as a means of blackmail.

“There’s one thing more, Sir.”

“What?” Zachary demanded, bracing himself for the worst, while wondering how things could possibly get any worse.

“Again, this may be of no consequence, Sir, but while Mister Canaday was in the bunkhouse, Hoss Cartwright and two young men were observed hitching horses to the family’s buckboard,” Jeff continued. “They appeared to be in something of a hurry.”

Zachary squeezed his eyes shut tight against an environment that, all of a sudden, began to spin with nauseating intensity before his eyes. He felt lightheaded, and the muscles of his chest seemed to have turned into lead weights, turning the simple act of drawing breath into a torturous, almost impossible ordeal.

“Timing.”

It was the voice of one of his instructors, during his time at Westpoint, a brilliant man by the name of Sinclair. Major Josiah Sinclair.

“Timing, Gentlemen, is everything,” the major continued, as he turned and began to pace very slowly, back and forth, in front of the classroom. “Timing, Gentlemen, can mean all the difference between success or failure, crushing defeat or stunning victory . . . even life or death.”

. . . life . . . or death.

There was, of course, always the outside chance that the facts just told him by the sergeant were nothing of significance. While he stubbornly hoped and prayed it would ultimately turn out to be so, he knew deep in his heart that given the timing of all things, the worst possible had occurred.

The Cartwrights and the sheriff of Virginia City had read the letters the corporal has sent to Private Edwards on his behalf. That much was a given.

“Sergeant . . . . ” Zachary queried in a hollow, wooden voice.

“Yes, Sir?”

“We have a man assigned to the sheriff’s office . . . is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jeff replied. “Jed Matthews. He was the drummer for our unit. He’s a good man, highly competent and very loyal. He was hired by the city council to clean all of the public offices a month ago, the sheriff’s office among them.”

“ . . . worse and worse!” Zachary silently groaned. He made himself a mental note to ask his aide, Private Yates, to contact Private Matthews as soon as humanly possible first to determine whether or not the sheriff was indeed in possession of the potentially incriminating letters; and second, to persuade him not to say a word of this debacle to the captain. Unlike his younger brother, David, Jed knew full well the importance of military protocol given that he had actually served with their unit in time of war. “I just hope and pray that damned fool corporal made no mention of the captain in his correspondence . . . . ” he murmured very softly, with a shudder.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Mister Collier?”

“Sorry . . . I thought perhaps YOU had just said something.”

“I, uhhh . . . was speculating . . . thinking aloud,” Zachary replied, chagrinned upon finding out he had indeed done just so, yet relieved that Jeff Collier hadn’t quite caught what he had mumbled. “I . . . hope Corporal Deveraux’s inept handling of the traitor within our midst won’t result in our having to abort our mission entirely.”

“Permission to speak freely, Mister Taylor?”

“Permission granted . . . . ” Zachary warily gave consent.

“Rather than abort the mission completely, my suggestion is that we pull back,” Jeff said, trying his utmost to ignore the sudden, indignant screaming of his conscience. “Keep them under surveillance, but do absolutely nothing.”

“Convince the Cartwrights we’ve retreated?” Zachary queried.

“Yes,” Jeff replied. “They WILL let their guard down, sooner, I think, rather than later.”

“What makes you so sure?” Zachary asked.

“Mister Cartwright’s daughter is the independent sort, who chafes mightily against the restrictions currently placed on her,” Jeff explained.

“How will that help us?”

“The inevitable strife that’s sure to result between Mister Cartwright and his daughter, if it hasn’t already . . . may very likely prompt him to lift his restrictions sooner,” Jeff replied. “Mister Cartwright values family peace and unity above all else.”

“Is this . . . observation . . . included in your written report, Mister Collier?”

“Yes, Sir,” Jeff replied, all of a sudden feeling very much on the defensive. “You and the captain did ask me to include my thoughts and opinions . . . . ”

“Yes. So we did,” Zachary reluctantly admitted. He pushed back his chair and rose stiffly to his feet. “I will see you here tomorrow evening,” he said. “Same time.” With that he turned, and left the sergeant alone at the table.

Jeff took a ginger sip from the whiskey glass in front of him, grimacing in distaste.

“You know damned well why I’m tellin’ YOU this, Sergeant . . . . ”

“Yeah,” Jeff silently responded. Like the late Private Edwards, he, also, had no qualms whatsoever about killing men, if the situation warranted, but the thought of killing a young woman . . . a teenager, not so far removed from childhood . . . went completely against his grain.

“Rest easy, Sergeant. Rest easy. We’re getting out of here . . . . ”

He heard again the voice of his captain, calm, reassuring, filled with unshakable resolve.

“Rest easy, Sergeant.

Rest easy.

We’re getting out of here . . . . ”

John McKenna’s face, as it had been at Antietam Creek, Maryland, rose to the forefront of his thoughts. Concern for his well being, fear, anger, courage, and a grim determination to see both of them reach safety before the night was out were clearly etched into the face of the man he would come to know over the years as simply captain.

“Rest easy, Sergeant.

Rest easy . . . . ”

The face of Lieutenant John McKenna at Antietam Creek faded and dissolved into the face of Captain John McKenna somewhere in Georgia, a scant two months after General William Tecumseh Sherman’s devastating march to the sea. He stood before the charred remains of what was once a magnificent antebellum mansion, his face white as a sheet, sickened by the wanton destruction surrounding him.

A young private stood facing him, smug and arrogant. Between them was the body of a young woman, lying face down in the dirt, her clothing ripped to shreds. There was a revolver in the private’s hand and two bullet wounds in the dead woman’s back.

“It was self defense, Captain,” the young private arrogantly proclaimed. “She tried to KILL me. I didn’t WANT to kill her, but if I hadn’t— ”

“LIAR!” an old man snarled, with tears streaming down his face. “You goddam lying son-of-a bitch.” He stood between Corporal Deveraux and another young private, his arms securely clasped in their hands. “He killed her. MURDERED her . . . ‘cause she wouldn’t give that . . . that animal what he wanted.”

“Shut-up, y’ ol’ coot!” the private spat contemptuously.

“This true, Private?”

The young man’s confidence wavered. “N-No,” he replied. “She tried to kill me, I swear it.”

“She tried to kill YOU.”

“Yes, Sir, I swear, Sir. She tried to kill me. I had no choice. No choice at all. If I hadn’t killed her, she would’ve certainly killed me . . . . ” the private babbled.

“An unarmed woman . . . half starved by the look of her . . . tried to kill you,” the captain said, his voice low and menacing, “ and you shot her in the back, not once but twice . . . in self defense.”

“No,” the private protested, shaking his head in vigorous denial. “No. It wasn’t like that, it wasn’t— ”

“I want the truth, Private . . . . ”

The young man finally told the truth. By then, he was down on his knees, sobbing. He and five others had come upon the family, what was left of the family. An old man, the dead woman, the two frightened boys peering at them from the shelter of a wild, overgrown bush, and the infant, lying in Jeff Collier’s own arms, peacefully sleeping. Since the destruction of their grand and glorious home, the old man, his daughter, and her three children had taken shelter in the small building that once housed the kitchen. The old man had been pistol whipped within an inch of his life. The private had wanted the woman and become very angry when she contemptuously spurned him. In a fit of rage, he had thrown the woman down and fired two bullets into her back, while the old man, her father, watched, helpless to intervene.

“Stand up, Private,” the captain ordered, his voice deathly calm, his eyes smoldering with rage.

“Please,” the young man begged, as he rose unsteadily to his feet. “Please, h-have mercy? I don’t wanna die— ”

“I’m sure SHE didn’t want to die either,” the captain spat, as he withdrew his own gun from its holster and raised it to shoulder height . . . .
With each passing day, it grew more and more difficult for Jeff to reconcile the man in Georgia, more sickened and horrified by the actions of that young private than anyone else in their unit, with the man who obsessively sought the death of a teenaged girl by the name of Stacy Cartwright.

“The captain has his reasons,” the sergeant muttered angrily to himself. “The captain HAS his reasons. Mine is NOT to question . . . but to obey.” He rose, picked up the glass of whiskey still sitting on the table before him, and downed its contents in a single gulp.

 

Darkness, opaque and impenetrable, surrounded and covered her like a thick black shroud. In the dark, she heard the voices, droning like locusts on a hot summer day. Two men, somewhere in the distance, argued bitterly. No words. Never any words, only voices. The profound depths of anger and bitterness, she sensed with terrible crystal clarity, frightened her more than anything. She also heard women’s voices in the dark. She couldn’t hear their words, either, only the quick, rapid fire of a morass formed by strings of vowels and consonants. She knew with horrifying certainty that they were as frightened as she was.

Her eyes caught movement in the darkness. A young girl child, with long, mussed hair, crinkled from constant braiding, slipped from the bed and made her way out of the room. The child paused, and turned meeting her eyes with an unflinching gaze. The little girl had the same startling blue eyes she, herself did. The child wanted her to follow. She saw it in her face. But, the prospect of following that little girl was frightening beyond all imagining. The thought of remaining alone in the dark, however, was even more so. She reluctantly followed the little girl from one dark place through another to a door. The girl had to stand on tiptoes to open the doorknob.

She followed the little girl hesitantly into a room, occupied by three women. Two of the women were very angry with the child for intruding into their domain. The third woman, a kindly spirit who bore striking resemblance to another she had recently come to know, took the child by the hand and led her back to her own room. She spoke to the child in kind, reassuring tones, calling her by that other name.

Footsteps, followed by slamming doors.

The three women and the child were rudely taken from their places of sleep and refuge, and herded single file down a long hallway. She forced herself to follow. The three women and little girl entered through a portal, beyond which lay a darkness far more terrifying than anything she had ever experienced in her life. She tried to follow, but her feet would not move.

A series of explosions rocked the house, shaking her entire world to bits. Suddenly, the house she was in shifted ninety degrees. She found herself clinging for dear life to the doorjamb. In the end, her hands and fingers proved too weak to hold her. She tumbled headlong into the room. There in the flickering illumination of a strange, obscene light, she at long last saw their faces. An old man and woman, the mean, angry younger woman, and the kind woman were all there . . . dead. Though the child was nowhere to be seen, an evil presence yet remained in the room, threatening to suffocate her.

She heard the kind woman’s voice urging her to run, calling again her by that other name. With heart thudding hard against her throat, she ran to the window, but could not open it. The roaring sound of a mighty, horrible wind rose and grew, blotting out the sound of her screams.

“Stacy?!” Ben anxiously tried to rouse her. “Stacy, wake up, it’s Pa.”

Her eyes suddenly flew open.

The next thing Ben knew, she was in his arms, sobbing. He held her close, letting her cry, murmuring what he hoped were words of reassurance.

“Ben?” It was Paris. “I heard Stacy cry out . . . . ”

“Another nightmare,” Ben said anxiously. “This is the worst yet.”

“Anything I can do?”

Ben shook his head.

Paris entered the room and crossed to the other side of the bed. “I’m here, too, Stacy,” she said softly, as she seated herself on the edge, “if you want me.”

Though Stacy continued to hold on to Ben for dear life, she tentatively reached out and took Miss Paris’ hand. “P-Pa? Miss Paris? Would you please . . . please stay with me awhile?” she asked, as her storm of grief and fear began to subside.

Ben looked over at Paris. She nodded. “We’re here, Stacy,” he said quietly, “for as long as you want us.”

Stacy rested for a time in her father’s embrace, holding tightly to Miss Paris’ hand, gathering her own strength. It was right, somehow, that Miss Paris be here, too. “I s-saw them, Pa,” she said at length.

“The people?” Ben prompted.

Stacy nodded. “They were the people I lived with before Silver Moon and Jon Running Deer,” she continued. “I know that now.”

“Your family?” Ben prompted.

“WERE my family,” she said emphatically.

“WERE your family is right,” Ben agreed. “Do you remember their names?”

“They were . . . my grandmother . . . m-my grandfather, and two aunts.”

“No mother or father?” Paris asked.

Stacy shook her head.

“What happened the people?” Ben prompted.

“I . . . I don’t know, exactly . . . . ” Stacy’s entire body began to tremble.

“I’m here, Stacy,” Ben said softly. “I’m right here.”

“So am I,” Paris said, as she tentatively reached out and placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“They were dead, Pa,” she said, her voice unsteady. “All of ‘em. S-Someone . . . someone shot ‘em.”

“Were you able to see the person who shot them?” Paris asked.

Stacy shook her head. “There w-was . . . there was someone ELSE in the dream,” she continued, “a little girl, five . . . maybe six years old. I followed her throughout the dream.”

“Was the . . . was the little girl in with the dead people?” Paris asked, trying very hard not to think of poor Rose Miranda.

“No,” Stacy replied. “She went into that room with my grandparents and my aunts, but I didn’t see her among the dead.” She fell silent for a moment. “But there was someone else in that room . . . . ” She shuddered. “An evil presence! It almost smothered me.”

Ben held her apart from him, just enough to look her in the eye. “I’m proud of you, Young Woman . . . VERY proud of you.”

“You ARE?!” Stacy queried with a puzzled frown.

“I certainly am,” Ben said quietly. “That was a very brave thing you did tonight. This is the first time you’ve ever gotten a real good look at the people.”

“Brave!?” Stacy echoed incredulously. “Pa, I was scared the whole time. The . . . the only reason I followed the child through the dream was because I was too scared to stay where I was . . . alone in the dark.”

“That makes what you did tonight all the more courageous,” Paris said softly.

“Miss Paris is absolutely right,” Ben agreed. “You made yourself look at those people tonight, and allowed yourself to remember who they were so you could name them.” He fell silent, allowing her to absorb the import of his words. “You told me something about naming things a long time ago. Something Silver Moon taught you.”

Stacy nodded. “She told me that if I could name something, I could take away its power to hurt me,” she said slowly.

“Grandmother, Grandfather, Two Aunts,” Ben repeated their names. “They can’t hurt you, not anymore . . . because YOU’VE taken away their power to hurt you.” He paused. “I want you to remember that.”

“I will,” she promised. “Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“I . . . I didn’t get a chance to tell ya after supper, but . . . I’m sorry about that fight we had this morning,” she said, her eyes glistening in the dim light of the oil lamp on the table beside her bed, its flame turned down low.

“I’m sorry, too, Stacy,” Ben murmured softly.

“I thought you meant I shouldn’t go out on Blaze Face by myself.”

“I know . . . and I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear that you’re not to venture outside the house without one of us with you,” Ben said, exceedingly grateful that a measure of peace had finally been restored; yet, at the same time, wondering how long it was going to last. “Stacy . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa?”

“I hope you know I’m not doing this to punish you in any way . . . but that I’m doing this to protect you . . . to keep you safe,” Ben said quietly. “I know that being confined to the house isn’t an easy thing for a free-spirited young woman like you to bear, and I hate having to resort to this . . . every bit as much as you hate having to live with it.”

“I know,” she said, as she wiped the tears from her cheeks on the sleeve of her nightshirt. “I . . . I k-kinda think that deep down . . . I already knew it, even before H-Hoss and Joe told me when we . . . when we sat down to dinner. Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“If you say no, it’ll be what I deserve, I s’pose . . . especially after this morning, but . . . . ”

“If you’re about to suggest a trip out to Dressler’s Pond this Saturday morning to catch some trout for supper . . . I think the answer might be yes,” Ben said quietly.

Stacy slowly lifted her head and regarded her father for a moment through eyes round with surprise and awe. “Pa, I . . . h-how did you know I . . . that I— ”

“Because I know YOU, Young Woman,” Ben replied. “Now as to what you deserve or don’t deserve, I . . . think Hoss was absolutely right when he told me at breakfast this morning that my having to keep you so close to home is sufficient punishment in and of itself.”

“Then . . . we can go?” she ventured, hardly daring to hope.

“Yes,” Ben replied, grateful to see a glimmer of hope shining once more in those great big blue eyes of hers, “we can go.”

“Thank you, Pa!” she said, her voice catching as the arms, wrapped loosely about her father’s waist tightened. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! . . . and I’ll try real hard to do better . . . . ” Her remaining words were swallowed up by a great big yawn.

“I know you will,” Ben said gently, all the while silently hoping and praying that she would find the wherewithal within her to honor those good intentions. “Looks like it’s time for you to go back to sleep.”

“Pa . . . Miss Paris,” Stacy said as she snuggled under the covers, “I-I feel like such a little kid for asking this . . . . ”

“What is it, Stacy?” Paris prompted gently.

“Can you both stay with me, just a while longer?”

“On one condition,” Ben said, as he tucked her back in. “I want you lie still and close your eyes.”

“Ok, Pa . . . . ” Stacy quickly drifted off to an easy, deep slumber in spite of herself.

“Thank you, Paris,” Ben said softly, as they quietly let themselves out of Stacy’s room. “I think you being there meant a lot to Stacy.”

Paris smiled. “You, of course, are her mainstay,” she said, “but, if my being there is in anyway helpful, it’s . . . . ” She sighed and shook her head. “It hardly seems appropriate to say it’s my pleasure.”

Ben smiled back. “I understand,” he said.

“That poor child,” Paris murmured sadly. “What inner demons torment her to inspire such nightmares?”

“They’re memories,” Ben said gravely. “I grow more convinced each time she has one of those nightmares. Something apparently happened to her when she was a young child. The memories were too horrible for the child to bear, so she relegated them as far as she could to the deep recesses of her mind. Over the years, the memories surfaced in the form of a recurring nightmare.

“She must have been having the dream on a regular basis while she lived with the Paiutes because Silver Moon gave her an escape plan,” he continued. “She also had the dream frequently when she first came to live with us here, but over time it faded. We thought the dreams were through with her for good, it’s been so long.”

“When did they start up again?”

“The night you arrived,” Ben said thoughtfully, realizing the connection for the first time. “They returned almost with a vengeance.”

She gazed up at him with eyes round as saucers.

“I’m sorry, Paris,” he said quickly, “I didn’t mean to imply that you’re in any way to blame.”

“I probably still served as a catalyst, however,” Paris said ruefully. Seeing the hurt, stricken look on his face, she continued, “No, Ben, please, I don’t mean me personally. Stacy’s old enough now to face what ever it is that happened, and come to terms with it. I served as a catalyst because I’m a stranger to her and an unexpected guest. But, if I hadn’t come along, something or perhaps someONE else would have triggered the dreams again.”

“I’ve tried to encourage her to stop running from whatever’s chasing her in those nightmares, and face it,” Ben said somberly, “but, after tonight, I wonder if I did the right thing.”

“Yes, Ben, absolutely,” Paris said with quiet conviction. “I worked as a practical nurse for a time, and dealt with a fair number of patients in the same boat as Stacy is right now. I learned very quickly that it’s better all around if the person faces up to whatever happened, sooner as opposed to later.”

“I can see the wisdom of that,” Ben said, “but it’s heart wrenching to watch her go through it, and not really being able to help.”

“You help far more than you can possibly realize by just being there, with an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on,” Paris said with a smile, “and from the things you told her tonight, I’d say you have a lot more wisdom than you give yourself credit for.”

“Thank you, Paris, for the vote of confidence,” he said gratefully.

A companionable silence descended upon them as they continued down the hallway together. As they came to a stop before the open door to the guest room, Paris turned slowly. Ben unconsciously reached out and slipped his arms loosely around her waist. Paris allowed him to pull her close. With a soft, contented sigh, her head dropped down and came to rest against his chest, in much the same way Stacy’s had just moments before.

Ben gazed down at the fragile woman in his arms lovingly. At length, she raised her head again and looked up. Their eyes met first, followed closely by their lips in the merest caress of a kiss.

“Paris, I . . . . ”

Paris reached up and gently covered his mouth with her fingertips. “No, Ben,” she pleaded softly. “Please . . . n-not yet.”

 

Saturday morning dawned with heavy lead gray skies, and a deluge of rain that would continue over the course of the next three or four days. Stacy stood before the window in her bedroom, still clad in the oversized nightshirt she always wore to bed, gazing out at the dreary weather, her face and eyes filled with dismay. “Dadburn it,” she whispered softly.

“What was that, Kid?”

She turned and found Joe standing framed in the open door to her bedroom. He wore a pair of pajama bottoms and shirt, the latter donned in haste. It hung unbuttoned from his lean, muscular frame. “I’m wishing for one minute I COULD be a little kid again,” she groused, as she folded her arms across her chest, and turned back toward the window.

“Oh?” Joe queried in mild surprise, as he stepped into the room. “Why is that?”

“So I could scream, cry, and stamp my feet without . . . well . . . without feeling like some dumb little kid,” she replied, wincing against the sudden stinging of tears in her eyes.

“I know how ya feel, Stace,” Joe said with genuine heartfelt sympathy. “I also know how much you were really looking forward to spending the day fishing with Pa. I’m sorry the rain had to scuttle it.”

“Me, too,” she sighed, then brightened. “Joe?”

“Yeah?”

“You think maybe . . . just maybe . . . the rain’ll clear out by this afternoon?” she asked, clinging desperately to that tiny glimmer of hope.

Joe shook his head. “You know the answer to that as well as I do.”

“I was hoping I was wrong.”

“Maybe you and Pa can go when the weather clears,” Joe suggested, as he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Hmpf! With MY kinda luck lately . . . by the time the weather clears, Miss Ashcroft’ll be over her cold . . . flu . . . or whatever it is she’s got, and I’ll be back in school,” Stacy said with a melancholy sigh.

“I’ve got an idea . . . . ”

“What?”

“After breakfast, why don’t we g’won up to the attic and root around?” Joe suggested. “We’ve always had fun doing that on rainy days, and it’s been awhile— ”

“No thanks,” Stacy sadly shook her head. “Sorry, I’m being such a wet blanket— ”

Joe smiled at her choice of words, unable to help himself.

“It’s NOT funny!” she said, favoring the youngest of her three older brothers with a dark scowl.

“I know, Kiddo . . . and I’m sorry,” Joe said, as he endeavored to wipe the smile off his face.

“I was really looking forward to getting OUTSIDE today . . . . ” All of a sudden, her face brightened. “You . . . think maybe you could come out to the barn with me and watch while I muck out the stalls or something?!”

“Tell ya what, Stace . . . how about I give you a hand with mucking out the stalls?” Joe offered. “That’ll give us time to give Cooch and Blaze Face a good brushing.”

“Sounds good to me, Grandpa,” Stacy declared, as a big bright smile cleared away all traces of the keen disappointment, so evident a moment before.

Joe grinned. “Last one out to the barn’s a rotten egg,” he declared.

“Hey! I’m not even dressed yet!” Stacy protested.

“Neither am I! See ya!” Joe tore across the room, beating a straight path toward the door.

Stacy slammed the door shut behind her brother, then bolted across the room toward her dresser, pulling off her nightshirt as she ran. A few moments later, Joe and Stacy burst from their bedrooms into the hall running as fast as their legs could carry them. The former labored valiantly to button his shirt as he ran, while the latter furiously tucked her shirt into her denim pants.

“Hey! You’re not finished getting dressed,” Joe protested, as he buttoned the last two buttons.

“If I’M not, YOU’RE not,” Stacy countered, as she finished tucking in her shirt.

“Cheater!”

“I am NOT!”

“Y’ are so!”

“Am not!”

Paris opened the door of her room, as Joe and Stacy raced by in their mad, desperate bid to reach the top of the stairs first. “What . . . in the world . . . . ?!” she murmured softly.

Joe and Stacy, meanwhile, plunged headlong down the steps. Upon reaching the landing where the staircase turned, Stacy darted in front of Joe, grabbing the inside track.

“Hey!” Joe immediately protested. “No fair!”

“ALL’S fair, Grandpa,” Stacy smugly returned, as she continued down the stairs.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“Well, we’ll just see about that, Little Sister,” Joe declared, as he leapt over the remaining four steps with all the power and grace of a cat springing upon its prey. He literally hit the floor running a few feet in front of his sister.

“HEY! NO FAIR!” Stacy cried out, astonished and outraged, as she jumped over the last two steps.

“YOU’RE the one who said all’s fair, Kid,” Joe laughed, as he sprinted across the short distance that remained between the spot where he had landed and the front door.

Stacy gritted her teeth and poured on the speed.

“Forget it, Stace! I’ve as good as got this race all sewn up,” Joe taunted, as his sister began to close the gap.

“You haven’t won yet, Grandpa.”

“What th—?!” Ben murmured softly, his eyes round with amazement, as he entered from the dining room with coffee cup in hand.

Joe, upon reaching the front door half a dozen steps ahead of Stacy, grabbed hold of the latch and threw it open. He ran out onto the front porch with his sister following right at his heels. At the edge of the porch, both of them leapt, and within less than the space of a heartbeat, found themselves slamming hard into what felt like the side of a great big mountain.

“HEY!” the mountain bellowed, as Joe and Stacy barreled into him with force sufficient to literally knock him right off his feet. The three of them landed with a sickening splat in the middle of the wet, muddy yard.

Joe slowly rolled over from his stomach onto his side. “Big Brother . . . y’ know . . . you really ought to watch where WE’RE going,” he chastised Hoss in tones of mock outrage.

Hoss groaned. Then, as Joe’s words began to sink in, his eyes snapped wide open. “Now just a dadburned cotton pickin’ minute there, Li’l Brother . . . just what, exactly, do y’ mean by I gotta watch where you ‘n Li’l Sister here are goin’?!”

“Didn’t you see us jumping off the porch?!” Joe demanded.

“No,” Hoss said curtly, “ ‘cause I just got through workin’ me up a big appetite, ‘n all I could think of is divin’ right into a great big breakfast o’ scrambled eggs ‘n sausage as only Hop Sing can fix it.”

“What did you do to work up such a big appetite?” Stacy asked, as she rolled over onto her side, then sat up.

“Aww . . . it doesn’t take much for HIM to work up a big appetite,” Joe teased. “All HE’S gotta do is open his eyes in the morning and sit up.”

“Very funny, Li’l Brother,” Hoss growled, as he raised himself up onto his elbows. “Where were t’ pair o’ you rushin’ off to in such an all fired hurry anyhow?”

“We were going out to the barn to muck out the stalls and— ” Stacy began.

“You mean t’ tell me that the two o’ YOU were racin’ t’ beat all . . . just so you could do barn chores?!” Hoss demanded, scowling over at his brother first, then at his sister.

“Yeah,” Joe replied, feeling oddly on the defensive. “Anything WRONG with that?!”

Hoss threw back his head and roared, drawing bewildered looks from his younger siblings. Joe and Stacy looked over at each other, anxiously at first. Joe felt the hard tug of a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth, and glancing over at his sister, saw her smiling and shaking her head. He shook his head, too, and began to laugh. Upon hearing Joe’s high pitched, rapid fire giggles, rising up over Hoss’ deep, basso profundo guffaws like a descant over the melody of a song, Stacy allowed herself to be drawn in. It felt so good to just let go and laugh, it mattered not one little bit that she had no idea what the joke was.

“I . . . I n-never . . . not in all m’ b-born days . . . EVER . . . thought I’d s-see the day when t’ two o’ YOU’D b-be s-so . . . so dad blamed anxious t’ . . . t’ . . . t’ d-do barn chores so early in t’ mornin’,” Hoss said, wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes as his laughter, at long last, finally began to subside.

This pronouncement brought a fresh round of laughter from Joe and Stacy.

“Hop Sing just live long enough to see great miracle,” Hop Sing declared, shaking his head. He stood framed square in the middle of the open door, watching, bemused and anxious while the three younger Cartwright offspring rolled around in the mud and the pouring rain, laughing themselves silly.

“What miracle is that, Hop Sing?” Paris asked, as she stepped down off the last step, with Ben’s help.

“Hop Sing know . . . for very long time . . . day when Mister Hoss, Little Joe, and Missy Stacy fight over who muck horse stall first . . . same day hot afterlife turn very, very cold,” the Chinese man declared with a broad grin. “Today, it finally happen.”

Paris laughed out loud.

“I’d better get out there and drag the lot of ‘em in before they end up catching their death,” Ben grumbled, as he turned and strode briskly toward the door.

“Hop Sing get Miss Paris coffee, then boil water for hot bath,” Hop Sing said, then turned, and started out toward the kitchen, his dark brown, almost black eyes twinkling with amusement . . . .

“Sorry that fishin’ trip you ‘n Pa planned got rained on,” Hoss said quietly, as he reached for the bowl of steaming hot scrambled eggs, when the family and their guest sat down to a late breakfast an hour and a half later.

“Yeah . . . me, too,” Stacy murmured with a glum sigh, as she cast a disparaging glare over in the direction of the window.

“Maybe things will clear up by this afternoon,” Paris suggested with a hopeful smile, as she took the bowl of eggs from Hoss.

Stacy shook her head. “It won’t,” she said. “From the looks of things . . . that rain won’t stop until sometime Monday or Tuesday.”

“How can you be so sure?” Paris asked.

“I just know.”

“I’m afraid The Kid’s right,” Joe said, as he and Hoss reached for the meat platter, generously piled with fried ham and sausage. “That rain’s definitely gonna go on for the next two or three days.” He looked over and caught Stacy’s eye. “We can still go up to the attic and root around it you want.”

“AFTER the two of ya get through with the laundry,” Ben said firmly, casting a sharp glance over at Joe first, then at Stacy.”

“Yes, Sir,” Stacy said, trying hard not to smile as she remembered again the fracas a short while ago in the rain and the mud.

“Sure thing, Pa,” Joe replied.

“Pa . . . . ”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“Now I can understand you thinkin’ it ain’t fair for Hop Sing t’ be havin’ t’ wash all our muddy clothes,” Hoss protested, as he helped himself to sausage and bacon from the meat platter. “But I don’t think it’s fair to make Joe ‘n Stacy wash MY clothes, too. What happened was an accident, Pa . . . pure ‘n simple.”

“True. What happened WAS an accident, Son,” Ben readily agreed, “HOWEVER, it was an accident that wouldn’t have happened, if your younger brother and sister hadn’t been in too much of a hurry to watch where they were going.”

“Aww, I know that, but . . . . ”

“No buts,” Ben said firmly. “We ALL know the house rules, Hoss . . . and the FIRST of those rules is . . . you MESS it up . . . you CLEAN it up.” He turned to his two younger children. “Right?”

“That’s right, Pa,” Joe replied, with a mouth full of scrambled eggs and toast.

Stacy nodded.

“ . . . I WAS going to ask if it might be possible for me to attend church tomorrow, but . . . from what Joe and Stacy tell me, it’s going to be raining until at least Monday or Tuesday,” Paris said quietly, as her eyes drifted over toward the window.

“More ‘n likely,” Ben agreed. “Paris . . . . ”

“Yes, Ben?”

“If you really have your heart set on going to church tomorrow, we’ll see that you get there, but to be up front and honest, if the weather tomorrow IS the same as now, I don’t think your venturing out would be a very good idea,” Ben said candidly.

“You’re right,” Paris reluctantly admitted.

“Saint Mary’s has a Mass on Wednesday mornin’s, Miss Paris,” Hoss said, as he eagerly dug into the big breakfast on the plate set before him. “This rain oughtta be cleared out by then for sure.”

“Ben?” Paris queried hopefully.

“IF the weather clears . . . AND if school’s back in session,” Ben replied. “If Miss Ashcroft hasn’t recovered from that bout of cold, I already have a previous commitment.” He punctuated his words with a meaningful, pointed glance at his daughter.

Stacy smiled at her father, and nodded.

“Yes, of course,” Paris said very quietly. “I understand.”

“Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Eric?”

“If Pa can’t take ya on Wednesday, I’d be more than happy to,” Hoss offered.

“Thank you for your generous offer, but I don’t want to put you to a whole lot of trouble.”

“No trouble at all, Miss Paris,” Hoss hastened to reassure her. “Happy t’ do it.”

 

Roy Coffee sat behind the bank manager’s desk in a small cubbyhole of a room, barely measuring ten feet by ten feet, reading over the bank’s copy of the statement for an account belonging to one George Edwards, better known to the folks in and around Virginia City as Eddie Jones.

“Now this is damned peculiar . . . . ” Roy muttered very softly.

“ . . . uhhh, something . . . wrong, Sheriff Coffee?” Felix Dorsey, a thin, wiry young man with a nervous disposition, inquired. He had been working as a bank teller for the better part of the last couple of years.

“Any reason why the money Mister Jones deposited on a Friday was withdrawn the followin’ Monday mornin’?” Roy asked.

“I . . . GUESS it’d be alright to tell you . . . what with M-Mister Jones, ummm . . . being dead ‘n all . . . . ” Felix murmured, wringing his hands. “He . . . left instructions to wire that money to someone . . . . ”

“Can y’ gimme a NAME, Mister Dorsey?”

“Yes, Sir . . . I can, but I’ve umm . . . gotta check the records.”

“Why don’t you g’won ‘n do that?” Roy blithely suggested. “I’ll be right here waitin’.”

“Y-Yes, Sir . . . I’ll be right back . . . . ” A few moments later, Felix returned with a sheet of paper clasped tightly in hand. “Here it is, Sheriff Coffee. Mister Jones’ instructions to wire his deposits to a Miss Janelle McClelland in care of Miss Kitty Russell, Long Branch Saloon.”

“Long Branch Saloon?” Roy echoed with a puzzled frown. “Where ‘n the heck is THAT?”

“Somewhere out in Kansas, I think . . . . ”

 

“Dodge City,” George Ellis, the telegraph operator told Roy.

“You got any idea as t’ who this Miss McClelland was t’ Eddie Jones . . . or why he sent her nearly every sent he made?” Roy asked.

George shook his head. “Roy?” he ventured.

“What is it, George?”

“I got a wire here . . . addressed to some fella named George Edwards in care o’ Eddie Jones,” George said. “It’s from the Miss Russell in whose care I wired all money for Miss McClelland. What with Eddie bein’ dead, I s’pose I oughtta give it t’ you.” He reached into the right hand drawer of his desk and withdrew and envelope with Eddie Jones written on its face.

Roy took the proffered envelope and immediately opened it. The message was brief and to the point:
G. Edwards [stop]
c/o E. Jones
Virginia City, Nevada [stop]

Regret to inform you of Lucy’s death last night [stop] Funeral three days [stop]

My condolences [stop]

K. Russell
Long Branch Saloon
Dodge City Kansas [stop, end of message]
“Now don’t THAT beat all,” Roy sighed as he folded the single sheet of paper and stuffed it back into the envelope. “George . . . . ”

“Yes, Roy?”

“I want ya t’ send a wire t’ Miss Janelle McClelland in care o’ Miss Kitty Russell at t’ Long Branch Saloon . . . Dodge City, Kansas,” Roy said.

George immediately grabbed a scrap piece of paper and a stubby pencil from his desk. “Here y’ are, Roy . . . . ”

The sheriff nodded his thanks and scribbled out the following message in short order:

“Regret to inform you of George Edward’s death three days ago. Burial two days ago. Are you his next of kin? Please let me know. My sincere condolences. Roy Coffee, sheriff, Virginia City.”

Roy quickly read his intended message over, then handed it to George. “Send this as soon as ya can,” he ordered. “If ‘n when ya get a reply, bring it t’ my office.”

George nodded. “That’ll be two dollars, Roy.”

Roy reached into his pants pocket and drew out three coins: two silver dollars and a fifty-cent piece. “This’ll cover the cost o’ sendin’ that wire . . . ‘n there’s a little somethin’ for your trouble, too,” he said as he placed the coins in George’s hand.

 

Zachary Hilliard turned away from the window, overlooking the narrow, garbage strewn alley between the backs of the buildings facing out toward B and C Streets, and with a yawn, shuffled across the room toward the bed, set against the wall, directly opposite. He strongly suspected it had been made with a child in mind, given its narrowness across and that its length was roughly twelve inches too short for a man of his height. Its straw stuffed mattress was lumpy, and sagged in the middle. Upon reaching the bed, he turned and collapsed with a soft, agonized groan as aching hip and knee joints protested to the abrupt landing with sharp jabs of pain.

Today, Zachary Hilliard felt every bit as old and decrepit as his alter ego, the drifter, Bill Taylor. He had not washed or dressed, despite the lateness of the hour. Every joint in his body ached . . . .
“Arthritis,” his family physician pronounced when he had gone for an examination upon his return home from the war to placate his worried mother more than out of any particular concern for his physical well being.

“Arthritis?!” he exclaimed, incredulous. He had always thought that to be an affliction of the elderly. Granted he was no “young spring chicken,” as his maternal grandmother might have indelicately put it. But, even so, he could hardly be thought of as old.

“ . . . comes of all that time spent outside . . . in all kinds of weather . . . not eating right . . . not taking care o’ yourself proper,” the doctor explained. “Seen it all too much in men comin’ home from the battlefields.”

“What can be done?” he demanded, angry and outraged.

“Can’t be cured, if that’s what you’re askin’,” the doctor said bluntly. “Main thing is ya gotta keep movin’ no matter what. If ya DON’T move, those joints’ll stiffen right up . . . and when they do . . . . ” The doctor’s voice trailed off to an ominous silence. “You might also try settin’ up housekeepin’ out where the climate’s drier,” he had added, as an after thought. “Some folks tend to suffer more when the weather’s damp . . . . ”

Perhaps . . . after the captain’s mission was over and done . . . he would head off to Arizona, New Mexico, or perhaps southern California, put down roots, and settle down. The Lord Above knew there was nothing left for him in New York anymore . . . .

He cast a quick, furtive glance over toward the closed door to his room, then turned to the nightstand beside his bed and, with trembling hands, eased the small drawer under the table top open. Inside, a small Bible lay over top three handkerchiefs, all clean and neatly folded. The small, well-used tome had belonged to his mother and his grandmother before him.

“The captain would have a conniption fit if he knew,” he mused in uneasy silence as he absent-mindedly moved his thumb across the worn leather cover.

Should the tiny book, now resting so tenderly sandwiched between his hands, ever fall into the hands of the Cartwright family or that nosy sheriff, heaven forbid, Bill Taylor’s cover would be blown sky high the minute they opened the book. His parents’ names and the date they married were written on the inside of the front cover in his late grandmother’s neat, precise hand. His mother had also written down his name, and the names of his siblings on the back cover, along with their birth dates. It was the last gift his mother had given him, the night he left home for the military academy in Westpoint, New York . . . .

“May the words that lie between the covers of this tiny book bring you comfort, Son,” his mother said, while trying valiantly to hold back her tears. She placed it in his hands and very gently curled his fingers around it. “Many’s the time your grandmother and I have come to this book for solace during OUR times of trial . . . . ”

Samuel Yates entered, with David Matthews following close behind. After David had quietly closed the door, both young men saluted crisply. Zachary returned the salute, trying hard not to grimace in the face of the pain in his shoulders and his back.

“At ease, Gentlemen,” Zachary ordered. He paused just long enough to allow them to relax before turning his attention to David. “My aide tells me you have a message from the captain?”

“Yes, Sir,” David replied with a curt nod of his head. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a blue-gray envelope, with “Lt. Z. Hilliard” penned on its face in John McKenna’s painfully neat, precise hand. “I was ordered to hand deliver this to you personally, Lieutenant Hilliard.”

“Does the captain expect an immediate reply?”

“No, Sir.”

“That being the case, Private Matthews . . . you’re dismissed,” Zachary said curtly.

“Yes, Sir.” David saluted again, then left.

Samuel Yates waited until the sounds of David’s footfalls in the corridor beyond had faded away to silence. “Lieutenant, are you uhh . . . is, ummm . . . is everything well, Sir?” he queried, noting with concern the dark circles under Lieutenant Hilliard’s eyes, his deathly pale complexion, and that he still wore his nightshirt and robe.

“Yes, Private . . . everything is well,” Zachary replied. “Is there anything else?”

“No, Sir.”

“You may go.”

Samuel saluted, then turned heel and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Zachary opened the envelope in hand, as he turned and made his way back across the room to the bed. Inside was a note, brief and to the point, hand written on a single sheet of stationary that matched the envelope.

“ ‘Lieutenant Hilliard,’ ” Zachary read the note aloud. “ ‘You are hereby ordered to present yourself before your commanding officer for questioning this afternoon at two thirty sharp . . . signed John McKenna, captain, U.S. Army, now retired.’ ”

“Damn!” he swore vehemently. “Damn, damn, damn, DAMN!” This had to be about the loose end Corporal Deveraux had so carelessly left dangling . . . .

“ . . . and bungled so thoroughly in trying to tie it up,” Zachary silently ruminated. An overzealous member of their unit had beat him to the punch after all in reporting the entire incident to the captain. “Jed Matthews, damn his hide!” he grumbled under his breath. It had to be. He was the only one among them with free and easy access to the sheriff’s office.

His rising anger and resentment toward the corporal and drummer boy, coupled with dread at the prospect of having to answer to the captain for the unfortunate affair within the next couple of hours, set his stomach churning. He opened the nightstand drawer, from which he had taken his mother’s Bible a short time before, and extracted the silver plated flask, etched with his late father’s initials, lying at the very back of the drawer.

“ . . . something ELSE the captain would have a conniption fit over if he knew,” Zachary sardonically ruminated, as he deftly unscrewed the cap, “what with him being the strict teetotaler he is these days . . . . ” He lifted the opened flask, filled almost to the brim with fine brandy, in mock salute. “Cheers,” he muttered under his breath. He, then, brought the flask to his lips and gulped down a generous dose.

He found comfort not so much in the words contained therein, but rather in its connection to his family . . . his mother and father . . . his four sisters and two brothers . . . his nieces and nephews . . . the way they had all been in happier times, before the war set brother against brother, and had the rest of the family choosing sides.

The loud, insistent pounding against the fast closed door to his room drew him from his melancholy reverie. “Yes? Who is it?” Zachary responded warily.

“Private Yates, Sir. Private David Matthews is here with an urgent message from the captain. He told me that he’s been given strict orders to deliver it to you in person.”

“One moment, please,” Zachary replied. He shoved the Bible under his pillow, then rose stiffly to his feet, gritting his teeth against an outcry of pain. “Come in,” he invited after taking a moment to straighten his bathrobe and smooth down his uncombed hair.

John McKenna sat before the cold fireplace in the largest room on the second floor of a ramshackle dwelling, set along a narrow alleyway between C and D Streets amid a dozen or so other abodes, all in similar states of disrepair. Officially it had no name, though many of the locals referred to it as Blood Alley. He was impeccably attired in a pair of gray wool pants, a freshly laundered white shirt with black string tie, a heavy, quilted smoking jacket of satin, hued a deep, rich burgundy, and a pair of soft leather slippers, stained dark brown.

His bad leg ached terribly, consequence, no doubt, of the torrential downpour outside and the accompanying wet chill in the air that permeated deep down into the very marrow of his bones. For a brief moment, he gave serious thought to asking Private David Matthews to fetch in an armload of wood and lay a fire in the fireplace before him. “No,” he sighed very softly, discarding the idea in very short order. The danger of setting the house on fire was too great, thanks to crumbling bricks and mortar.

The Bible on John’s lap had lain open to the same page for the better part of the last thirty minutes. He turned away from the cold, empty fireplace and tried to focus his attention once again on the open book before him. His eyes dropped down onto the page, but he saw none of the words. His mind, in the words of his stern fourth grade teacher, wasn’t “on cloud nine . . . it’s on cloud NINETY-nine,” racing a mile a minute.

His original plan was to simply kill the girl and be done with it. That had changed, however, upon learning that she had been adopted by Ben Cartwright, irony upon delicious ironies. The revised plan called for abducting the girl and spiriting her away . . . FAR away . . . so far away, her father and brothers wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of ever finding her, no matter how hard they tried. With a little encouragement on his part, the girl would have very quickly abandoned all hope of her family ever finding and rescuing her.

“After that, I’d have given her one week . . . TWO, maybe, at the very outside,” John silently mused. A smug, triumphant smile slowly eased its way across his lips, and his eyes glittered with an unholy, malicious delight, as he envisioned the unfolding of the next phase in his plan in vivid detail. “When it dawned on her that her family WON’T be coming to her rescue . . . turning her against them, her father especially, would have been easier than taking candy from a baby.” His smile broadened, and he began to chuckle very softly. “What a glorious sight THAT would have been, seeing the look on Ben Cartwright’s face day he found out the long, lost daughter he and his sons had long ago given up for dead, not only hates his guts, but intends to kill him.”

 

 

A few moments later, John McKenna’s grim mirth abruptly evaporated. “Time . . . . ” he murmured, his voice soft and wistful. “I had so much time . . . all the time in the world . . . until Divine Providence saw fit to hand me my dear . . . sweet . . . loving . . . sister . . . . ” Those last words were uttered through clenched teeth and rigid jaw. If only there was a way to find out for certain how long Paris intended to stay with the Cartwrights without raising suspicion . . . .

“If only . . . if only . . . if only . . . . ” he murmured again, as he wracked his brains, desperately seeking an answer.

A knock on the door, discrete yet insistent, drew John from his grim, troubled musings. He deftly slipped the bright cherry red ribbon between the pages to mark his place, then closed his Bible. “Yes?” he queried, as he turned and placed the Bible on the table beside his chair. “Who is it?”

“Private David Matthews, Sir.”

John frowned. “State your business, Private,” he ordered.

“Sir, Lieutenant Hilliard is waiting downstairs, as ordered,” David replied.

John reached into the inside pocket of his smoking jacket and extracted the watch that had belonged to his father. It was one of the few items that had survived the fire that claimed the lives of his parents and two younger sisters. He flipped up the cover, engraved with the initials of his father, Gerald McKenna, and stole a quick glance at the watch face. The time was two-thirty, exactly. “The lieutenant is prompt if nothing else,” he sardonically observed in silence. He set the watch on top of his Bible, then rose stiffly to his feet, trying his best not to wince. “Private Matthews, please escort Lieutenant Hilliard in immediately,” he ordered crisply.

“Yes, Sir.”

A moment later, the door opened. Zachary Hilliard entered the room first, with David Matthews following at a respectful distance. David paused just long enough to noiselessly close the door before taking his place alongside the lieutenant. The two men immediately saluted, their crisp, precise movements in perfect unison.

“Lieutenant Hilliard reporting as ordered, Sir,” Zachary greeted his commanding officer in a wooden monotone.

John returned the salute. “Thank you, Private Matthews,” he said quietly, turning his full attention to the younger of the two men standing at attention in the center of the room. “You may return to your post.”

“Yes, Sir,” David acknowledged the order, then turned heel and strode toward the door moving at a brisk, yet decorous pace.

After the young man had left the room, John turned and began to pace in front of the fireplace very slowly, his limp agonizingly pronounced.

Zachary swallowed nervously. The captain pacing as he did now, with that slow, carefully measured gait, with head bowed and hands loosely clasped behind his back, seemingly oblivious to everything around him, was always a bad sign . . . a VERY bad sign. The churning butterflies in his stomach began to slow and coalesce, forming a cold, heavy lead weight. He shuddered.

John continued to pace, non-stop, for what seemed a dreadful eternity. A heavy, oppressive silence fell over the room, broken only by the occasional soft whisper of halting footfalls.

“ . . . uhhh, Captain?” Zachary finally ventured, with fear and trembling, unable to bear the unsettling quiet any longer. “What—?!”

John abruptly halted his pacing mid-stride. “I DON’T recall giving you permission to speak, Lieutenant,” he reprimanded in a tone of voice insultingly condescending, “and you ARE at attention.”

Zachary immediately straightened his posture, and sucked in his stomach. His face, schooled now into an impassive mask, effectively concealed his ire at having been chastised by his captain just now in the same manner he would have an ignorant bumbling, cadet of limited intelligence.

“It has come to my attention, Lieutenant Hilliard, that the man you and Corporal Deveraux hired to kill the Cartwright girl, was himself found dead a few days ago,” John at length began, speaking in a deathly calm tone of voice. “Is this true?”

“Yes, Sir . . . . ” Zachary replied warily, as wave upon intensifying wave of nausea swept over him. He half feared he was going to lapse into a spasm of dry heaves at any moment.

“How did Private Edwards die, Lieutenant?”

“I, uhhh, what I, ummm, m-mean to say, Sir . . . . ”

John once again ceased his pacing, and glanced up sharply. For a moment, he stood, unmoving, staring balefully at Zachary, through eyes wide open to their full limit, with the unblinking, intense gaze of a cobra about to strike. “Lieutenant. Hilliard.” he said, his calm, mild tone of voice an unsettling contrast against the dreadful inferno raging within, barely contained in his face and rigid body, now beginning to tremble. “I asked you a simple question . . . I expect a simple, straight forward answer. Surely even YOU can manage that.”

Zachary closed his eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “I don’t know . . . exactly . . . how Private Edwards died, Sir,” he replied, astonished at how calm and even his own voice sounded. “I left the matter entirely to Corporal Deveraux’s discretion.”

John began to pace again, this time moving in a half circle around the man standing at attention in the center of the room, with his eyes glued to Zachary’s face. His gait was slow and awkward. “You . . . left . . . the matter . . . ENTIRELY . . . to Corporal Deveraux’s discretion,” he echoed Zachary’s reply very slowly, enunciating every word, every syllable clearly and precisely.

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary replied, flinching away from the malevolent glare on his captain’s face.

“For your information, Sir . . . Private Edwards was executed, in the same manner executions are carried out upon the field of battle. Private JED Matthews learned of this when he last cleaned the sheriff’s office,” John confirmed Zachary’s suspicions in the same bland tone of voice most people might use in speaking of mundane things, like the weather. “I find it interesting . . . most interesting indeed . . . that a mere private was aware of this and YOU, my supposed right hand, were not.”

“Sir, I . . . I, uhhh— ”

John McKenna silenced him with a curt gesture. “Am I correct in assuming that you ORDERED Corporal Deveraux to kill Private Edwards?”

“I HAD to, Sir! I had no other choice in the matter . . . none at all!” The words tumbled out of Zachary Hilliard’s mouth, one after the other, in a mad, panic stricken rush. “He . . . P-Private Edwards . . . Sir, he told me he was going to— ”

John again ceased his pacing. “Lieutenant Hilliard, I asked you a question that requires but a SIMPLE reply of yes . . . or no,” he said, his voice dropping slightly in pitch and volume.

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary replied.

“Why?”

“Private Edwards told me if I didn’t abort this mission AND pay him ten thousand dollars, he was going to the sheriff and confess everything, Sir.”

“Abort this mission? That’s very interesting,” John murmured softly, speaking more to himself than to the other man present, still standing at rigid attention. “Very interesting indeed!” He abruptly stopped his pacing and glanced up sharply. “Why?” he snapped.

“He told me th-that . . . while he had no qualms about killing m-men . . . he . . . h-he drew the line at . . . at women and children,” Zachary replied.

“ . . . and the greedy son-of-a-bitch had the gall to demand a payment of ten thousand dollars as well!” John grumbled, contemptuous yet awed, not only by the late private’s sheer audacity, but of the shrewdness and courage he had shown in seizing hold of opportunity when it presented itself.

John resumed his pacing before the fireplace, his bodily movements more fluid and even, his limp less pronounced. “At that juncture, you should have sent Private Edwards to me directly . . . OR, at the very least, apprised me of the situation. Why did you not?”

“Sir, I . . . I, ummm, thought— ”

“You THOUGHT?!”

“Well, uhh . . . yes, Sir, I— ”

“Lieutenant Hilliard, the Holy Scriptures state unequivocally that we are to obey those in authority over us in all matters WITHOUT question, do they not?”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary replied warily. Apart from the Ten Commandments and a handful of Bible stories told him by his mother and maternal grandmother as a child, he was wholly ignorant of what lay between the front and back covers of the Holy Scriptures to which his captain had just referred.

“Then you should know that your job is NOT to think,” John said in a lofty, condescending tone of voice. “THAT is MY job and MY job alone!” He paused to allow Zachary a moment to absorb and perhaps ponder on the import of his words. “YOUR job, Lieutenant Hilliard, is and always has been to obey my lawful orders without pause or question, and to keep me informed on all matters.”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Zachary murmured, his voice filled with a mixture of guilty regret and abject fear. “I . . . I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Are you aware that Private Edwards’ body was found lying just off the road in a field half way between Virginia City and the Ponderosa . . . by Ben Cartwright, of all people, and one of his men?” John queried.

“I knew that his body was found in that meadow, Sir,” Zachary replied. A deathly calm began to steal over him. His racing heart began to slow, and his body, particularly his hands ceased their trembling. The nebulous cold in the pit of his stomach began to solidify and spread through out his entire being. “Though I had my suspicions that Ben Cartwright had found the body, I did not know for sure . . . until now.”

“ . . . and how, Sir, did you happen to come by THAT information?”

“I knew that the private had been murdered, and that someone had found his body lying in that meadow half way between here and the Ponderosa when the sheriff came to question Bill Taylor— ”

“He . . . WHAT?!”

“The sheriff questioned Bill Taylor about Private Edwards’ murder, Sir,” Zachary replied, with the fatalistic aplomb of the utterly hopeless, coming to terms with whatever grim destiny The Fates might have in store. “Bill Taylor was in a poker game with Private Edwards a day or two before his demise.”

“Then he’s not a suspect?”

“No, Sir, I’m reasonably sure he’s not.”

“Thank Heaven for small mercies,” John remarked acerbically. “How did you come to SUSPECT that Ben Cartwright was the one who found the private’s body?”

“Certain facts in Sergeant Collier’s report— ” Zachary replied.

“Sergeant Collier,” John murmured softly. His stride gradually lengthened, and his limp had all but disappeared. “It amazes me no end how Jed Matthews, a lowly private . . . and Jeff Collier, a non-commissioned officer are so knowledgeable, whilst my second in command is wholly ignorant of everything that’s going on around him.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

“Do you have anything ELSE to report, Lieutenant?”

Zachary opened his mouth with every intention of lying to the man, who, for so many years, had been confidant and friend, as well as his immediate superior officer. “He KNOWS,” every instinct within silently screamed, “Captain McKenna already knows.” If THAT were the case, then deliberately withholding information would make an already horrendous situation infinitely worse.

Zachary closed his eyes, and took a deep, ragged breath. He, then, launched into a full report of the correspondence that the local sheriff and the Cartwrights had almost certainly found among Private Edwards’ personal effects . . . correspondence that directly implicated himself and Corporal Deveraux, in a calm, detached tone of voice.

For a long time after, John McKenna said nothing. He remained where he stood, as if his legs and feet had suddenly taken root, his body rigid, his face flushed, staring over at the man he had so often in the past described as his right hand, through eyes Zachary half feared were going to explode right out of their sockets.

“Soooo-oooooo help me, Lieutenant . . . . ” the captain finally spoke, in a tight voice just above the decibel of the softest whisper. “So . . . HELP . . . me . . . if YOUR bumbling incompetence results in my having to ABORT this mission— ”

“No, Sir,” Zachary replied, his voice wholly devoid of all feelings and emotion. “We will NOT have to abort. On that you have my solemn word, as an officer and a gentleman.”

John abruptly turned and screamed for his eldest daughter to fetch in his riding crop. The girl entered less than a moment later, carrying the crop clutched in both hands, her face as white as the tattered nightgown she always wore. She warily approached her father, and keeping a respectful distance, held out the riding crop in the same manner a supplicant offers up a sacrifice to whatever god or gods he worships.

The captain snatched the crop from the frightened girl’s hands, and dismissed her with a curt nod of his head. She pivoted and fled noiselessly across the floor to the door that opened into this room, and quickly let herself out.

“Lieutenant . . . remove your shirt,” the captain ordered, in that terrible dead pan tone of voice, his entire body now trembling with a rage the like of which Zachary had never, ever seen before . . . .

. . . and, he hoped to God, would never, ever see again.

 

Wednesday morning dawned with clear skies and bright sunshine. High overhead, the branches of the of the tall, straight ponderosa pines surrounding the Cartwrights’ ranch house, swayed and danced to the rhythm of the gentle breezes, weaving their way amongst them. There was a damp chill in the morning air, consequence of the heavy rains over the last three days coupled with Old Man Winter’s last hurrah before making his final, inevitable surrender to the approaching warmth of spring.

Joe stood before the unshuttered dining room window, gazing out upon the magnificent vista of mountain, sky, and forest beyond. “Yep . . . . ” he murmured softly, his lips curving upward to form a contemplative smile. “No doubt about it . . . this is gonna be a great day for going fishing.”

“It sure is, Grandpa,” Stacy agreed wholeheartedly, as she took her place at the table. “I can’t wait.”

“Little Joe come away from window,” Hop Sing sternly admonished the youngest of Ben Cartwright’s sons. “Little Joe sit down, eat. Eat while food still hot.”

“Coming,” Joe replied with a wry roll of his eyes, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Hop Sing’s eyes moved around the table, from one face to the next, as he set two plates of steaming hot flapjacks down in front of Ben first, then Hoss. “Where Missy Paris?” he demanded.

“I’m right here, Hop Sing,” Paris replied as she made her way from the bottom step to the dining room table. This morning she wore her navy blue suit and a plain white linen blouse.

Hop Sing favored Paris with a broad grin, as she seated herself in the chair at the foot of the table. “Ah . . . good!” he declared with a satisfied nod of his head for emphasis. “Very, very good. Soon Missy Paris fit her clothes.”

“Hmpf! If I keep eating like this for too much longer, I’ll have to go on a diet to make sure I keep right on fitting into my clothes,” Paris retorted with a smile.

“Missy not need worry about that!” Hop Sing immediately returned. “Not now, not for long time yet.” With that, he abruptly turned heel and sauntered back toward the kitchen.

“Eric, I really appreciate you taking me to Mass this morning,” Paris McKenna said, as she turned and favored Hoss with a smile every bit as bright as the sunshine outside.

“I’m glad t’ do it,” Hoss said, returning her smile. Over the course of the past week, he had noticed that the hollows of her cheeks seemed not quite as deep as they had been the night she first arrived. Her face yet remained pale, but the underlying grayness was all but gone, and there was a pale pink glow upon her cheeks, forehead, chin, and the very tip of her nose. She was getting around very well now, without the aid of a cane or a gallant man with a handy arm, and there was a definite spring in her step. “Miss Paris?”

“Yes, Eric?”

“You’re lookin’ good, Ma’am . . . real good.”

“Why . . . thank you, Eric,” she murmured demurely.

“Missy not talk,” Hop Sing sternly admonished Paris, as he returned to the dining room, carefully balancing three more plates, generously stacked with flapjacks. “Missy eat now, while food hot,” he continued, as he set one of the plates before her.

“Oh, Hop Sing,” she groaned as she eyed the stack on her plate through eyes round with horror and dismay. “I’ll NEVER be able to eat all this . . . . ”

“Missy Paris eat,” Hop Sing snapped. “You, too,” he continued, turning his attention toward Ben. He placed the remaining two plates down in front of Joe and Stacy. “No talk, Mister Cartwright. Sooner you and Miss Stacy finish, sooner you leave, go catch a whole lotta big mess of trout. Need whole lotta big mess of trout to feed Mister Hoss.”

“That y’ will,” Hoss readily agreed, his smile broadening, “ ‘cause I’m gonna be hungry as a bear come suppertime.”

“Uh oh,” Joe murmured, favoring the biggest of his two older brothers with an apprehensive frown. “You all right, Hoss?”

“ ‘Course I am,” Hoss replied, bewildered and taken slightly aback by Joe’s question and the look on his face.

“Oh,” Joe exclaimed, exhaling a loud, melodramatic sigh of relief. “For a minute there, I thought you’d come down with something.”

The bewildered frown on Hoss’ face deepened. “Now why in the ever lovin’ world would y’ think that, Li’l Brother?”

Joe grinned. “When you said you were ONLY hungry as a bear just now . . . well . . . what ELSE was I supposed to think?!”

“Very funny, LI’L Joe,” Hoss growled, raising his voice slightly in order to be heard above his younger brother’s raucous laughter.

“Boys, settle down and finish eating,” Ben sternly admonished both of his sons. “Hoss, you need to be leaving sometime within the next twenty minutes or so, if you want to arrive early enough for Paris to make confession before Mass begins.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss murmured, as he turned his attention to the remaining food on his plate. “I’m almost finished.”

Ben downed the remaining coffee in his cup, then placed it, along with its saucer back down on the table. “You about finished, Young Woman?” he asked, turning his attention to his daughter.

“I’m ready to go whenever YOU are, Pa,” Stacy eagerly responded.

“Fishing poles out on front porch,” Hop Sing said, upon his return to the dining room, this time with a pot full of steaming hot coffee. “Picnic lunch in kitchen. Hop Sing go get, take outside.”

“Buck and Blaze Face are also saddled and ready to go,” Joe added. “You’ll find ‘em tethered to the post out front.”

“Thank you, Son . . . and thank YOU, Hop Sing,” Ben said gratefully, as he rose to his feet. “Stacy, you and I need to get a move on, if we’re going to catch a whole lotta big mess of trout in time for Hop Sing to cook ‘em up for our supper tonight.”

“Coming, Pa,” Stacy said. She leapt to her feet, and shoved her chair back under the table in the same fluid, graceful move.

“You two enjoy yourselves,” Joe called after his father and sister, as they strode briskly across the great room toward the front door.

“We will, Grandpa,” Stacy called back, as she fell in step behind their father.

As she sipped what remained of her coffee, Paris watched Ben and Stacy remove their hats and jackets from the coat rack. Ben donned his hat, then turned to retrieve his gun belt and revolver from the top of the credenza. Stacy, in the meantime, slipped on her blue denim jacket. That done, she gathered up Ben’s jacket and held it out to him.

“Here you are, Pa . . . . ” she said with a smile.

Ben secured his holster and gun to his right thigh, then reached out to take his jacket from his daughter’s outstretched arms. “Thank you, Young Woman,” he said returning her smile with an affectionate one of his own. He took the proffered jacket from her arms, then picked up her hat and deftly placed it on top of her head. “Don’t forget to button up . . . it’s a mite chilly out this morning, and I don’t want you coming down with a cold, or worse . . . . ”

“Oh, Pa . . . . ” she groaned, even as she obediently drew the ends of her jacket together, and began fastening the buttons.

Paris felt her heart lurch, then constrict within, as she observed the easy camaraderie . . . the light of happy anticipation in their eyes as they contemplated the day ahead.

“From the first moment I laid eyes on Stacy, I knew . . . deep down, I KNEW . . . SHE was the daughter I’d always wanted, but never had . . . . ”

Ben’s words . . . spoken the day following her arrival from Virginia City . . . echoed again through the inward depths of thought, mind, and memory.

“Fifteen,” she ruminated silently, as she turned her gaze to Stacy’s face, with those great, big blue eyes, bright as a summer sky, framed by a halo of long hair, dark brown, almost black . . . .

. . . a face so like her own in many ways, and yet so unlike . . . .

“Fifteen going on sixteen . . . . ” Paris murmured softly. “The same age . . . . ” The exact same age poor Rose Miranda would have been . . . .

Had she lived.

In the terrible moment that followed, a bitter hatred for the child-woman, now striding through the front door that her father gallantly held open, surged up from within her heart with all the sudden violence of a flash flood. Paris despised Stacy for being here . . . in this house . . . for being the daughter and sister Ben Cartwright and his sons respectively had always wanted, but never had . . . .

. . . usurping the place that, in her mind, rightfully belonged to another.

“Miss Paris?!”

A man’s voice, speaking softly, followed by a big, yet gentle hand coming to rest on her shoulder . . . . She started violently, nearly toppling right out of her chair. In the very same instant, a harsh, guttural cry rose up from her throat. For a moment, she remained in place, her eyes darting wildly about the room.

“M-Miss Paris . . . s-sorry I startled ya . . . . ” Hoss barely managed to stammer out his apology. The intensity of her reaction to the sound of his voice, and the touch of his hand, shocked him. “A-Are ya . . . are ya all right?!”

Paris took a deep ragged breath, then slowly lifted her head, and found Eric peering down at her, with an anxious frown. His face was white as a sheet, and the hand, still resting on her shoulder, trembled. “F-Fine, Eric,” she replied, her voice tremulous. “I . . . I’m fine.”

The scowl on Hoss’ face deepened. “You sure?” he queried, dubious and wary.

Paris nodded, as she reached up and covered his hand with her own. “I’m fine now, Eric. Honest.” She gave his hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“I’m really sorry I startled ya so,” Hoss apologized again.

“My fault, Eric,” Paris said, placing both hands on the table before her. She, then, rose to her feet slowly, leaning heavily on the dining room table for support. “I . . . seem to have fallen into this awful habit of woolgathering at odd times . . . . ” The intense hatred she had felt for Stacy mere seconds before was gone, evaporated into nothingness, as if it had never been. “Dear God!” she silently, fervently prayed. “Am I . . . h-have I . . . g-gone completely insane?!”

“ . . . uhhh, Ma’am?”

“Y-Yes, Joe?” Paris responded warily.

“I have no idea in the world what you were thinking about just now,” Joe quietly observed, “but whatever it was . . . well, judging from the look on your face, it sure must’ve been something.”

His words left her feeling as if her clothing had just been ripped from her body, exposing all of her scars, warts, and other imperfections, not only the physical ones, but those of soul and spirit, as well. She felt as if very fault, every sin she had ever committed, and worse of all, her deepest, and most shameful secrets had been laid bare to the prying eyes of the world all around her.

“N-Nothing,” Paris stammered. “I . . . it’s nothing. In . . . in f-fact, I d-don’t even remember what I WAS thinking about.”

“Miss Paris, you sure feel up t’ attendin’ church this mornin’?” Hoss asked.

“Yes. Of course I’m sure,” Paris immediately replied. “That . . . and the ride into town and back in all that nice fresh air . . . it’ll do me a world of good.”

“Mitch and Bobby should have that buggy hitched and ready to go, Hoss,” Joe said, as he stabbed the last of what remained of the generous stack of flapjacks Hop Sing had served up for breakfast.

“Thanks, Joe,” Hoss said, as he turned, and gallantly offered his arm to Paris.

 

“Father Rutherford?”

Father Brendan Rutherford quickly slipped on his long, black cassock, then turned, upon hearing his name. Paul Bartholomew, the young deacon who would be assisting him at the altar for mid-week Mass this morning, stood in the open door to the church sacristy.

“Hoss Cartwright’s out in the sanctuary,” Paul continued. “There’s a woman with him, who wants to make confession before Mass.”

Father Brendan smiled. Aged in his late sixties, his full, ruddy face and circlet of tonsured red hair, easily took twenty years away from his appearance. He was a big man, standing well over six feet tall, with broad, muscular shoulders and barreled chest. Though some of his musculature sagged here and there under the combined pull of age and gravity, he still presented a picture of a man physically fit.

He had met Ben and Marie Cartwright a couple of months after the birth of their son, Joseph Francis. She had been born and raised within the Roman Catholic Church, and upon the birth of her son, sought to return after an absence of more than a decade. Though not Roman Catholic himself, Ben supported his wife’s decision to return to the religion of her childhood and to raise their son in accord with that faith. Marie and young Joseph attended Mass regularly, until her tragic, untimely death, when the boy was barely five years old. Father Brendan and the members of the Cartwright family remained fast friends, even though Ben had opted to raise Joe according to his own faith and beliefs.

“Paul . . . . ”

“Yes, Father?”

“Please tell Hoss that I’ll be with him and his guest directly,” he said as he finished the task of buttoning his cassock.

Paul nodded, then turned to leave the sacristy.

“ . . . and tell him I would be glad to hear his guest’s confession,” the priest called after the young deacon.

“I will, Father.”

A few moments later, upon completing his ritual of robing, Father Brendan strode briskly into the sanctuary, where he found Hoss and a woman, clad in an ill-fitting navy blue suit, sitting in the front pew.

“Good morning, Hoss,” Father Brendan greeted the Ben Cartwright’s middle boy with a warm smile and extended hand. “Good to see you. It’s been awhile . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir . . . it has,” Hoss said, remembering that the last time he had seen Father Brendan was at the family’s annual Christmas party last December. Smiling, he rose to his feet, and took the priest’s hand. “The Ponderosa’s kept the lot of us pretty busy this year . . . . ”

“ . . . and I’VE been very busy myself, despite the fact that I’m supposed to be retired,” Father Brendan said ruefully, as they shook hands.

“Father Brendan, you remember Miss Paris . . . . ”

“I do, indeed,” Father Brendan said, as he turned and smiled warmly at Paris. “Miss McKenna, it’s wonderful seeing you again. Very remiss of Ben not to tell me you were coming for a visit . . . . ”

“I’m afraid Ben didn’t know I would be coming for a visit, either,” Paris quietly explained. “I was on my way out to San Francisco when I suddenly took ill. Ben, bless his heart, graciously invited me to stay with him and his family at the Ponderosa until I regain my health.”

“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been ill,” Father Brendan said, as he seated himself on the pew, on the other side of Paris. He smiled. “Though with Ben, Hoss, Joe, Stacy, and Hop Sing looking after you . . . I’m sure you’ll soon be fully recovered.”

“Yes . . . they’ve been spoiling me rotten, serving me breakfast in bed . . . waiting on me hand and foot . . . and with Hop Sing practically force feeding me every minute of the day, I’m going to turn into a round little butterball before long,” Paris said, returning his smile.

“As I recall, you were one of the rare few who could eat anything and everything without putting on an ounce,” Father Brendan wryly remarked.

“The metabolism slows as one gets older, Father,” Paris said ruefully, then sighed. “I’m afraid the days when I could eat anything and everything without gaining an ounce are long gone.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re doing better, Miss McKenna,” the priest said. “Mister Bartholomew told me that you wish to make confession before Mass?”

“Yes, Father . . . if it’s not an imposition,” Paris replied.

“No imposition at all,” Father Brendan said, as he slowly rose to his feet. “I would be more than happy to hear your confession. Hoss, if you would excuse us?”

“Sure thing,” Hoss agreed . . . .

 

With trembling hand, Paris McKenna crossed herself, then took a deep ragged breath. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned greatly,” she murmured softly, “and it has been many years since my last confession.”

“May the Lord be in your heart and upon your lips, that you may worthily confess all your sins,” Father Brendan gave response in a kindly tone of voice. “In the name of the Father . . . and of the Son . . . and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” Paris murmured softly, her voice barely audible. “I . . . I confess to God Almighty . . . to all the Saints . . . and to you, Father . . . that I have sinned much in thought, word, deed, and omission by my own great fault. Since my last confession . . . which was . . . was . . . . ” She swallowed nervously. “Father, it has been so long since I last confessed and received absolution, I . . . I can no longer remember time and place.”

“My Child, God knows your heart,” Father Brendan said gently. “Speak now of the things that burden you the most.”

Paris nodded. “Since the time I last made confession and . . . and received absolution, Father, I . . . I have committed these sins . . . . ”

 

For a time, Father Brendan Rutherford sat mulling over Paris McKenna’s disturbing confession in silence. “Miss McKenna . . . . ” he ventured hesitantly, “if I may be so bold . . . what . . . exactly . . . ARE your intentions concerning Ben Cartwright?”

“Are you asking me if I . . . if I intend to . . . to m-marry him?”

“Do you?”

“No. I don’t know . . . . ” Paris replied, miserable and uncertain. “I hadn’t even thought— ”

“Are you in love with him?”

“I never STOPPED loving him, Father. I didn’t know that myself until . . . until recently . . . . ”

“Is Ben in love with you?”

“He hasn’t said so . . . not in so many words, but I . . . I think it’s a very real possibility.”

“You have to tell him, Miss McKenna.”

“About?” she queried, dreading that she already knew what his answer was going to be.

“Rose Miranda,” Father Brendan replied in a very quiet, very firm tone of voice. “You must tell Ben about Rose Miranda.”

“No,” Paris immediately protested. “No, Father, I can’t. I CAN’T tell Ben about Rose Miranda . . . not now . . . not ever. He would despise me.”

“He would despise you less if he heard about Rose Miranda from YOU.”

“Ben couldn’t possibly hear about Rose Miranda from anyone else,” Paris argued. “My parents . . . my sisters, and my brother . . . they were the only ones who knew about Rose Miranda, and . . . they’re dead. All of them.”

“You told me before that you weren’t sure whether your brother is alive or dead,” Father Brendan reminded her.

“Father, I already told you . . . I’ve not seen or heard from John since we last met in Saint Jo,” Paris said with a touch of asperity.

“You CAN’T rule out the possibility that your brother survived the injury you inflicted upon him when you met in Saint Jo,” Father Brendan pointed out.

“All right, Father . . . all right! It’s possible John IS still alive. I can’t deny it,” Paris reluctantly admitted. “But he has no more way of reaching ME, than I do of reaching him.”

“Did he have a way of reaching you when he turned up in Saint Jo?” Father Brendan asked.

“Of course not,” Paris replied. “His showing up in Saint Jo the way he did was pure and simple happenstance. I told you that.”

“What makes you so sure pure and simple happenstance can’t happen again?” Father Brendan asked.

“ . . . and what makes YOU so damned sure it WILL?” Paris demanded, taking no pains to conceal her swift rising ire and frustration.

“I DON’T know that it will happen, Miss McKenna,” the priest replied. “That being said, I have to admit that the odds are probably in your favor that your brother will never come here, that you’ll never see or hear from him again. If you and Ben decide to marry, you’ll both, like as not, spend many years together without him ever finding out about Rose Miranda from John.”

“But?” Paris prompted, her eyes narrowing.

“Ah, yes . . . the caveat,” Father Brendan said softly. “First, over the many years I’ve served Mother Church as a priest, it has been MY experience that somehow, one way or another, the truth will out, odds, chances, and statistics be damned . . . usually from a source wholly unexpected. Second, even if the truth never emerges, YOU will know about Rose Miranda, Miss McKenna . . . and BECAUSE you know, her ghost will always stand between you and Ben.”

“It doesn’t HAVE to be that way . . . . ” Paris argued.

“You’re absolutely right,” Father Brendan agreed, “it DOESN’T have to be that way . . . and I dare say that if you were a hardened woman, without love or conscience, it WOULDN’T be that way. You’d marry Ben and maybe even live happily ever after, without sparing Rose Miranda so much as a single thought.”

“Are you saying that I AM such a woman?”

“No, I’m saying quite the opposite, Miss McKenna,” the priest replied. “You are NOT a hardened woman, a miracle in and of itself, perhaps, given the hard life you’ve lead. You’re also a woman of conscience, or else you wouldn’t be so troubled about the kind of relationships you had with your parents and your sisters, nor would you have told your confessor about Rose Miranda. Last, and perhaps most important, only a woman with love in her heart would remain in love with a man she had left more than fifteen years ago . . . and still be grieving the tragic death of the— ”

“Father,” Paris wearily cut him off, “are you going to give me absolution or not?”

Father Brendan shook his head. “I can not,” he said quietly, his voice filled with sadness and deep regret, “not until you tell Ben about Rose Miranda.”

“I see,” she said stiffly, in a voice stone cold. “Is THAT to be my penance?”

“No,” Father Brendan replied. “That is to be the ENDING of the penance to which you’ve sentenced yourself ever since the night you left the Ponderosa . . . what? Fifteen? Sixteen years ago?”

“Almost SEVENteen years ago now,” Paris said bitterly. “Father?”

“Yes, Miss McKenna?”

“Is there . . . is there no OTHER way in which you might give me absolution?” she begged.

Father Brendan sadly shook his head.

“Even though . . . even though, according to YOU, I’ve BEEN doing penance for the better part of the past seventeen years?!”

“Miss McKenna, absolution requires more than simply acknowledging our sins through confession and doing penance,” Father Brendan said gently. “Yes, those acts ARE important steps toward receiving absolution, but the MOST important step, in my humble opinion, is coming to the place of freeing oneself of the burden of guilt that comes as a consequence of having committed the sin.”

“ . . . and the only way for me to find absolution . . . to free myself of the burden of guilt I’ve supposedly carried around for the last seventeen years and end my penance is to . . . to . . . shift that burden of pain . . . of grief . . . and guilt from MY shoulders onto Ben Cartwright’s?!” Paris demanded, thoroughly outraged. “No, Father. I can’t . . . I WON’T do that. I’M the one, for worse rather than better, who made the decisions . . . therefore, I’M the one who should suffer the consequences and bear the burdens.”

“Ben has a right to know.”

“I’m not denying that,” Paris said, “but, all the same, he’s better off NOT knowing. If that means I go to hell because I can’t ever get absolution, then so be it. Better . . . FAR better all the way around that I spend eternity in hell than Ben spend the rest of his life in hell over decisions in which he was given no part . . . and that not even he can change now. I . . . regret having taken up so much of your time, only to . . . to have wasted it.”

“Miss McKenna, I— ”

The words lying at the very tip of Father Brendan’s tongue died without utterance, as Paris McKenna, with back ramrod straight, her head held high, strode briskly out of the room, without sparing so much as a backward glance.

 

“Eric, please . . . take me back to the Ponderosa,” Paris demanded, the instant she came within earshot of Hoss, still seated in the front pew.

“N-Now?!”

“RIGHT now!”

Hoss slowly rose to his feet with the rim of his white ten-gallon hat clasped in both hands. “M-Miss Paris, I . . . I thought you were— ” he stammered, perplexed and bewildered.

“I’m very sorry . . . more than I can possibly say . . . to have put you to all this fuss and bother,” she said wearily, as she seized hold of his arm with a grip surprisingly strong for a woman of fragile health. “I have a splitting headache, and I . . . I feel like I’m going to regurgitate that wonderful breakfast Hop Sing made this morning. I . . . guess the ride into town just . . . plain . . . wore me out.”

“I’m sorry, too, Miss Paris. I know y’ really had your heart set on goin’ t’ church this mornin’, ” Hoss said quietly, noting her pallid complexion and trembling hands with an apprehensive frown. “If ya’d like, we can stop by Doc Martin’s office on our way home, ‘n— ”

“I DON’T need to see the doctor,” Paris said in a firm, no nonsense tone of voice, as she and Hoss made their way through the church narthex, past the stream of parishioners arriving for Mass.

“We wouldn’t be goin’ outta our way, Ma’am . . . honest,” he gently pressed. “In fact, we’ll be passin’ right by his street on our way outta— ”

“Damn it, Eric . . . I just told you . . . I DON’T need to see the doctor,” she snapped, her eyes flashing with anger.

“Yes, ‘M,” Hoss responded stiffly, stung inwardly by her sharp rebuke.

A strained silence fell between them as they walked across the churchyard toward the buggy. Upon reaching the conveyance, Hoss helped Paris climb up into the passengers’ seat, then circled around the back to the other side.

“Eric, please wait,” Paris begged, as he settled himself in the buggy beside her. She reached out and placed a restraining hand over top his forearm, as he took up the reins.

Without uttering a word, Hoss turned toward the woman seated beside him, and waited.

“I just wanted to tell you that I . . . that I’m sorry,” Paris murmured contritely, “and I AM, Eric . . . honest! I am! Just because I’m feeling poorly and out of sorts doesn’t give me the right to snap your head off.”

“ ‘S ok, Miss Paris,” Hoss said curtly, before gently commanding the horse to begin backing up.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with me that a good, long nap won’t cure,” Paris stoutly maintained, “which happens to be a very good thing because doctors tend to be expensive, and I’m kinda low on funds at the moment.”

“You needn’t worry yourself one bit ‘bout money,” Hoss gamely pointed out, as he turned from the church yard out onto the road that would eventually lead them back to the Ponderosa. “Pa’d— ”

“I KNOW he would, Eric,” she returned with a touch of exasperation. “He’s been very kind and generous . . . more so than I deserve, God knows, and I’m very grateful. I would have been in dire straits indeed had your father not been here, and taken me in. All the more reason, then not to take unfair advantage of his good nature.”

“You’re still a friend o’ the family,” Hoss said quietly.

“You . . . your father . . . your brother and sister . . . and Hop Sing have ALL shown yourselves friends to me,” Paris said, as she turned her face to the road stretching out before them. “I couldn’t ask for better. I only wish that I . . . well, that I had shown myself worthy of your friendship . . . . ” She punctuated those last words with a soft, melancholy sigh.

“Miss Paris . . . . ”

“What?!”

“ . . . alright with you if I speak plain?”

“I s’pose . . . . ” she warily gave ascent.

“I don’t know why y’ left so sudden last time you was here, but speakin’ for myself, it just plain don’t matter,” Hoss said in a firm tone that brooked no argument, no dissension of any kind on the issue. “What’s past is gone . . . like water passin’ under a bridge. Y’ can’t bring it back, ‘n ya can’t hold on to it, though a lotta folks try. What matters . . . leastwise what oughtta matter . . . is how a body’s livin’ in’ the right here ‘n right now.”

“Sometimes, Eric . . . some times . . . there’s things in a person’s past that are so terrible . . . so painful . . . it’s impossible to let go,” she ventured in a voice barely audible.

“I know there’s times when a man . . . or woman ‘s gotta find a way t’ make peace with what’s past,” Hoss said, “ ‘n believe me . . . I know it ain’t easy. But, to carry a heavy burden like that around for the whole rest o’ your life . . . . ” He sighed and shook his head. “There comes a time when a body’s gotta make up his mind t’ let go o’ the past, so he can live as he ought in t’ here ‘n now.”

“I see the wisdom in your words,” she said softly, marveling at his insight. “The way a person’s living out his life in the present is all that SHOULD matter. But, supposing that person finds himself surrounded by others who are not so willing to, ummm . . . shall we say let sleeping dogs lie?”

“All the more reason t’ live the best y’ can . . . ‘n to BE the best y’ can,” Hoss replied.

“Something along the lines of living well can be your best revenge?” she queried.

“I’ve never heard it put quite THAT way before,” Hoss responded, his lips curving upward to form an amused grin, “but . . . yes, Ma’am.”

For a single, brief, shining moment of what could only be foolish insanity, Paris McKenna desperately wished, with all the strength and all of the wherewithal she could summon from within her, that it WAS possible to for her make peace with what was, that she might live the kind of life Eric had conveyed so strongly in his words, and in the conviction behind which those words had been uttered.

But, such could never be.

Not for her.

Not now.

Maybe . . . if Rose Miranda had lived . . . .

“Foolishness,” she castigated herself in angry silence. “Rose Miranda is dead. Dead and buried.” No matter how fervently she might wish otherwise, there was nothing she or anyone else could do to change that. To wish so hard for things that might have been, but could never be was pointless.

“M-Miss Paris?!” Hoss ventured, noting her physical appearance with growing concern. In the space of a few minutes, she had shriveled, like grapes and plums turned respectively to raisins and prunes. She leaned heavily against the other side of the buggy, with chin resting down upon her bosom and eyes closed. “Ma’am, are y’ . . . are y’ all right?!”

“Fine, Eric,” she moaned softly.

“ . . . ‘n you’re sure ya don’t want me t’ stop by the doc’s office on our way home?”

“Quite sure,” she immediately replied. There was a hard, biting edge to her voice. “Good long nap’s all I need . . . . ”

“Yes, ‘M,” Hoss murmured softly, as he turned and, in passing, cast a longing eye down the street, where Doctor Martin and his wife lived and worked.

 

Upon her return to the Ponderosa, Paris turned heel and fled across the yard toward the front door of the log ranch house, the instant Hoss lifted her down from the buggy and gently set her feet down upon terra firma, without sparing so much as a second glance or even a simple thank you. Hoss stood beside the buggy with his eyes glued to Paris’ retreating back, as she strode across the yard, with head bowed and shoulders hunched, moving as fast as her precarious health and decorum allowed. He kept close watch until she finally entered the house, then, with a disheartened sigh, he set himself to the task of unhitching the horse from the buggy.

Meanwhile, the sound of the front door opening, then slamming shut, brought Hop Sing running out of the kitchen. “M-Missy?!” he gasped, upon catching sight of Paris bolting headlong across the great room toward the steps. “Missy Paris . . . why you back so early?!”

Paris half ran, half stumbled up the stairs, turning a deaf ear to Hop Sing’s anxious entreaties. Upon finally reaching the safe confines of the guest room upstairs at the far end of the hall, she slammed the door shut, then collapsed against it, gasping for breath.

“WHORE!”

Her mind echoed with the sound of a voice that, mercifully, she had not heard in nearly sixteen years. It was the voice of Gerald McKenna, her father, stone cold, filled with anger, hatred, and bitterness. A vision of his face, when last she had seen it, swam into view. His jaw was set with an agonizing rigidity and his thick, bushy eyebrows drawn tightly together, locked in a perpetual scowl. The deep lines and hallows, seemingly gauged into brittle flesh the consistency of dried parchment, lent him the appearance of a man twenty years older at the very least. His blue eyes, the same bright color as her own, burned with the corrosive emotions literally eating him alive from within.

“Whore,” he spat contemptuously. “Nothing but a common WHORE!”

“No!” she tearfully insisted, now as she had then. “No! It WASN’T like that . . . it WASN’T! I swear!”

“Liar!”

“Shut-up,” Paris moaned, clapping her hands tight over her ears.

“Miss McKenna . . . . ”

Father Rutherford’s voice, hesitant and uncertain, rose from the wounded places within her heart, effectively . . . and mercifully . . . stilling her father’s cruel words, and exorcizing the terrible image of his face.

“Miss McKenna . . . .

. . . if I may be so bold, he continued, . . . what . . . exactly . . . ARE your intentions concerning Ben Cartwright?”

“Are you asking me if I intend to m-marry him?”

“Do you?”

“No . . . I don’t know, I don’t. I hadn’t even thought— ” Paris moaned softly, as she stumbled across the room, fervently hoping to reach the bed, before she lost her balance and fell down.

“Paris?”

Father Rutherford’s face shimmered. His eyes, that circlet of red hair, now mixed so generously with gray, the long, aristocratic nose, that firm mouth and squared jaw line, all melted into a formless mound of flesh before the gaze of her inward sight.

“Paris . . . . ”

That formless mound of flesh coalesced into the face Ben Cartwright, as he appeared now, still every bit as handsome, as he had been when she first took up with him nearly seventeen years ago, leastwise in HER humble opinion. His graying, dark brown hair had gone completely snow white, and some of the lines, present in his face then, had deepened with the passage of time. Those changes, ones that would make the vast majority of people look old, lent a certain dignity and grace to his rugged good looks. Ben had aged exceedingly well over the past seventeen years, and there was no doubt in her mind whatsoever, that he would continue to do so.

“Paris . . . . ”

With a soft, contented sigh, she half sat, half fell down on the edge of her bed, closing her outward eyes, that she might all the better see once more the remembered passionate warmth radiating from his eyes and face.

“A penny for your thoughts . . . . ”

“Oh no! No, no, no . . . Ben, we shouldn’t,” she moaned, her voice filled with sadness and regret.

“Is that what you want?”

“You know damned well that ISN’T what I want, Ben Cartwright. I’m . . . I’m trying to be sensible, that’s all.”

“I’m not so sure I want to be sensible, Paris . . . . ”

“If we had the common sense God gave a horse’s arse, we WOULD be sensible. It’s been sixteen years, Ben . . . .

. . sixteen years . . . .

                                          . . . almost seventeen . . . .

“ . . . nearly half my life.”

“Paris,” Ben gently pressed, “what matters is the years that lie ahead . . . not the years gone by . . . . ”

“You have to tell him, Miss McKenna.”

Father Rutherford’s face, his voice, his words burst into her reverie with Ben with all the rude suddenness of someone throwing a bucket of ice cold water in her face.

“You HAVE to tell him, Miss McKenna . . . .

. . . you have to tell Ben about Rose Miranda!”

“Harlot!”

Her father’s face returned, displacing Father Rutherford’s, with the same rude suddenness his, in its turn, had displaced Ben’s.

“Paris, what matters is the years that lie ahead . . . . ”

“You HAVE to tell him . . . . ”

“ . . . the years that lie ahead . . . . ”

“ . . . Jezebel!”

Shut-up,” she whimpered softly, as she leaned forward, pressing her hands tight against her ears once again. “All of you, please . . . . ”

“You have to tell him, Miss McKenna . . . . ”

“. . . what matters is the years that lie ahead . . . . ”

“You HAVE to tell Ben about Rose Miranda.”

“Common harlot!”

“ . . . you have to tell Ben about Rose Miranda.”

“No! No, damn you! Damn ALL of you!” she vehemently swore, fearful that she had finally stumbled across that razor thin boundary line between sanity and utter madness. “Just . . . shut-up! Please . . . for the love of God, please . . . just . . . shut-up, and . . . and leave me in peace . . . . ”

Mercifully, the even rhythm of someone gently knocking on the door dispelled the dread visions and silenced their voices.

“Wh-Who . . . Who is it?” she responded, her voice shaking.

“It’s me,” Hoss replied from without. The concern and anxiety he felt within him, came through in his voice all too painfully loud and clear. “Miss Paris . . . are you all right?! I thought I heard ya screamin’ just now . . . . ”

“ . . . s-sorry, Eric, I . . . I, ummm dozed off for a moment and . . . and, I guess I . . . I must’ve been dreaming,” she stammered, grateful for the closed door that safely concealed his face and her own bright red cheeks, very warm to the touch. “It . . . w-wasn’t a very nice dream, I’m afraid . . . . ”

“I’m sorry,” Hoss replied, not knowing what else to say. “Hop Sing sent me up t’ tell ya that dinner’ll be ready in five minutes . . . . ”

Paris closed her eyes again, and took a deep, ragged breath. “I-I’m not hungry, Eric,” she responded, endeavoring to keep her voice calm and steady.

“Y’ sure ya can’t manage a li’l?” he cautiously pressed. “Hop Sing fixed pot roast, ‘specially for you.”

“I . . . appreciate all the trouble Hop Sing went through, but I’m . . . just . . . plain . . . not hungry,” Paris replied. “I’m sorry.”

“Alright, I’ll tell him,” Hoss said. He started to turn, then stopped. “Miss Paris?”

“What is it, Eric?” she responded warily. She remained, seated on the edge of her bed, with hands clasped tight beneath her chin, and every muscle in her body rigidly tensed.

“I’m real sorry you ain’t feelin’ very well right now,” he said with heartfelt sincerity. “I hope you’ll be feelin’ better real soon.”

“Thank you, Eric,” she murmured softly, listening close to the sound of his footsteps as they moved down the hall, away from the door to her room, fast closed. The instant his soft footfalls finally gave way to silence, she warily exhaled the breath she had been holding, then unclasped her hands slowly, one finger at a time.

“ . . . stupid,” Paris bitterly castigated herself, as she removed her shoes, then eased herself down onto the bed. She rolled over onto her side, turning her back to the closed door separating this room and herself from the rest of the house, and everyone in it. “How in the ever lovin’ world could I have been so bloody damn’ stupid?!”

If, at that very moment, she could have but one wish . . . it would be that the ground beneath her would open right up and swallow her whole, crushing her under a blanket of earth and rock, enveloping her in darkness so thick . . . so solid, a body could cut it with a knife. It would be bliss beyond imagining not to have to see anymore . . . to think or feel anymore . . . .

. . . and most especially not to BE anymore.

 

Unbeknownst to Paris or the Cartwrights, John McKenna, made his way painfully, one halting step at a time, across C Street, heading from the stage depot to the narrow passage way between the hotel and the Silver Dollar Saloon, that led to Blood Alley.

“You’re LAUGHING at me!” he silently accused the citizens of Virginia City, as he limped, making damned sure he kept his back straight, his shoulders back, and head held high. “You think to fool me, but I KNOW. I . . . KNOW . . . you’re ALL laughing at me!”

To the undiscerning eye, they were simply children playing . . . women shopping, pausing briefly to exchange a few words, and gossip more than likely . . . men about their daily business. Most would, no doubt, be completely taken in by the bland, insipid masks they presented to the world, day after day after day, but not a man, like himself, greatly blessed and just as greatly cursed with a rare gift that allowed him to see the true faces behind their deceitful façade. He could hear their derisive laughter and see their wagging heads and pointing fingers all too clearly.

“It didn’t take long for word of what happened at the bank in Carson City to get back here,” John silently observed, as he glared balefully into faces, that, for the most part, seemed content to ignore him.

He knew it would have eventually, of course. That was a given, human nature being what it was, and according to Parson Meriwether Lewis, one of the most unsavory, most disagreeably foul, most evil aspects of said human nature was the way it drooled with such nasty relish at the sight of its betters falling so utterly, so completely from grace. But he had no idea, no idea in the world, that word of the humiliation he had suffered yesterday afternoon at the hands of one Esau Brisbane, president of the Carson City branch of the Lattimer Platt and Sons Bank, would actually spread across the entire length, width, and breadth of Virginia City before his return.
“Captain McKenna . . . . ”
Esau Brisbane’s strident, gravelly voice echoed again in the ears of his inward hearing for what had to be the millionth time.
“ . . . your account has been closed, as you have requested,” Esau said curtly. He held out a thin envelope, bearing his name, neatly penned, on its face.

John frowned. Given that he had specifically requested that the funds from the closed account be issued primarily in denominations of fifty, twenty, and ten, he expected that envelope to be much, much thicker.

“ . . . the final balance in your account was twenty two dollars and seventy three cents.”

John’s jaw dropped. For a time he remained frozen in place, staring up into the bank president’s face, through eyes round with astonishment. “N-No,” he whispered, when, at last he found his voice. “N-No . . . th-that . . . that c-c-can’t be!”

“Twenty two dollars and seventy three cents IS the correct amount, Captain McKenna,” Esau said. “If you’d like to review the final statement— ”

John McKenna flew out of his chair with surprising speed and power, given a man with, in his own words, ‘a bum leg.’ “THERE SHOULD BE FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS IN THAT ACCOUNT,” he shouted. Before Esau could react, John seized hold of his jacket lapels in a tight, white knuckled grip, and pulled him close. “Do you hear me?!” John whispered, his face less than an inch from Brisbane’s. “There should be fifty thousand dollars in that account! Fifty . . . THOUSAND . . . dollars.”

“Captain McKenna, I suggest you unhand me this minute,” Esau ordered, in a tone of voice that dripped icicles. “If you don’t, I’ll have you jailed for assault.”

John, his body trembling in the grip of intense, impotent fury, released his hold on Esau with enough force to upset his balance. The bank president stumbled backward a few steps. Had he not bumped into his desk, he would have almost certainly taken a very nasty tumble.

“There should have been more than fifty thousand dollars in that account,” John insisted, his dead calm voice a frightening contrast to his body, still trembling, his beet red face, and eyes round and staring. “I wired my bank in Westpoint . . . and asked them to wire a draft for fifty thousand dollars to my account HERE.”

“Westpoint, New York,” Esau muttered softly, as he pulled himself up to the fullness of his diminutive height, and straightened his jacket. He, then, walked around the enormous desk, that completely dominated his small office, and took his place in front of his chair. “Was the bank Mercers and Coe Bank and Trust, Captain McKenna?”

“Yes,” John replied. “You KNOW damned well it WAS.”

Esau sat down, and yanked open the bottom left hand drawer of his desk, and withdrew a slender folder. “I received a wire from Mister Coe, President of Mercers and Coe, in response to your request to transfer funds from that bank to this,” he said stiffly as he slapped the folder in hand down onto the top of his desk in front of John McKenna. “Your account with Mercers and Coe WAS closed, per your request, Captain McKenna, and the entire remaining balance, which by the way totaled seven hundred seventy two dollars and seventy three cents wired to your account HERE.”

“No!” John protested, shaking his head vigorously in denial. “No! That’s NOT possible!”

“A total of seven hundred and fifty dollars was deducted to cover the amount your account here was overdrawn,” Esau continued, “leaving a balance of twenty two dollars and seventy three cents. Here!” He thrust a copy of the message, hastily scrawled by the telegraph operator into John McKenna’s face. Read it for yourself.”

John snatched the note from Esau’s hand and read it over with sinking heart and increasing dismay . . . .
“Virginia’s father,” John grumbled, unaware that he spoke aloud. His step quickened. His face was slightly flushed and his breath rapid. Tiny beads of sweat dotted his brow. “That damn . . . petty . . . vindictive . . . horse’s PATOOT! This is HIS doing. It HAS to be, though I never DREAMED he’d actually stoop this low . . . . ”

In addition to being his father-in-law, Major Josiah Sinclair was also John McKenna’s uncle, by virtue of being the last of seven children born to one Annanias Sinclair, Lord of Devonswyk, and his wife, the Lady Sarah. He had left home and country at the tender age of fifteen to make his own way in the world, knowing that his chances of someday inheriting his father’s title and lands were virtually nil, with six older brothers and at least a dozen or so nephews ahead of him in the line of succession.

The day after his eighteenth birthday, he enlisted in the army of his adopted country, distinguishing himself, not only on the battlefield, but in diplomacy as well, most notably for keeping the peace between the white settlers from the east, and the indigenous population, ensconced in the plains. Over and over again, he had shown himself to be a man of honor, earning the respect, grudging more often than not, of white men and Indians alike.

After serving twenty years in the field, Major Sinclair was transferred to Westpoint to teach cadets the ways of diplomacy and peacekeeping. He had proven himself to be an excellent teacher, during his tenure at the academy, stern, yet fair, liked and respected by the cadets and his colleagues as well. Not long after he and his family had moved to Westpoint, he had sent for his mother, then recently widowed and living in the tiny, cramped dowager’s apartment within the family townhouse in London.

John McKenna learned of his kinship with Major Sinclair and his mother, Lady Sarah toward the end of his freshman year. The major, of course, had investigated his claims of kinship thoroughly. Upon learning that his allegations were true, the major treated John as he would an acquaintance, friendly enough, while yet maintaining a certain distance. Lady Sarah, however, was nearly beside herself with joy upon meeting the son of her only daughter, Stacy Louise. She remembered him very generously at Christmas and on his birthday, and at her insistence, he was included in all of the Sinclair family gatherings.

Regrettably, Stacy Louise, his mother, never responded to her mother’s grand overtures of reconciliation, which continued from the time she learned of her daughter’s whereabouts, until the day she finally drew her last breath. His mother and father heartily disapproved of him forming ties with his maternal grandmother and uncle, and did all within their power to discourage him. Try as he might, John could never understand their bitterness, their animosity. Uncle Josiah, after all, was very well placed by way of the respect his distinguished service as an army officer had earned him, and financially as well, thanks to the shrewd acumen of the men, who had, over the years, more than adequately advised him regarding business matters.
“Y’ think t’ get your grubby hands on the Sinclair family fortune?!” his mother angrily sneered when first he told her of his meeting with Grandmother and Uncle Josiah. “Think again. IT’S tied up to vast land holdings in Ireland and any number of bank accounts in England, and passes down to he who inherits the title. It’ll be a cold day in hell before JOSIAH sees any o’ that money . . . let alone yourself.”

“Uncle Josiah’s made his own fortune, Mam. He doesn’t— ”

“Oh! I see . . . . So, you’re thinkin’ my skinflint of a brother’s goin’ t’ share HIS filthy lucre with the likes o’ YOU?!” she snorted derisively.

“He won’t . . . but GRANDMOTHER WILL!”

“GRANDMOTHER?!” his mother hooted, disdainful and incredulous.

“Yes, Grandmother,” he insisted. “SHE’S more than willing to share her wealth with me . . . and with you, too, Mam . . . if you’d let her.”

“WHAT wealth?!”

“There’s the interest she’s made from her dowry— ”

“A pittance. A mere pittance,” Mam declared in a tone of voice insultingly dismissive. “Josiah sees to her upkeep, make no mistake about that. If she had to live solely on the interest generated by her dowry, she’d have been reduced to begging years ago, and it would’ve served her right.”

“She doesn’t ONLY have the interest she earns per annum from her dowry,” John argued. “She ALSO has the wealth SHE inherited from her own mam and da.”

“I’ll have NO PART of her filthy, ill-gotten gain,” Mam declared loftily, with that very same look of evil pride that seemed ever present in the face of his older sister of late . . . .

At the ripe old age of ninety-three years, Lady Sarah had finally breathed her very last. Josiah took her body back to Ireland, and saw her laid to rest in the family cemetery alongside her late husband. Her last will and testament was read shortly after Josiah’s return to Westpoint six weeks later. John, his uncle, Micah Cummings, the attorney who handled legal matters for his uncle and late grandmother, and Micah’s secretary, John Paine, in attendance. It was brief and straight to the point:

“I, Sarah Wainwright Sinclair, being sick and weak in body, but sound in mind, declare this to be my last will and testament, revoking any and all wills made by me previously.

“I, Sarah Wainwright Sinclair, bequeath my entire estate, my fortune and all of my worldly goods, to my only daughter, Stacy Louise Sinclair McKenna, and her heirs and assigns forever.”

The silence that had fallen upon the small assembly was so thick, so palpable, John felt as if he could have sliced it with a knife. He took a deep, ragged breath and squeezed his eyes tight shut against an environment that had suddenly began to swirl and pulsate with a nauseating intensity.

“This is YOUR doing, Young Man.”

John very slowly, very reluctantly opened his eyes and found himself staring into his uncle’s face, its complexion several shades paler than was his norm, his mouth and jaw line set like granite, and eyes burning with raw fury beneath a pair of bushy salt and pepper eyebrows, drawn so close together, they formed a single line.

“YOU put her up to this.”

“I . . . I don’t know wh-what y-you’re talking about,” John stammered, wagging his head back and forth in denial.

“Micah!” Josiah snapped, turning the full brunt of his rage and attention to his attorney. “I want to break my mother’s will.”

“On what grounds?” Micah queried in a firm, even tone of voice.

“Try undue influence,” Josiah growled with a pointed glare in the direction of his young nephew.

“Valid grounds,” Micah admitted, “assuming, of course, you can adequately prove your charge in a court of law.”

“It should be painfully obvious,” the major immediately returned. “My late mother’s friends . . . and MY friends, too, for that matter . . . can tell you how she gushed and fawned over this . . . this . . . money grubbing, gold digging son of a bitch. You ask them, Micah. You ask any one of ‘em . . . or ALL of ‘em for that matter! THEY’LL tell you . . . . ”

“I’m sure they can, and would, if I asked,” Micah said quietly, “and you might have a good, strong circumstantial case, except for one thing.”

“ . . . and what might THAT be?” Josiah demanded.

“Lady Sinclair did NOT leave her entire estate to this young man,” Micah explained. “Instead, she left it all to a daughter, who, for whatever reason, never responded to any of her mother’s entreaties.”

“My mother and grandmother had a bad falling out many years ago, Mister Cummings,” John meekly offered.

“Be THAT as it may, this young man still numbers among my sister’s heirs and assigns, Micah,” Josiah angrily pointed out. “As such, he eventually stands to inherit.”

“That decision, of course, is entirely up to your sister.”

“If YOU can’t see the damned forest for the trees, I sure can,” Josiah declared. “My nephew here . . . . ” he grimaced, as if he had just bitten into something with an exceedingly foul taste, “ . . . he talked my mother into leaving her entire estate to my sister knowing that he’d eventually stand to inherit.”

“It’s been done,” Micah allowed, “but it’s difficult to prove.”

“Didn’t HE bring my mother around to see you when she decided to change her will . . . with his help?!”

“No,” the attorney replied. “She came in the company of the young man, who drives her buggy. Mister Paine here can and will attest to that.”

“It’s true, Major,” John Paine quietly affirmed, nodding his head. “Cadet McKenna did not accompany Lady Sinclair at all through out the entire time she and Mister Cummings were drawing up a new will.”

“ . . . and before you take it into your head to question Lady Sarah’s sanity, Josiah, it was clear to me through out that her mind was as sound as a dollar,” Micah said firmly. “I’m sure Doctor Crandall can and will attest to that, as well.”

Josiah exhaled a long, loud, exasperated sigh. “All right!” he growled. “I know when I’m defeated.” He rose, then turned and cast a cold, baleful eye down upon his nephew. “You mind, Young Man. Though I can offer no satisfactory proof, I KNOW this is YOUR doing. From here on in, I’d strongly suggest you pay very close attention to the rules and regulations during what remains of your time at the academy, because I’m going to be watching you very, VERY closely. If you so much as commit even the smallest infraction . . . . ”

His voice trailed away to an ominous silence.

“From now on, Sir, you WILL keep your distance between me and mine.”

With those parting words, Major Josiah Sinclair stormed out of his attorney’s office.

After the initial shock had passed, John was every bit as grief-stricken and angry as his uncle at the prospect of his grandmother naming his mother as the sole beneficiary in her will. At the same time, however, he would have sold his soul to the very devil himself for a glimpse of Stacy Louise McKenna’s face the day she learned of her inheritance . . . and the great extent of it. He quickly set aside his grief and resentment, as the pragmatic man within began to assert himself. What was done was done, and no amount of yelling, screaming, throwing temper tantrums, and railing against the heavens, would ever undo it. There was only one course of action left to him, and he had adamantly vowed to pursue it, despite the major’s angry injunctions.

One year, almost to the day, after the old lady’s death and the obligatory period of deep mourning, John McKenna began to pay court to Uncle Josiah’s only daughter, Virginia . . . .
“ . . . Virginia,” John whispered softly, his pace quickening. “Virginia . . . . ” She had always been the apple of her father’s eye, what with being the only daughter among six sons. One word from her . . . .

“Damn!” he swore, leaping from the dusty street to the board sidewalk with all the power and grace of a ballet dancer. “Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN! Curse me for the fool that I am, I should’ve KNOWN . . . should’ve REALIZED!!!”

VIRGINIA had done it!

That lying, thieving, back stabbing, conniving little bitch had put her father up to stealing the money . . . money that Josiah Sinclair had grudgingly given as a wedding gift . . . from HIS bank account in Westpoint and transferring it to a new account bearing the names of Josiah Sinclair and daughter Virginia Sinclair McKenna only.

This wasn’t the first time Virginia had deceived and betrayed him, either. She had her uses, limited though they may be, had served him adequately enough since their hasty marriage. But her purpose and her usefulness were very quickly coming to an end, and the girls . . . .

He grimaced. “Parson Lewis was right,” he silently ruminated, as he walked briskly toward the narrow alleyway between the hotel and saloon, occasionally pushing aside people he perceived to be in his way. “A wife has use and her place, but in the end, she’s still the hell spawn of her mother, Eve.”

John resolved, right then and there, that once he had obtained what he needed from the Cartwright girl and dealt with her father and his sister, he would quietly put away his wife and two daughters as well . . . .

. . . in a place so remote, so far away from anything remotely resembling human habitation . . . .

. . . where no one would find them.

Ever.

“Better this way,” he continued, ruminating aloud. “The girls are certainly meek and obedient enough . . . I’ve seen to that! Both will almost certainly be assured of their place in heaven since neither one has, as yet, come into her wisdom in the ways of this corrupt and evil world.” When the time came for him to quietly put them away, he solemnly resolved to be merciful and quick.

“But NOT Virginia!” he silently vowed. “Oh no! Not Virginia! So HELP me, when the time comes, I swear . . . by all that I hold holy, I SWEAR . . . Virginia Sinclair McKenna will pay for her many, many sins . . . IN FULL.”

 

David Matthews stood watch near the front door of the temporary quarters in where Captain McKenna and his family had taken up residence, watchful and vigilant almost to a fault, yet unobtrusive. He watched from his place, partially concealed within the shadows of the half fallen down roof over the entryway, as the captain haltingly made his way up the sidewalk. David crisply saluted when the captain at last drew near the front door.

“I trust all is well, Private Matthews?” John asked.

“All is well, Sir,” David replied. “A liaison sent from Sergeant Collier’s camp waits to see you. He brings a message from the sergeant, and is under orders to deliver it to you in person.”

“Did you show the courier inside?”

“I asked Private Matthews NOT to show me inside, Captain.” The man was Private Seth Harris, Sergeant Collier’s much trusted, unofficial right hand. He was a mountain man, from somewhere in the Appalachians, a hunter and trapper who had lived most of his life outdoors.

“Your message, Private?”

Seth cast an anxious, wary glance over in David Matthews’ general direction.

“It’s quite alright, Private Harris,” John McKenna hastened to reassure. “You may speak freely in front of Private Matthews.”

“Sergeant Collier ordered me to inform you that the girl and her father are fishing together at Dressler’s Pond, Sir,” Seth reported.

“He has them under surveillance?” John McKenna asked. Though he spoke in a calm tone of voice, his mind and thoughts began to race a mile a minute.

“Yes, Sir,” Seth quietly replied. “He has them under surveillance even as we speak.”

“Is anyone ELSE with them?”

“No, Sir.”

“Excellent,” John murmured softly.

“Orders, Sir?”

“What to do . . . what to do . . . .” he silently ruminated, stymied by near paralyzing indecision. “NO!” a part of him silently screamed. “You can’t! You can’t, not NOW—- ”

“I may never get another chance,” he growled back in response.

“Wait,” a calmer, saner part insisted. “You act now . . . all you’ve planned for . . . all you’ve worked so long and hard for . . . will be completely undone.”

Unfortunately, he was a desperate man, financially destitute, with creditors at the door, and men . . . good, loyal men, who had not been paid in two, going on three months now . . . in short, he had no time left to wait.

“Timing.”

Major Josiah Sinclair’s voice on the very first day of class, at the start of his freshman year at Westpoint.

“Timing is everything. Timing can mean all the difference between living to fight another day . . . or death.”

Words truer than true, even if they WERE spoken by the petty, vindictive horse’s patoot largely responsible for the dire financial straits in which he now floundered. But his back was hard up against the proverbial wall. He had no other choice but to act now before Ben Cartwright had the chance to sequester her once again within the safety of his home.

“Impossible! You haven’t a snowball’s chance in hell of carrying out your vengeance against Ben Cartwright if you remain here, in Virginia City!” that sane, rational inner voice argued. “You MUST take her away . . . FAR away, like you planned!”
“No! I CAN do it here . . . I CAN and I WILL!” John passionately vowed, filled suddenly with grim resolve. “By all that I hold holy and sacred, I WILL take back what’s rightfully mine, AND I will have my vengeance against Ben Cartwright for the many, and grievous sins he has committed . . . and my sister, as well.”

“ . . . S-Sir?” Private Harris ventured hesitantly. “D-Do you . . . umm, have a m-message for me to take back to Sergeant Collier?”

“Yes, Private Harris,” John replied, speaking calmly, with a deep confidence he had not felt within him for a very long time. “Tell Sergeant Collier the word is given.”

“The girl?”

“Bring her here . . . AFTER dark.”

 

Ben carefully dipped his line into the water, without creating so much as a single ripple in its smooth, glass-like surface, then settled himself comfortably against the tall, standing stone, erected near the edge of the pond by the Dressler, for whom that particular body of water had been named.

“I couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day . . . if I had ordered it up myself,” he silently mused, with a deep, genuine gratitude. It was a gorgeous early spring morning, with sunshine, a bright blue, cloudless sky overhead, and the occasional breeze weaving its way through the boughs of pine needles and new leaves, just beginning to open. The chill of early morning gradually dissipated as the sun climbed from the eastern horizon line toward zenith, following the same upward path across the sky it had trod since its beginning.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“You think we have a chance of catching Ol’ Ulysses?”

“Ol’ Ulysses?!” Ben echoed. An amused smile tugged hard at the corner of his mouth. “Ol’ Ulysses . . . . ” he murmured softly, shaking his head. “Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a quite a while . . . . ”

“Hoss says he weighs at least three hundred pounds . . . maybe a little MORE,” Stacy said, speaking in the same, solemn, hushed tone of voice her big brother used whenever he spoke of Ol’ Ulysses, “and he’s more wily and crafty than the devil himself.”

“Three hundred pounds?!” Ben queried, chuckling softly. “He was a puny eighty pounder when I first arrived here with Adam and Hoss . . . though your brother, Adam always insisted Ol’ Ulysses had to be a catfish instead of a trout.”

“A catfish?!” Stacy echoed, with a bewildered frown.

“Um hm!”

“Why did Adam say Ol’ Ulysses had to be a catfish?”

“Because Ol’ Ulysses supposedly lives at the bottom of Dressler’s Pond,” Ben replied, “and, according to your oldest brother, catfish are bottom feeders . . . trout are not.”

“You kinda sound like you don’t believe in Ol’ Ulysses, Pa.”

“Well . . . . ” Ben smiled. “These days, I s’pose I AM more inclined to think Ol’ Ulysses is a fish story who’s grown bigger and bigger with each passing year.”

“Would that make Ol’ Ulysses a tall t-a-l-e or a tall t-a-i-l?” Stacy asked, smiling back.

“Very funny, Young Woman,” Ben laughed, then sobered. “Between you and me, I kinda hope he IS just a fish story whether that be a tall t-a-l-e or tall t-a-i-l.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well . . . for one thing a three hundred pound fish is plenty big enough to eat the two of US,” Ben replied.

“I . . . didn’t think of that,” Stacy replied with a shudder.

“ . . . second,” Ben continued, “your big brother might be able to wrestle a three hundred pound fish out of the pond, be he trout or catfish, but even HE’D need the buckboard to get him home.”

“You’re right about that,” Stacy had to agree.

“ . . . AND it would also take us a mighty long time to eat a three hundred pound fish . . . . ”

“How long, Pa?”

“I’m not sure, Stacy,” Ben replied. “But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say . . . oohhh a good three, maybe four months or so.”

“Three or four MONTHS?!” Stacy echoed, incredulous. “Even with HOSS helping us eat him?”

“Yep.” Ben smiled and nodded his head. “Now if we DIDN’T have Hoss around to help us eat him, it would take us a good six months, I’d think . . . maybe a li’l more.”

“Six months?!” Stacy gasped.

“ . . . that’s assuming the rest of us were very, VERY hungry,” Ben affirmed with a chuckle.

“Pa . . . . ” she queried, her eyes all of a sudden narrowing with suspicion.

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Are you joshin’ me?”

“Well . . . maybe a little,” Ben admitted.

Stacy smiled. “I guess a three hundred pound fish IS kinda far fetched when you start thinking about it,” she said.

“A three hundred pound fish living at the bottom of Dressler’s Pond may be a bit of an exaggeration, but out in the deep ocean there’s all kinds of fish . . . sharks . . . and other marine animals that easily weigh three hundred pounds or more,” Ben said.

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Have YOU ever seen any of ‘em?”

Ben nodded. “I’ve seen plenty of whales, though the ship on which I served as first mate wasn’t a whaler,” he replied. “I’ve also seen dolphins . . . sharks . . . and fish of just about every size, shape, and description. Once, when the Wanderer stopped to pick up cargo . . . it was in Australia somewhere . . . I saw a giant sea turtle.”

“Wow!” Stacy exclaimed in a voice barely audible, her eyes round as saucers. “Pa?”

“Hmm?”

“Are the stories about dolphins saving drowning sailors true?”

“I’ve heard a lot of stories about dolphins saving men from drowning,” Ben replied, “though it’s never happened to me or any other sailing man of my acquaintance. Captain Stoddard . . . he was the Wanderer’s captain and your brother, Adam’s maternal grandfather . . . HE told me once about meeting a sailor who claimed he’d been saved from drowning by a dolphin when he was a cabin boy.”

“You think the sailor told Adam’s grandfather the truth?” Stacy asked.

“To be up front and honest, Young Woman, I never met the man who told Captain Stoddard that story, so I can’t tell ya for sure whether he WAS telling the truth or not,” Ben replied. “However, I like to think the sailor was telling the truth.”

Stacy smiled. “Me, too, Pa . . . and I’ll tell you something else . . . . ”

“What’s that?”

“I like the idea of Ol’ Ulysses living at the bottom of the pond a whole lot better than him lying on someone’s dinner plate,” Stacy said, “be he trout or catfish.”

“I couldn’t agree with ya more, Young Woman,” Ben said quietly.

For a time, father and daughter lapsed into companionable silence.

“Pa! I’ve got another bite!” Stacy cried out, shattering the late morning stillness.

Ben glanced up sharply just in time to see the line on her pole moving on a straight course toward the center of the pond. Within less than a minute, Stacy’s line had pulled taut, forming a straight line stretching from a pole slightly bowed to a spot about a yard or so from the pond’s center. “Stacy, you need to give him a little more room.”

“How? I’m almost standing in the water now.”

Ben scrambled to his feet, then bent down to grab his net. “See if you can move over there . . . . ” he pointed to a spot a few feet to her left, where the land curved slightly out into the water, toward the center, where the deepest water lay. “Take it slow.”

Stacy nodded, then slowly eased her way along the boundary line between land and water, toward the place her father had indicated. “Please, Great Spirit . . . lover and creator of us all?” she silently and earnestly prayed. “Please . . . please . . . PRETTY please . . . DON’T let this be Ol’ Ulysses! I meant it when I told Pa that I like the idea of him living at the bottom of this pond a lot better than the thought of him lying on someone’s dinner plate . . . . ”

“All right, Stacy, bring him in . . . slowly,” Ben ordered, as he moved in alongside her, with net clasped firmly in hand.

Stacy nodded, then took a step backwards.

The line went slack for a few seconds, then struck out on a course parallel to the shoreline, under the impetus of the fish hooked on the end submerged in the waters of the quiet pond. Stacy instinctively moved along with it.

“That’s right,” Ben murmured softly. He immediately fell in step behind his daughter. “That’s right . . . stay with him, Stacy . . . stay with him as best you can.”

The hooked fish swam parallel to the gently curving shoreline for a distance of three and a half yards, then abruptly turned and moved again toward the center of the pond. Stacy followed, endeavoring to keep the line from pulling too tight, until she reached the very edge of the pond.

“Pa? NOW what do I do?” she asked, as the line once again pulled taut.

“See if you can coax him into moving parallel with the shoreline again,” Ben replied. “Take it slow. Slow ‘n easy.”

Stacy nodded and did as her father had told her. For one, brief heart stopping moment, the fish on the other end of the line stayed to the course taking it into the deep water in the middle of the pond. Stacy braced herself, when her pole bowed, half expecting the fish she had hooked to break the line and continue on toward safety in the deep water. Then, suddenly, the fish turned away from the deep water and swam vigorously toward the shoreline.

“Stacy . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“I want you to try following him, but . . . if you can . . . as you move around the pond, try to move away from the water,” Ben instructed.

“I’ll do my best.”

She circled the narrow eastern end of the pond, gradually veering away from the water’s edge. The fish on the end of her line continued on a straight course that took it away from the deep water and into the shallow near the shore on the opposite side of the pond, from the place where their horses were tethered.

“Good!” Ben praised her. “Keep moving away from the pond.”

Stacy did as she had been told.

Ben quickly moved in close to the shore, with his net ready. “Now, Stacy . . . see if you can pull that fish out of the water.”

Stacy gritted her teeth and dug in her heels. She lifted the top of her pole as high as she could, then turned. The instant Ben saw the fish’s head break the surface of the pond, he waded out into the water and scooped, hoping against hope he had gotten the net well under the fish. He lifted the net, and was gratified to see a trout of respectable size flopping within.

“Pa? Didja get it?” Stacy called out from her position several feet away from the pond.

“I got it,” Ben called back grinning from ear-to-ear.

“How big is he?” Stacy asked, as she jogged over to her father’s side.

“See for yourself,” Ben replied with a proud smile, as he held the net up allowing her to see.

“Wow!” Stacy whispered, surprised and awe struck. “He’s a big one alright.”

“Looks to me like he’s the biggest one we’ve caught so far,” Ben observed.

“We’ve done real well so far, haven’t we, Pa?”

“We sure have,” Ben whole-heartedly agreed. “All that work we did just now in landing that big one’s left me mighty hungry,” he continued, rising to his feet. “How about YOU, Young Woman? You ready to find out what Hop Sing packed for us in that great big basket?”

Stacy nodded her head vigorously. “I was just getting ready to ask YOU the same question, Pa,” she declared, with a broad grin, “ ‘cause I’M starving, too.”

“It’s attached to Buck’s saddle,” Ben said, smiling. “Think maybe YOU can fetch it, while I add this big fella to the ones we’ve already caught?”

“You betcha!” Stacy declared, as she turned and started for their horses, both of whom were tethered under the big aspen tree growing not far from the banks of the pond. Before she had taken three steps, a shot rang out from behind the tree, spooking Buck and Blaze Face. The bullet flew by Stacy’s head close enough for her to feel the wind of its passing against her right ear. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father’s body jerk violently back first, then forward before dropping to the ground like a lifeless sack of potatoes.

“Pa!” she whimpered, as she turned and dropped to her knees beside his ominously still form. She reached out with trembling hand and firmly touched her father’s neck, just under the ear, for a pulse. “Thank you, Great Spirit,” she murmured, as a tidal wave of relief washed over her. Though unconscious, his pulse was steady. A closer look told her that the bullet had merely grazed his left temple, though it continued to bleed profusely.

With the knowledge that Pa was alive, came the harsh realization that both of them were in grave danger. Stacy reached over and, with the quick fluid movements of a stalking cat, removed Ben’s weapon from its holster and shoved it under her jacket.

“All right, Kid. You just do as you’re told and no one’ll get hurt.”

Stacy very slowly, and with sinking heart, raised her head. Six men surrounded her and her father on all sides. Jeff Collier, their leader, stood just outside the circle. He nodded to the short squat man standing directly in front of Stacy.

Alexander Deveraux nodded curtly. “Stand up, Kid . . . nice and slow,” he ordered, “and move away from the old man.”

“You won’t hurt my pa?”

“I just tol’ja no one’ll get hurt if ya do as you’re told,” Alexander growled, annoyed and impatient. “Now on your feet. Slow ‘n easy. I’m NOT gonna tell ya again.”

Stacy rose, and moved away from her father’s insensate form. “Don’t cry!” she silently, fearfully admonished herself. “Whatever you do, Stacy Louise Cartwright, don’t you DARE cry.” She saw that the men forming the circle seemed to be concentrating their attention on her.

“That’s right, Kid. Now g’won over to those horses over there,” Alexander ordered.

Stacy started toward the tree where she and Pa had tethered their horses. As she moved, the circle opened, giving her a clear shot at the man standing outside. She drew Ben’s weapon out from under her jacket, lightening quick, and before anyone could even think to stop her, she took aim, and squeezed the trigger. The gun discharged, embedding a bullet deep in Jeff Collier’s right shoulder. The force of the blow sent him reeling backward. He fell, striking his head on a rock. The remaining men stood unmoving, gazing stupidly at their insensate leader. Seizing advantage of the men’s momentary lapse, Stacy ran toward Blaze Face with all her might.

“Stu-stu-stu . . . stop her!” Alex stammered, recovering his senses.

The remaining five men immediately turned and gave chase.

Stacy unhitched Blaze Face, pausing just long enough to whisper in his ear. She, then slapped his rump, and turned again to fire. One quick thinking individual among the men saw Stacy raise her father’s gun. He immediately drew his own weapon and fired, nicking the wrist of her gun hand. Ben’s gun immediately dropped from her hand to the ground.

“Hurry, Blaze Face,” she silently, fervently prayed, as she turned and fled, running as fast as her legs could carry her, “please . . . PLEASE hurry back to the house, so Hoss and Joe will know to come.” All she had to do now was lead the men now in hot pursuit behind her on a merry chase, well away from her injured pa, until help arrived.

 

“Well?!” Hop Sing demanded. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, with arms folded tight across his chest, feet planted firmly on the floor, shoulder width apart, glaring up at the Boss of the Ponderosa’s number two son, who had just stepped into view at the top of the stairs.

“Huh boy!” Hoss inwardly groaned, as he started down the stairs, moving very slowly. “Hop Sing looks like he’s just about ready t’ take on the whole wide world.”

“Where Missy Paris?”

Hoss paused mid way between the top of the steps, and the landing where the staircase turned. With both hands resting lightly on the banister rail, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Hop Sing,” he began, in as steady a voice as he could muster, “Miss Paris just told me she AIN’T comin’ down for dinner. She also asked me t’ tell ya that she’s real sorry ‘bout you goin’ t’ all the trouble y’ did t’ fix this pot roast just for her, ‘n all . . . but she . . . just . . . plain ‘n simple . . . ain’t hungry.” He swallowed nervously, then, braced himself, mentally and physically, for the tirade sure to follow.

To Hoss’ great surprise and even greater relief, Hop Sing snorted derisively, then abruptly turned heel and strode briskly toward the kitchen, muttering a long sting of unintelligible syllables behind him.

Hoss closed his eyes again and slowly exhaled the breath he had been holding. “Dang it all . . . I’d give anything t’ know what he just said,” he murmured softly, as he continued down the stairs.

“No, Big Brother . . . you DON’T want to know.”

Hoss glanced up sharply upon hearing Joe’s voice. His younger brother and Candy stood next to the credenza, divesting themselves of their jackets and hats.

“There’s times when ignorance is pure bliss,” Joe continued, casting a wary glance over in the general direction of the dining room and kitchen, “and THIS is one of those times. Trust me . . . oh! And . . . one more thing . . . . ”

“What?” Hoss queried warily.

“The three of US . . . you, me, ‘n Candy here . . . had better do justice to the pot roast Hop Sing fixed,” Joe replied, “IF we know what’s good for us.”

“That right! Ditto what Little Joe say!” Hop Sing declared, upon returning to the dining room, carrying a large serving dish containing an enormous slab of tender beef and all the trimmings in very generous amounts.

Joe gasped and started violently. “Doggone it, Hop Sing . . . you just scared me outta ten years’ growth!” he exclaimed, indignant and outraged.

“You!” Hop Sing snapped, neither moved nor unduly impressed by Joe’s sudden burst of quick temper. “You, too!” This time, he glared ferociously at Candy. “In kitchen, right now! Wash up!”

“You don’t hafta tell ME twice,” Candy retorted with a smile, as he turned and beat a straight path toward the kitchen.

“All whole long morning, Hop Sing slave and slave and slave over hot stove, hotter than hinges of heck, fixing nice meal for Missy upstairs,” Hop Sing groused as he followed Joe and Candy into the kitchen. “Now Missy upstairs say she not hungry. So up to YOU! You boys eat real good, like Little Joe say . . . or Hop Sing quit!”

“Dadburn it! He keeps goin’ on ‘n on like THAT long enough . . . I’m gonna lose MY appetite,” Hoss grumbled very, very softly under his breath.

“You!” Hop Sing said, glaring at Hoss now, as the big man took his customary place at the table. “No talk! Eat! Right now while food—!?”

Hop Sing’s angry admonition was rudely silenced by the sound of someone pounding insistently on the front door. His scowl deepened.

“I’ll get it,” Joe offered, as he stepped into the dining room past Hop Sing, drying his wet hands on his shirt.

“No!” Hop Sing snapped. “You sit down. Eat! Hop Sing get door!”

“Better do as he says, Li’l Brother,” Hoss warned.

The visitor without pounded on the door again.

“ALL RIGHT, ALL RIGHT, HOP SING COMING!” Hop Sing yelled, as he barreled headlong toward the front door. “KEEP ON BRITCHES!”

“Chimminey Christmas, Hoss! What burr worked its way up under HIS saddle?!” Joe queried, taking great care to keep his voice low, as he set himself to the task of cutting the generous slab of roast on his plate into bite sized pieces.

Hoss sighed and again rolled his eyes heavenward, before launching into a terse account of what had transpired earlier, when he had taken their houseguest to town to attend Mass at Saint Mary’s. “Now Hop Sing’s got himself worked up into a real fine lather ‘cause he went ‘n fixed this meal ‘specially for her . . . ‘n SHE ain’t the least bit hungry.”

“You said she was feeling fine when you left . . . right?” Joe asked.

“Yeah,” Hoss responded with a disparaging sigh.

“Well . . . it’s probably just a case of trying to do too much too soon, just like she told ya,” Joe said. “Why . . . I’ll betcha ten to one she’s feeling more the thing come supper time.”

Hop Sing returned to the dining room, his face a sickly ashen gray. Mitch Cranston, the boy recently hired to help look after the barn animals followed behind Hop Sing, his own face a few shades paler than was the norm, clutching the rim of his hat with both hands.

“Bad, very bad,” Hop Sing mumbled, wagging his head back and forth.

Hoss and Joe exchanged troubled glances. “Hop Sing? Mitch? What’s goin’ on?” the former ventured, rising slowly to his feet.

“HE say . . . . ” Hop Sing inclined his head in Mitch’s direction, “Miss Stacy horse in yard. All work up, big lather.”

“Any sign o’ Stacy or Pa?” Hoss demanded, taking charge of the situation.

“No, Sir,” Mitch replied. “Just Blaze Face.”

“Y’ said Blaze Face is out in the yard?”

“Y-Yes, Sir,” Mitch replied. “I . . . I tried t’ catch ‘im, but he won’t let me near ‘im.”

“I’ll get him, ‘n take him into the barn,” Hoss promised. “Meantime, I want ya t’ get Chubb saddled.”

“Yes, Sir,” Mitch murmured, before turning heel and running out to the barn to do as Hoss had asked.

“Joe, you saddle up, too,” Hoss continued. “Candy, I want YOU t’ round up as many men as ya can, ‘n meet Joe ‘n me at Dressler’s Pond.”

“Will do, Big Guy,” Candy promised . . . .

 

Though Stacy possessed a great deal of energy and stamina, far more than the average young woman the same age, she felt herself slowing. The man, whom the others called corporal, had slowed to a walk, huffing and puffing, his face beet red. The big mean looking man, against whom she had launched her brutal frontal assault followed slowly behind him, still unable to stand erect. The remaining four men, however, relentlessly continued their pursuit. Worse, they were gaining. “Come ON, Hoss and Joe!” she urged silently, while casting about for a place to hide.

Stacy felt her left foot catch on something, a rock, a chuckhole, she would never be quite sure. She remembered pitching forward, the earth rushing up at her at her, the new green grasses, the dried brown remains of last years growth, the rocks, fallen twigs all reduced to a formless, gray-green blur. She struck the ground an instant later, hard enough to knock the wind out of her.

“COME ON, WE HAVE HER NOW,” one of the men shouted.

Gasping for breath, Stacy seized a handful of dry dusty soil, and rolled from her stomach to her back. She threw the dirt into the eyes of the first man to come within range, and scrambled gracelessly to her feet. Before she could even think of turning and making her escape, another man silently circled around and grabbed her from behind. He seized her right arm in a painful, vice like grip, and twisted it painfully behind her back.

“Come on, y’ got the stuff ready?” the man trying to keep hold of Stacy demanded. “This kid’s squirmin’ like a greased pig at a picnic.”

Stacy took a deep ragged breath, and drove the elbow of her free arm, with every ounce of strength she could muster, into the abdomen of the man trying to hold her. His hand and fingers went limp, setting her free. She turned and started to run, as fast as her legs could carry her. One of the younger, more agile of the group brought Stacy down with a flying line back tackle. Even as she struggled to free herself, she had dim awareness of someone slipping a wet handkerchief over her nose and mouth. Every muscle in her body all of a sudden went limp.

“HURRY UP WITH THAT KID!” the man called corporal bellowed, “AND YOU! GET YOUR ASS OVER THERE ‘N FINISH OFF THE OLD MAN! NOW!”

“PA!” Stacy silently screamed before plunging into a sea of utter blackness.

 

“Dammit, Harris, how much of that stuff did you use?!” Alexander Deveraux demanded with a grimace. “I can smell it all the way over here.”

“Hey, the kid’s breathing,” Harris said grimly.

“She’d better be,” Alexander growled. “Our orders are to bring her in ALIVE and UNHURT.”

“Corporal Deveraux, we did our damndest NOT to hurt her,” Seth Harris said, annoyed yet very much on the defensive. “You saw for yourself she didn’t leave us a whole lot of choices.”

“All right, all right! Just tie her up and get her on one of our horses,” Alexander ordered. “Tuttle . . . Avery, I want the two of ya to grab the sergeant and . . . dammit, Simmons . . . I thought I told you to finish off the old man!?”

“ . . . and I thought I heard Sergeant Collier tell us in no uncertain terms that we were to leave Ben Cartwright ALIVE,” Alfred Simmons returned, sparing no pains to keep the contempt he felt towards the corporal out of his voice.

“Corporal,” James, known best as Jim-Boy among his companions, Tuttle cried out. “Someone’s coming.”

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!” Alexander vehemently swore. “Harris, finish tyin’ up that kid now ‘n get her on a horse. Company . . . RETREAT!”

“What about Sergeant Collier?” Harris demanded, as he slung Stacy’s inert form over his shoulder.

“Sergeant Collier’ll have to fend for himself,” Alexander said briskly. “We go back to rescue him, we’re gonna get caught by whoever’s coming. We’ve gotta get outta here NOW!”

 

Hoss and Joe spotted Buck still tethered to the tree, grazing peacefully. “I sure wish ya could talk to us, Buddy,” the former said very softly, while gently stroking the palomino’s neck, “maybe YOU could tell us where Pa ‘n Stacy got themselves off t’.”

“Looks like whatever happened . . . they didn’t even have time to eat their lunch,” Joe said grimly, noting that the picnic basket was still attached to Buck’s saddle. A quick glance inside confirmed that nothing had been touched since Hop Sing had packed it early this morning.

Hoss, meanwhile, studied the scene spread out before him. A gentle breeze had just sprung up, stirring the waters of the pond, but otherwise, all seemed peaceful and quiet. There was no sign whatsoever of Pa or Stacy. “Joe, you stay here ‘n cover me,” he ordered in a no-nonsense tone of voice as he lifted his revolver from its holster. Confident that Joe would watch his back very closely, Hoss cautiously moved out from under the shelter of the aspen tree toward the pond.

As he drew near the water, his sharp blue eyes easily picked out the trampled grass, the myriad of footprints, set deep in the mud by the water’s edge, overlapping one another, the mud tracked through the trampled grass toward the open field beyond . . . all sure signs that a struggle had recently taken place. A soft groan assailed his ears, somewhere up ahead, where the grass and weeds stood their tallest. He froze.

“Dear God!” Hoss gasped, when he heard the groan a second time. “Pa!” He jammed his gun back into its holster, then tore through the grass in the direction where the sound had originated. A few seconds later, he was kneeling down beside his father, who had just started to regain consciousness.

“JOE! OVER HERE!” Hoss yelled.

A close examination of Pa’s head wound revealed that a bullet grazed him. It had bled quite profusely earlier, as evidenced by the dried rivulets in Ben’s hair and on his cheek. A scab was beginning to form.

“S-Stacy . . . ?” Ben groaned.

“Easy, Pa,” Hoss said quietly, struggling mightily against the strong feelings churning within, to keep his voice calm and even.

Ben very slowly opened one eye, then the other. “H-Hoss?” he queried with a bewildered frown.

“I’m here, too, Pa,” Joe said as he knelt down beside Hoss.

Ben’s scowl deepened as he looked from Hoss to Joe and back again to Hoss. “Wuh . . . whad’re you boys . . . d-doin’ . . . here?” he groaned, wincing on every other word. “Wuh-where’s . . . where’s y-your sister? Stacy?!” He tried to sit up.

“Easy, Pa . . . just lie still,” Hoss anxiously cautioned.

“Men . . . s-surrounding us . . . h-heard shot . . . gotta f-find ‘er,” Ben rambled on, struggling mightily against Hoss’ gentle restraint.

“We will, Pa . . . we WILL!” Joe grimly hastened to assure. “Hoss told Candy to round up as many of the men as he could and for them to meet us here. They’re probably on their way right now.”

“Meantime, Pa, we gotta get you back t’ the house ‘n get Doc Martin out t’ look at ya,” Hoss said firmly.

“Hoss, why don’t you take Pa back?” Joe suggested. “I’ll wait here for Candy ‘n the others.”

“All right, Li’l Brother . . . but don’t you try anything foolish, y’ understand?”

“I won’t, Hoss. I promise . . . . ”

 

Candy had arrived less than ten minutes after Hoss had left with their father carefully balanced in front of him on Chubb, still drifting in and out of consciousness. Nearly twenty men had accompanied the junior foreman, just about all currently on the Cartwrights’ payroll.

“Most of the sign for . . . for whatever happened here, seems to move away from the pond in a northeasterly direction,” Joe told Candy and the others. “The main thing right now is to find Stacy. I’ve tried calling to her since Hoss left with Pa and she’s not answered, so . . . I hafta assume she took a bad tumble off of Blaze Face or . . . or she might’ve been shot, too . . . like Pa.” As he spoke, he tried desperately to ignore that strident, nagging inner voice insisting over and over that no one would find Stacy that day.

“Joe?” Candy queried, after the other men had moved out.

“Yeah, Candy?”

“See over there . . . just on the other side of the pond, where the grass has been trampled?” Candy pointed.

“What about it?” Joe asked.

“I’m gonna follow it . . . see where it leads.”

“All right,” Joe agreed. “In the meantime, I’m gonna work my way around the other side of the pond, toward that rock . . . where Hoss and I found Pa.” He pointed toward the boulder against which Ben had sat a short time before.

Candy nodded, then moved off. Suddenly he stopped, and turned back. “Joe?”

“Yeah, Candy?”

“We’re gonna find her,” Candy said, the grim, determined set of mouth and jaw a mirror image of Joe’s at that moment. “Even if . . . even if we don’t find her HERE . . . we WILL find her, and we’re gonna bring her back home alive, whole, and in one piece.”

“You betcha!” Joe agreed, with an emphatic nod of his head. He and Candy, then, parted company.

Upon reaching the water, Joe made his way very slowly along the pond’s northern edge back tracking prints made by a small boot in the mud near the water. They were his sister’s prints. He recognized them at once from the size and shape left by her favorite boots. She had been running, as evidenced by the lengthened stride, toward the area Candy searched.

The glint of sunlight on metal, a few yards ahead, suddenly caught Joe’s eye. He quickened his pace. “Pa’s gun!” he muttered aloud as he knelt down to retrieve the weapon. It was still slightly warm to the touch. A quick check of the ammunition cylinder revealed that one shot had been fired.

“Did STACY use Pa’s gun?” Joe wondered aloud with a frown, as he rose to his feet. “Looks like she started out walking . . . until she came to that spot right there,” he continued, voicing his thoughts aloud as he carefully studied the prints approaching the place where he had found Ben’s revolver. “She paused here . . . turned . . . and judging from the prints leading away, took off running like hell . . . with two . . . no! Make that three men chasing after her.”

There were three distinct sets of prints in the mud along with his sister’s. One set belonged to a heavy man, probably the same height as himself, given the length of the length of the prints roughly equaled Joe’s own. The second set of prints belonged to a man who weighed about the same as the owner of the first, given that both sets appeared to be the same depth, but the second man was taller . . . much taller, closer to the same height as big brother, Hoss. The third man was also a tall man, again judging from the length of his stride. His prints didn’t sink as far into the ground as those belonging to his companions, and they were narrower.

Joe caught a flash of off white out of the corner of his eye. Turning, he found Stacy’s hat lying in the grass, less than a yard from the place where she had paused and turned.

“The three men who left their prints here must’ve surprised Pa and The Kid back there at that rock,” Joe surmised, again voicing his thoughts out loud. “They shot Pa. The Kid must’ve grabbed his gun without them knowing. They forced her to walk that way . . . . ” He turned for a moment and once again studied the line of prints leading away from the spot where he stood. “ . . . to that tree . . . where Hoss and I found Buck!”

Upon uttering those words, Joe could feel the blood draining right out of his face and his knees all of a sudden turn to rubber. He quickly sat himself down in the grass, well away from the pond . . . it was that or fall down . . . as the light of revelation began to dawn on him. The three men who had left their prints in the mud along with his sister’s had kidnapped her, and spirited her away to Heaven only knew where.

Joe could envision the scene clearly now, just as clearly as he would have remembered it, had he actually been there. Three men, maybe more, had surprised Pa and The Kid. One of them had shot Pa first, then tried to herd Stacy toward the horses. “The Kid grabbed Pa’s gun . . . somehow without them knowing,” he remembered again, “and at the place where she paused and turned, she fired at someone . . . standing on the other side of the pond . . . before taking off and running like hell toward the horses. One of ‘em . . . the man on the other side of the pond, more ‘n likely, nicked The Kid’s wrist, making her drop the gun. She ran to the tree after that and . . . must’ve sent Blaze Face running home . . . . ”

Home.

“To get help,” Joe silently realized.

Help that arrived in time to save Pa, so he hoped and prayed, but help that ended up arriving too late to save The Kid.

“You hang on, Kiddo!” Joe fervently, silently prayed, as he rose on legs still very unsteady. “You hang on, ‘cause WE’RE gonna find you! We’re looking for ya now, and we’re not gonna stop looking until we find you . . . no matter how long it takes.”

“JOE! HEY, JOE!” It was Candy.

Joe cautiously turned and saw the junior foreman standing on the other side of the pond amid tall grass, some of which had been trampled.

“JOE!” Candy called out again, waving and pointing down toward his feet. “I’VE GOT A LIVE ONE!”

 

“Finally . . . . ” Paul Martin sighed, relieved and weary, as he eased the bullet out of the shoulder of the big man lying on the bed before him, all but dead to the waking world. “Hoss . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Would you mind handing me that glass there?” He pointed to the empty water glass on the night table, on the opposite side of the bed.

“Sure thing, Doc.” Hoss grabbed the glass off the night table in front of him and handed it across the bed and still insensate patient.

“Thank you,” Paul murmured softly as he took the glass from Hoss and dropped the bullet in with a loud clatter.

“He gonna live?”

Paul rose to his feet stiffly, wincing as joints and ligaments screamed in silent protest against the sudden movement after nearly three hours of enforced stillness. “He won’t die from the gunshot wound,” the sawbones replied. “It’s the head injury that concerns me most right now . . . . ”

“Head injury?” Hoss queried with a bewildered frown.

Paul nodded. “He’s got a lump on the back of his head roughly the size of a goose egg,” he explained. “My guess is he struck his head against something very hard when that bullet in his shoulder knocked him over.”

“A rock, maybe?”

“Yeah.”

“Any idea as t’ when he’s gonna come to?”

“I’m afraid it may not be a question of WHEN he comes to, but IF he comes to,” Paul said grimly.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Miss Paris?!” Hoss queried, surprised to see her standing framed in the open door way. “I thought you was feelin’ poorly.”

“I was,” Paris said, addressing Hoss in the same cold, brisk tone she would a co-worker or an employer. She entered the room, clad in the dark blue skirt and white blouse she had donned earlier that day for the purpose of attending mid-week Mass. Both were badly wrinkled from having spent the better part of the afternoon tossing and turning on the bed in her room. She had rolled her sleeves up past her elbows and pinned her hair up in a loosely styled French twist. “I’m feeling much better now, and I’d like to help.”

Paul Martin took in her red, swollen eyelids, her angry red cheeks, and the snow-white complexion lying beneath with a dubious frown. “I . . . appreciate your offer, Miss McKenna, but this man’s going to need the care of someone with experience— ”

“Doctor Martin, though I’ve not received any kind of formal schooling in the field of nursing, I’ve had lots of practical, hands on experience over the last sixteen going on seventeen years,” Paris said curtly. “I’ve done everything from . . . from laundering soiled sheets and emptying bedpans to handing the docs whatever they need while they do surgery.”

“Miss Paris, you sure—?!”

“Eric, I told you . . . I’m feeling much better,” she said, rudely cutting him off.

“Perhaps you might be of help at that, Miss McKenna,” Paul said in a cool, business-like tone of voice. “I’m sure you heard me telling Hoss about the patient’s head injury just now . . . . ”

“Yes,” Paris replied.

“Hopefully, he’ll regain consciousness sometime within the next few hours,” Paul continued. “If and when he does, I want you to wake me immediately. I’ll be sleeping in the next room.”

“I’d best see to it y’ have clean linens on the bed, and some clean towels, too,” Hoss said quietly. “If you’ll both excuse me?”

“Sure, Hoss, and thank you,” Paul said gratefully.

“What about fever, Doctor?” Paris asked. “With a wound like this, it’s the nature of the beast, as I’m sure you know.”

“Hop Sing is in the kitchen right now fixing up a big batch of his herbal remedy,” the doctor replied. “He’ll see to its administration. Bathing the patient’s head, neck, and hands with ice water should also help, but make sure his bandage stays dry.”

Paris nodded. “Will the bandage need to be changed?”

“Keep an eye on it,” Paul instructed. “He almost bled to death earlier, so I’ve got the wound packed. I’d prefer to leave it alone until morning. There may be a little bleeding, and that’s fine. If it becomes a steady flow, come wake me.”

“I will, Doctor.”

 

The first thing to intrude upon Stacy’s awareness was pain, worse than anything she had ever felt in her life. It began at the back of her head and circled around to her temples. She tried to roll herself over from her back onto her side, hoping to relieve some of the agony, but found herself unable to move. Frightened and feeling horribly disoriented, she slowly opened her eyes and found herself staring up into the anxious face of a girl two, maybe three years younger than herself. The girl had eyes the same intense sky blue as her own, and a long thick mane of dark brown curls.

“Wh-who are y-you?” Stacy murmured, wincing against each word. She struggled to sit up.

The girl placed a restraining hand on Stacy’s shoulder and shook her head. She, then, turned to face another, whom Stacy could not see.

“I’ll go get Mother,” the voice of another girl, much younger, replied. Stacy heard the soft sounds of bare feet slapping against the wood floor, one after the other, in rapid succession, followed, less than a moment later, by the sound of a door opening and closing.

Stacy closed her eyes. She remembered Pa asking her to go and fetch the picnic basket Hop Sing had packed for them, after the two of them had landed that big humongous trout. That was her last, fully coherent memory. The rest followed in shards and fragments: gunfire . . . seeing Pa fall, his head bleeding profusely . . . struggling against half a dozen men to free herself . . . .

“Hello, Stacy,” a woman’s voice greeted her very softly.

Stacy found herself having to strain very hard in order to hear. She cautiously opened one eye, then the other, and, much to her surprise, found that the girl she saw first was gone. The woman, who had taken her place, sat on the very edge of the bed, peering down into her face anxiously. Aged somewhere in her mid-to-late thirties, she had an oval face, framed by a cloud of light brown hair worn loosely about her shoulders. Her eyes were the same dead slate gray as a hunk of granite, with no sparkle to enliven them. The faded remnants of a bruise circled the bottom of her left eye and partially covered her cheek. Stacy knew immediately from the woman’s red cheeks and swollen eyelids that she had recently been crying. She looked up, meeting the woman’s eyes. The immense sadness she saw there overwhelmed her.

“Stacy, I’m your aunt, Virginia McKenna,” the woman introduced herself in a wooden monotone. She turned and beckoned. Two faces appeared, looking down at Stacy from behind the woman’s shoulders. One of the faces belonged to the girl she saw when she initially regained consciousness. “These are my daughters, your cousins,” the woman continued, “the eldest is Claire, the younger Erin. Claire . . . d-doesn’t speak.”

“Aunt? C-Cousins?” Stacy murmured, unable to completely grasp the import of the woman’s words.

“My husband, John McKenna, is your uncle,” Virginia continued, “your mother’s brother.”

“M-my mother?!”

“Your mother,” Virginia said.

“McKenna . . . McKenna . . . . ” Suddenly the light of revelation dawned on her with the brutal intensity of the sun in the desert at high noon. “M-Miss Paris?!” she whispered, stunned and utterly shaken to the very core of her being. “Miss Paris is my mother?”

“Yes. Paris McKenna . . . IS . . . your mother.”

Stacy felt the room closing in on her as it had the day she had decided to face Paris McKenna and the unsettling feelings the woman had initially aroused. Somewhere, deep inside, amid all the turmoil and shock, a saner voice insisted it was, indeed, true. The unsettling déjà vu . . . the common interests she and Miss Paris shared . . . the bond that had grown so quickly between them . . . even the physical resemblance; it all made sense. “Aunt Virginia,” Stacy said slowly, “why?”

“Why what?”

“If . . . if I AM related to you . . . why did you kidnap me?” Stacy demanded, her mind reeling. “And . . . why do you keep me tied up?”

“You have NOT been kidnapped, Child,” Virginia said briskly. “We . . . my husband and I . . . simply brought you home . . . back to your REAL family . . . where you belong.”

“No,” Stacy protested. “My home is on the Ponderosa. Pa . . . Hoss . . . Joe . . . and Adam . . . THEY’RE my real family . . . . ” Suddenly, the memory of her father lying on the ground, unconscious and bleeding rose swiftly to her waking thoughts . . . .

“YOU!”

The last voice she remembered hearing just before blacking out echoed again in her ears.

“YOU! Get your ass over there ‘n finish off the old man! Now!”

“Pa! Oh no . . . no . . . Aunt Virginia, please!” Stacy begged. “You’ve GOT to let me go! My pa . . . h-he’s . . . he’s . . . badly hurt . . . and I’m the ONLY one who knows were he is!”

“His sons will find him,” Virginia said stiffly.

“But they won’t know where to look!” Stacy cried.

“If it’s meant to be, his sons WILL find him,” Virginia insisted.

“Please . . . he m-may be . . . be . . . he may be—!!” Stacy abruptly broke off, unable to bring herself to give voice to that which she feared most. “Aunt Virginia, please! He’s HURT! I know he is— ”

“The sooner you put them out of your mind, the better,” Virginia said sternly. “The Cartwrights were very kind to take you in for a little while, but they are NOT your REAL family. WE are!”

“Au contraire, Virginia,” a masculine voice said. His tone of voice, lofty and condescending, set Stacy’s teeth on edge. “It would appear that the Cartwrights ARE Stacy’s REAL family after all.”

Virginia and the girls turned, their faces almost identical masks of sheer terror. Stacy lifted her head and saw a tall, imposing man standing framed in the open door way, leaning heavily on a solid wood cane. He had the same dark curly hair and blue eyes Miss Paris did.

“Leave the room,” he ordered his wife and daughters in clipped angry tones.

Virginia meekly complied, with her face tilted downward to the floor, not daring to meet his eyes. She shooed Claire and Erin out ahead of her.

“Virginia.”

Virginia stopped in her tracks and looked up at her husband with a mixture of expectancy and terror.

“Close the door.”

She nodded and complied.

“Hello, Stacy,” he greeted her in a dead monotone, after his wife and daughters had gone, “or . . . perhaps I should say Rose Miranda.”

“R-Rose Miranda?!” Stacy looked at him askance.

“That IS the name on your birth certificate,” John said, as he limped across the room, leaning heavily on his cane. “It was given you by your mother, sentimental fool that she is. Beautiful name. Such a terrible waste . . . such a terrible waste indeed to bestow so beautiful a name on a child conceived in the ugliness of carnal lust and born in sin.” He grimaced with disdain and distaste.

Stacy suddenly remembered the other name the people in her dream had called her. It was Rose.

“I am your uncle, John McKenna,” the man continued, seating himself primly on the very edge of the bed, where Stacy lay bound hand and foot. “This, ” he said acerbically, referring to his stiff right leg, “was a parting gift from my loving sister, your mother.”

Stacy’s feelings of déja vu began to surface with an overwhelming, frightening intensity. She had met this man before. She was certain of it. She wracked her brains, desperately searching her memory for the how and why, but turned up nothing.

“I’ve been searching for Rose Miranda for the better part of the last ten years,” John continued in a stiff, formal tone. “I did not learn until very recently that your name was somehow changed to Stacy Louise.”

“My grandmother’s name,” Stacy said, remembering the heart shaped locket that had been her only possession from the life she had led before Silver Moon. Everyone had assumed, erroneously it seemed, that the locket and the name engraved on the outside belonged to her.

“Yes,” John’s nose wrinkled with disgust, “. . . indeed! The name of my sainted mother, may God rest her soul.”

“Why have you kidnapped me?” Stacy demanded. “ . . . and why did you . . . why did you . . . k-kill my pa?!”

“Your father . . . . ” John frowned. Ben Cartwright had better NOT be dead . . . not yet. His orders regarding that matter had been very clear. Yet, at the same time, it was clear that the girl, at the very least, strongly suspected that her father was no longer of this world. “Divine intervention . . . that can be made to work very well in my favor . . . very well indeed!” he mused silently. A malevolent smile began to spread slowly across John McKenna’s lips.

“Why?” Stacy demanded, grief stricken and very angry. “Why did your men have to . . . h-have to . . . if it’s money you want, my pa would’ve— ”

“No. I neither need nor want ANY of Ben Cartwright’s filthy, ill-gotten lucre,” John said thinly disguised contempt. “My reason for wanting Ben Cartwright . . . your father . . . dead . . . is a very personal one. He DISHONORED my sister.”

“H-He . . . WHAT?!”

“Your father seduced my sister . . . your mother, by the way, with all manner of pretty lies and empty promises,” John replied, in a tone of voice lofty and imperious. “When he discovered she was with child, he immediately sent her packing right back to her parents. He absolutely REFUSED to acknowledge you, or have anything to do with either you or your mother.”

“A-Are you saying that Pa—that . . . that Ben Cartwright—?!” Stacy murmured, her senses reeling.

“If you’re TRYING to ask me whether or not Ben Cartwright is your natural father, the answer is yes,” John replied, his eyes alight with malicious delight.

“No,” Stacy protested angrily. “Pa’d NEVER do to Miss Paris or anyone else the things you just said . . . and he’d never deny me or any other child of his, either!”

For a long moment, John McKenna stared down at the girl in complete astonishment, stunned by her anger, and by the way she had so quickly, so passionately came to Ben Cartwright’s defense. When at last he was able to move, he rose very slowly to his feet, and drew himself up to the very fullness of his height.

“I don’t know what LIES you may have been told, nor do I especially CARE to know,” John said, glaring down at the girl lying on the bed before him, helplessly bound hand and foot. “But the TRUTH is . . . Ben Cartwright . . . your father . . . absolutely REFUSED to acknowledge or have anything to do with you whatsoever. He USED your mother . . . and when he was done, he cast her aside like garbage.

“That’s WHY my sister, Paris . . . your mother . . . ultimately abandoned you, leaving you in the care of our parents and sisters. YOU were and are the living embodiment of all the shame, and humiliation she suffered at the hands of Ben Cartwright.”

“Liar!” Stacy spat contemptuously.

John McKenna’s entire body went rigid. He drew his fingers of both hands together, one at a time, forming a pair of tight, rock hard fists. His face, however, remained an impassive mask. “What did you say?” he asked in a very quiet, very calm tone of voice.

“I SAID you’re a liar!” Stacy’s words, boldly uttered, were both denial of his charges and an accusation. “Pa LOVED Miss Paris. He’d NEVER have treated her like you said . . . and he’d never abandon any of his children.”

“Then tell me, if you can, why you spent your formative years growing up in my parents’ home and not on the Ponderosa?” John demanded through clenched teeth.

“Because Pa didn’t KNOW about me,” Stacy stated with absolute confidence. “If he HAD known, he would have come looking for me. I KNOW he would have . . . and he wouldn’t have STOPPED looking, either, until he FOUND me.”

John McKenna’s stoic mask abruptly vanished, revealing a face twisted with rage. He lashed out, striking Stacy across the face, with closed fist. “You will recant your words, Daughter of Sodom and Gomorrah,” he ordered imperiously, “then you will apologize to me for your blatant disrespect and beg my forgiveness.”

Stacy glared back at him with a raw fury that bordered on hatred. “The only TRUE thing you’ve said is that Miss Paris and Pa ARE the mother and father who gave me life,” she said. “But everything ELSE you said is nothing but a pack of LIES!”

John, expecting fear, was momentarily taken aback by her stubborn, angry defiance. “So help me, Girl,” he snarled through clenched teeth, “as God is my witness, I’m going to beat this evil stubbornness out of you, even if you are my niece.”

“WHY DON’T YOU UNTIE ME AND LET ME SEE HOW BRAVE YOU REALLY ARE, YOU . . . YOU YELLA BELLIED COWARD?!” Stacy shouted back, angered beyond all sense of reason or caution.

“Daughter . . . of . . . Sodom . . . RECANT!” John demanded over and over, through clenched teeth. The utterance of his words kept time with his fist.

 

John McKenna abruptly straightened his back, and retreated from the room without sparing a backward glance, now lying on the bed. The minute he stepped into the narrow hallway beyond, his mask of stoic calm quickly and suddenly reasserted itself leaving no trace of the rage that had all but consumed him scant moments before. He traversed the hall and started slowly down the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom landing, he looked over and established eye contact with David Matthews, standing guard at the front door.

“Private Matthews,” he snapped, “attend.”

“Yes, Sir,” David acknowledged the order in a clear, crisp tone of voice, then fell in step at a discreet, respectful distance behind his captain.

John silently led the way to the parlor, set at the very end of the downstairs hallway. David followed John inside the tiny, dilapidated room, taking up position to the right of the door, standing at rigid attention.

“At ease, Private,” John allowed, as he very gingerly lowered himself into the chair before the fireplace.

David noiselessly leaned his rifle against the wall behind him, yet well within his easy reach, and relaxed his stance, placing his feet shoulder width apart and hands loosely behind his back.

John opened the small drawer in the table next to his easy chair and withdrew a piece of stationary and a pencil. After a moment’s thought, he scrawled a quick note, then slipped it into a matching envelope. “Private Matthews . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?”

He closed the envelope and wrote “Lt. Hilliard” across its face. “You are to wait precisely one hour and thirty minutes,” he ordered, holding the envelope out to the young man standing guard at the closed door to his parlor. “Then you are to hand deliver it to the lieutenant at the Bucket of Blood Saloon.”

“Yes, Sir. Shall I wait for a reply?”

“No. You will simply hand deliver that missive to the lieutenant and return here immediately.”

“Yes, Sir,” David acknowledged the order as he took the proffered envelope from John McKenna’s hand.

“One more thing, Private . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?”

“I will be with my wife for the next couple of hours,” John said. “I am not to be disturbed for any reason.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You’re dismissed, Private Matthews,” John said. A few minutes after David had left the room, he rose to his feet and made his way to the door, his limp very pronounced. He paused briefly at the bottom of the rickety stairs, and yelled for his oldest daughter, Claire.

The girl appeared at the top of the stairs less than a moment later, and waited expectantly.

“Fetch my riding crop,” John ordered, as he started up the stairs, “and bring it at once to your mother’s room.”

Claire nodded her head vigorously, then ran off, fast as her legs could carry her, to do her father’s bidding.

John continued down the long, narrow hallway to the room, not much more than a closet at the very end. Upon reaching the closed door, he paused just long enough to take a deep breath, then lashed out with astonishing power and strength, given it was his “bum leg,” knocking the door off its hinges.

Virginia cried out, alarmed and dismayed, as the door crashed into the wall perpendicular, then fell to the floor with a resounding bang. With head bowed, and shoulders hunched, she scurried across the room to its farthest corner.

“Jezebel!” John growled as he strode into the room, every last trace of stiffness gone from his bad leg. Four long strides brought him face to face with his terrified wife. “Adulteress!” he spat, his voice filled with loathing and contempt. “I know! I know all about the tryst between you and Lieutenant Hilliard . . . . ”

A few moments later, Claire stood before the closed door to her father’s room, clutching his riding crop close to her chest, sickened by the sounds of violence she heard within.

“C-Claire?”

She turned, and much to her horror found her younger sister standing behind her. Erin’s face was white as a sheet, and her round, staring eyes glistened with the sheen of tears, newly formed, but not yet shed. Frightened, more for her sister than herself, Claire vigorously shook her head and pointed toward the open door to Erin’s room near the top of the stairs.

“I . . . I’m . . . I’m scared, Claire,” Erin whimpered very softly. “Please? Please, can I stay with YOU?”

Claire reluctantly extended her arm, inviting Erin into the circle of her embrace. Within less than the space between one heart beat and the next, she held her sister clasped tight in her arms. Erin pressed her trembling body close, so close it almost hurt, and buried her face against Claire’s chest.

 

Ben, meanwhile, leaned heavily into the mound of pillows piled up against the headboard of his bed, clad in a freshly laundered nightshirt, with a tight bandage encircling his head. He silently mulled over everything his youngest son had just told him, with Stacy’s hat resting in his lap. “You’re sure?” he asked.

“I . . . yes!” Joe replied, nodding his head vigorously. “Pa . . . we went over that field and over it with a fine toothed comb,” he continued, his voice unsteady. “All we found were her footprints and . . . . ” His eyes strayed over to his sister’s hat.

“ . . . and you’ve no idea where they’ve taken her?” Ben pressed, as he unconsciously traced the hatband with his thumb. “No idea at ALL?!”

“Candy and I followed the tracks out to the road, while the other men searched the field,” Joe patiently explained once again. “We saw that they turned toward town, but lost their tracks very soon after.”

“ . . . and because the road forks about a mile or so further on . . . they could be anywhere,” Ben sigh morosely. He closed his eyes and allowed his thoughts to drift back . . . .
“All that work we did just now in landing that big one’s left me mighty hungry,” Ben said. He rose to his feet with net firmly in hand, and the biggest trout he had seen in . . . it had been quite awhile . . . flopping inside. “How about YOU, Young Woman? You ready to find out what Hop Sing packed for us in that great big basket?”

“I was just getting ready to ask YOU the same question, Pa,” Stacy declared, with a broad grin, “ ‘cause I’M starving, too.”

“It’s attached to Buck’s saddle,” he said, with a proud smile. “Think maybe YOU can fetch it, while I add this big fella to the ones we’ve already caught?”

“You betcha!”
The next thing he knew, they were surrounded by five . . . six men, maybe? Seven? Ben silently wracked his brains trying to remember, but it was like trying to grab hold of a moonbeam, or an elusive will o’ the wisp. He remembered hearing the sound of gunfire . . . .

. . . then nothing.

“Pa?”

Ben opened his eyes and found himself staring into the anxious face of his youngest son, still straddling the hard backed chair he had pulled up next to the bed a short while ago. “I’m all right, Son,” he said quietly. “That man in the room across the hall . . . is he . . . . ?!”

“Yeah, Pa,” Joe replied with a thunderous scowl. “He’s one of ‘em.”

“Who shot him?”

“The Kid,” Joe said.

“Stacy?!”

Joe nodded.

“H-How? She wasn’t armed . . . . ”

“She . . . somehow . . . managed to grab your gun without them knowing,” Joe explained. “After they shot YOU, they . . . must’ve . . . told her to walk toward the tree, where Buck and Blaze Face were tethered. At the northern end of the pond, she turned, then took off running. I think she saw an opportunity and she took it. She shot the man across the hall, then ran to Blaze Face, and sent him scurrying home . . . to get help. Then . . . then she . . . she tried to . . . lead those men on a merry chase until help came, but . . . we didn’t get there in time. H-Hoss and I left . . . quick as we could, but . . . we . . . w-we didn’t get there quick enough.”

“No . . . reproach for your pa?” Ben quietly asked.

Joe slowly, reluctantly lifted his face. His cheeks were wet and his eyes glistened with the sheen of tears yet to be shed. “I . . . I don’t understand, Pa . . . . ”

“Your brother told me . . . it was the day Candy and I found Eddie Jones’ body,” Ben said ruefully. “I’m sure you remember how angry I was when I’d found out that Stacy had gone out to the barn.”

Joe nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.

“Hoss told me then that my keeping her on so short a lead was . . . that it was sufficient punishment in and of itself,” Ben continued, “and in the end . . . it did no good. They . . . they took her anyway . . . on MY watch.”

“Pa, you had no way of knowing— ”

“I SHOULD’VE known, Son,” Ben bitterly castigated himself.

“How?” Joe demanded, his voice filled with anger and despair. “How could you have POSSIBLY known?!”

“I suspected Zachary Hilliard was up to no good when Candy told me he was asking people in town about your sister,” Ben lashed out, giving vent finally to all of the fear, rage, frustration, and despair that had quickly grown within him since learning that Stacy had been kidnapped. “I KNEW that someone had already tried to hurt . . . maybe KILL her . . . dammit! I SHOULD’VE realized— ”

Without a word, Joe rose to his feet, his face darker than the thunderclouds heralding the approach of a dangerously violent summer storm.

“Where are you going?” Ben demanded warily, his fury evaporating in the face of the raw, murderous fury he saw burning in his youngest son’s emerald green eyes.

“That man lying in the room across the hall was with the men who took Stacy,” Joe replied through clenched teeth. “He KNOWS where they’ve taken her, Pa . . . he HAS to know! I’m gonna see to it that he tells US.”

“Right now, Joseph Francis Cartwright . . . trying to get that man to tell you anything’s going to be a waste of time, energy, and breath.”

Joe glanced up sharply and, much to his surprise, saw Doctor Paul Martin standing framed in the open door to his father’s room, his own face set with fierce, stubborn determination and arms folded defiantly across his chest.

“In addition to that gunshot wound, the man across the hall sustained a bad head injury,” the doctor explained as he strode briskly across the room.

“Head injury?!” Ben echoed.

“That’s right . . . a head injury,” Paul reiterated. “My guess is when he fell after being shot, he struck his head against a rock. In addition to that hole in his shoulder, he’s also got a lump on the back of his head the size of a goose egg.”

“How long do you figure before he comes to, Doc?” Joe demanded, seething with frustration.

Paul took the chair Joe had just vacated, turned it around the other way, and sat down. “Joe . . . and you, too, Ben! Like I just got through telling Hoss, the question’s not WHEN will he regain consciousness . . . it’s IF he regains consciousness.”

“Whaddya mean IF he regains consciousness?” Joe asked, the scowl on his face deepening.

“I mean exactly THAT!” Paul said tersely.

Ben felt the blood drain right out of his face, taking with it what little color had returned since having been shot himself. “Paul, are you telling us that man across the hall . . . that he might . . . . ?!” he stammered, wincing against the lightheadedness that all of a sudden assailed him.

“Yes, Ben,” Paul answered the question his old friend had tried to ask, but couldn’t quite bring himself. He turned and glanced up at the railroad clock, hanging on the wall across the room, perpendicular to the foot of Ben’s bed. “Joe, you said yourself that man was unconscious when you and Candy brought him back here.”

Joe nodded.

“THAT was early this afternoon,” the doctor pointed out. “It’s now almost suppertime and that man’s not so much as stirred. You know as well as I do that each passing moment lessens the likelihood that he ever WILL regain consciousness.”

“Dammit, Doc, you’ve gotta DO something!” Joe hotly protested.

“Joe, I’m doing ALL it’s in MY power to do,” Paul said curtly, then sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you’re all worried sick right now— ”

“DO you, Doc?” Joe angrily questioned. “Do you REALLY know how worried we are?”

“Yes, I do, Young Man,” Paul returned without missing a beat. “I have a daughter myself, and if I knew SHE had been kidnapped by someone who had previously tried to harm or kill her, I’d be going out of MY mind, too.”

“But?” Ben growled.

“But . . . I’m going to tell YOU, Ben Cartwright, the same thing I think YOU’D be telling ME right now, if our situations were reversed,” Paul said sternly.

“ . . . and THAT is?”

“To get hold of myself,” Paul replied, looking Ben straight in the eye without flinching. “I can hear you now. You’d be telling me that my going off half-cocked wouldn’t help Janie and wouldn’t help Lily or me, either for that matter. You’d be telling me next that I needed to calm down enough to be able to think things through clearly . . . because Janie’s life might depend on my being able to do just that.”

For Ben, the doctor’s words acted as a bucket of ice water thrown in his face. He vigorously shook his head as if to physically dislodge the despair, anguish, and impotent fury that had all but overtaken him.

“Mister Doctor?” It was Hop Sing. He stood at the threshold between the hall and Ben’s bedroom. “Missy Paris say you come,” he continued, his tone of voice terse, filled with a sense of urgency. “Man in guest room start coming to.”

“Thank you, Hop Sing. Please tell Miss McKenna I’ll be right there,” Paul said.

Hop Sing nodded and left.

“Joe . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa?”

“Hand me my robe,” Ben ordered.

“Ben!” Paul protested with a withering glare. “What do you think—?!”

“I’m going with you,” Ben said firmly, in a tone of voice that brooked no argument, no further discussion of the matter. He angrily threw aside his bedclothes, then eased himself from lying prone to sitting up. “Joe . . . . ”

“Here, Pa.” Joe took his father’s robe from its place on the bedpost of the headboard and held it out to him.

Ben rose very slowly, wincing against another bout of lightheadedness. He put out a hand against the headboard to steady himself.

“Ben . . . Joe . . . . ”

“What is it, Doc?” Joe demanded.

“Bear in mind that the man in your guest room may have suffered some form of brain damage as consequence of the blow to his head,” Paul warned.

“Meaning?” Ben growled.

“Meaning the good news right now is . . . he’s regaining consciousness,” Paul explained.

“ . . . and the bad news?” Ben prompted, the scowl on his face deepening.

“The absolute worst case scenario would be that he’s completely paralyzed, unable to see, hear, or speak,” Paul explained. “Complete amnesia is a relatively rare occurrence, but still a very real possibility. The most common occurrence in a case like this is he may have no memory whatsoever of any of the events that transpired just before he suffered the head injury.”

“You mean he . . . that h-he might not remember what happened to Stacy?” Joe asked.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Paul replied. “The two of you and Hoss need to be prepared for that . . . . ”

“How soon will we know?” Ben demanded, as he slipped his robe on.

“We’ll know something once he’s fully regained consciousness and I’ve had a chance to examine him,” Paul replied.

 

Ben and Joe silently followed the doctor down the hall to their guest room where Jeff Collier lay stretched out on the bed. Paris sat in the wooden chair next to the bed bathing Jeff’s face with a skilled gentleness, learned and nurtured through nearly sixteen years of practice.

“How is he, Miss McKenna?” Paul asked, as he strode briskly into the room with Ben and Joe following closely behind.

“He’s not yet opened his eyes, but he IS talking,” Paris replied. “He appears to know his own name, the year, and who the president of the United States is. His body temperature has gone up over the last hour or so, but not so high as to be a cause for alarm.”

“May I?” Paul queried with a pointed glance at the chair she occupied.

“Yes, of course,” Paris murmured as she rose stiffly to her feet, then stepped aside, allowing the doctor access to the chair and patient.

Paul immediately checked the bandage covering the bullet wound, noting with grim satisfaction that it remained clean, with no sign of seepage.

“Wh-Where am I?” Jeff groaned once again, his voice barely audible. “ ‘N who are YOU?”

“I’m Doctor Paul Martin,” the physician curtly introduced himself, “and you?”

“C-Collier,” Jeff replied, his voice so soft, Paul had to strain to catch his words. “ ‘Name’s . . . Jeffrey . . . Collier . . . . ”

“Mister Collier . . . you’re on the Ponderosa, in the home of Mister Benjamin Cartwright recovering from a bullet wound to your shoulder,” Paul continued.

Upon hearing the name Benjamin Cartwright, Jeff Collier’s eyes slitted open. “How—?!”

“You took a bullet in your right shoulder,” Paul said bluntly, as he checked the man’s pulse. “Either you’re one very lucky man, or whoever was doing the shooting intended to wound, not kill. One of Mister Cartwright’s men found you lying in the tall grass out by Dressler’s Pond and brought you here.”

“D-Dress . . . ler’s . . . Pond?” Jeff queried, his head, his senses reeling.

“Yes. It’s a fishing hole known to a handful of the locals, the Cartwrights among them,” the doctor explained. “Can you remember anything of what happened out there, Mister Collier?”

Jeff frowned, then immediately winced against a sudden stab of pain at the back of his head and a slight twinge of nausea. “H-Head . . . hurts,” he mumbled softly.

“Yes . . . I’m sure it does,” Paul said with a touch of wryness. “You’ve got a lump on the back of your head the size of a goose egg.”

“How . . . . ?!”

“I . . . can’t really say for certain, but MY guess, for what it’s worth, is . . . after you were shot, you fell and hit your head against something very hard . . . a rock, more than likely,” Paul explained.

“Mister Collier?” Joe spoke for the first time.

Jeff took a deep breath, then slowly, warily turned his head. He found himself staring up into the scowling face of Ben Cartwright’s youngest son.

“I’ve sent one of our men into town to get Sheriff Coffee,” Joe said curtly.

“Sh-Sheriff?” Jeff queried. It took nearly every ounce of strength and determination not to flinch away from the raw fury he saw burning in the younger man’s emerald green eyes.

“You and my father were both gunned down out there this afternoon and my sister . . . she and my father were out there fishing earlier . . . SHE’S missing,” Joe continued.

Jeff squeezed his eyes shut tight against a room that had all of a sudden began to pulsate at the edges of his peripheral vision with sickening intensity and the dark anger he saw in the face of not only the youngest son, but of the silver haired family patriarch as well. “C-Can’t . . . can’t h-help you,” he groaned, wincing against his physical pain and as well as an agonizing stab of conscience. “W-Won’t . . . betray C-Captain . . . M-McKenna . . . . ”

“Captain McKenna?” Paris echoed with a puzzled frown and an odd sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes and took a deep, ragged breath. “Mister Collier . . . .” she began slowly, afraid to ask, yet more fearful of not knowing, “ . . . your captain . . . is his given name John?”

“Yes, uhhh . . . Miss McKenna? Miss . . . PARIS . . . McKenna?”

“I don’t recall ever having met you, Mister Collier. How . . . how do you know who— ”

“I know, Ma’am, because . . . because my captain IS . . . your brother.”

The blood drained right out of Paris’ face, leaving her feeling light headed and very unsteady on her feet. She barely had awareness of the doctor’s hands taking firm hold of her shoulders and steering her back toward the chair next to the bed. “Dear God!” she moaned, as she half sat, half fell down onto the seat. “He . . . he knows I’m here . . . . ”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Jeff quietly affirmed.

“What does John McKenna want with my daughter?” Ben demanded. “Is he holding her for ransom?”

“No,” Jeff replied, as he very quickly averted his eyes from Ben Cartwright’s cold steely glare.

“Then why—?!”

“He wants to kill her, Mister Cartwright,” Jeff replied.

“Where is she now?” Joe demanded through clenched teeth.

“I . . . I already told you . . . I . . . WON’T . . . betray Captain McKenna,” Jeff said, his voice filled with remorse. “I owe that man my LIFE! At the very least, he deserves my undying loyalty and trust.”

A murderous scowl darkened Joe’s features. He dived across the bed, his hands reaching for Jeff’s neck. Ben instinctively reached out and succeeded in getting a firm hold of his jacket collar. Joe struggled mightily to free himself. Gritting his teeth, Ben pulled Joe away from the helpless man lying on the bed.

“What do you think you’re DOING?!” Ben demanded in the low, soft voice before the storm breaks.

“Pa, you heard him!” Joe turned on his father furiously.

“Joseph, you listen to me and you listen good,” Ben said, his jaw clenched with barely contained rage. “You kill this man, our chances of finding Stacy drop from slim to none. You understand me?”

“Yes,” Joe snapped, then furiously shook himself free of Ben’s grasp.

Ben turned his attention to the man lying on the bed in his guest room. “Where is my daughter?” he demanded.

“I . . . will NOT . . . betray my captain,” Jeff stubbornly maintained his ground. “I TOLD you. I owe that man a debt of blood . . . and of honor . . . that I can never, not in a million years, ever repay.”

“Even though this . . . this so called debt of honor requires you to just lie there while John McKenna murders a young girl in cold blood?” Joe demanded through clenched teeth. “You and your captain sure have twisted notions of honor, Mister.”

Joe’s words, filled with anger and contempt for the injured man and his captain, provoked an excruciating attack of conscience with all the debilitating power and strength of a hit below the belt from a massive, rock hard fist. Jeff bit down on his bottom lip to keep from crying out. “Spare me your sermons, Boy,” he returned, his voice filled with loathing and contempt more for himself than the angry young man standing before him. “You WEREN’T in the war. You were here, protected and sheltered on your pa’s ranch. You have no idea what it was like out there. None!”

“Maybe not,” Joe responded without missing a beat. “But in MY book, MURDERING a young girl in cold blood is an act of the worst kind of cowardice.”

“Joseph, back off,” Ben ordered tersely.

“Pa . . . . ” Joe turned, ready to lash out at Ben.

“Now!” Ben snapped.

Joe lapsed into an angry, sullen silence.

“Mister Cartwright?” Jeff pointedly turned his attention from Joe toward Ben.

“What?” Ben snapped.

“Antietam Creek, located just outside a little town called Sharpsburg, up near western Maryland,” Jeff said in a cold, angry tone. “Do YOU know anything about the battle at Antietam Creek?”

“Yes,” Ben said grimly. “Hundreds . . . maybe thousands lost their lives there. I’ve heard it said that the battle at Antietam Creek was the bloodiest single day of the entire war.”

“Apt! I know, I was there,” Jeff said bitterly. “I was among the many cut down, and left for dead. I’ve no idea how long I lay there among the dead and dying . . . watching men die, hearing others cry out for help and not able to do anything . . . I only remember it seemed a stinkin’ eternity.”

Jeff Collier’s eyes glazed over, as he sank deeper into his dreadful reverie. “Half the time I was crazy with fear that I’d die out there, so far from my home and my family . . . my body left to rot, or worse, dumped into a mass grave somewhere in that crazy hellish nightmare,” he continued, no longer aware of the others present in the room. “The other half the time, I was afraid I WOULDN’T die, that I’d end up in some pit like Andersonville.

“That night, Captain McKenna risked his life to come out from the shelter of the trenches to rescue me. The Rebs were picking off men who ventured out to retrieve the living . . . and the dead. Don’t you see? I owe that man my very life . . . and I WON’T betray him . . . no matter what!”

“You served with my brother during the war, Mister Collier?” Paris asked, her calm, steady voice at startling contrast to her trembling hands, and eyes, round and staring.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Did my brother ever kill any women and children during the war?” Paris pressed.

“No, Ma’am . . . never!” Jeff replied, outraged that the captain’s sister of all people would actually give voice to such a question. “No matter where we were . . . no matter what or how dire the situation . . . Captain McKenna ALWAYS gave strict orders NOT to in any way harm or molest civilians. If the men gave us trouble, we were allowed to defend ourselves . . . but under NO circumstances were we allowed to harm women or children.”

“Why not?” Paris snapped out the question.

“Because Captain McKenna is a man of decency and honor . . . truly an officer of the highest caliber and a gentleman, as you surely must know,” Jeff immediately answered. “He conducted himself that way and expected the same of the men serving under him.”

“Why has that code of conduct changed with regard to Mister Cartwright’s daughter?” Paris demanded.

For a long moment, Jeff stared up at Paris, too stunned to reply. “I . . . . ” he finally stammered, desperately groping for a satisfactory answer. “The captain’s got his reasons,” he said finally. “I don’t know what they are . . . and I probably wouldn’t understand ‘em much if I DID know . . . but, he DOES have his reasons.”

“Sergeant, you have a family?” Ben asked.

“Yes,” Jeff replied warily. “My wife died during the war . . . of typhoid, as did my oldest son and youngest daughter. The middle children . . . a son and two daughters . . . survived and are alive and well.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mister Collier,” Ben said quietly, with all sincerity, knowing only too well how devastating the loss of a beloved wife could be. He desperately hoped and prayed he would never outlive any of his children, including the li’l gal who had stolen his heart and the hearts of her brothers almost five years ago now, at the corral holding the horses belonging to the cavalrymen stationed at Fort Charlotte. “You must love the children left to you very much.”

“Of COURSE I do,” Jeff declared. “Since the deaths of their mother . . . their oldest brother . . . and baby sister . . . they’re all the more precious to me.”

“How would you feel if someone kidnapped one of them for the sole purpose of killing him, or her?” Ben relentlessly pressed.

“If anyone . . . anyone at all so much as harms but a single hair on their heads, I’ll hunt the son-of-a-bitch down and kill him,” Jeff snarled through clenched teeth.

“That young woman your captain has kidnapped is MY daughter,” Ben said quietly. “I love her every bit as much as you love your children. As one father to another, I’m begging you . . . PLEASE . . . help me find her.”

Jeff turned away, as the soldier within warred mightily against the father. “M-Mister Cartwright, she’s being held in Virginia City . . . in a tenement house on the street called Blood Alley,” he said in agonized, halting tone of voice. “I can’t understand why the captain wants to kill her, she’s his niece for God’s sake!”

“H-his niece?!” Joe stammered, looking over at his father, then Paris through eyes round as saucers.

“His niece,” Jeff reiterated.

Ben suddenly felt as if he had been dealt a hard blow to his stomach. Every muscle in his legs suddenly turned to water. He grabbed one of the posts at the foot of the bed for support and held on for dear life. “Dear God,” he whispered, as the reason for Paris McKenna’s abrupt departure in the dead of the night almost seventeen years ago suddenly became crystal clear.

“Pa?” Joe queried, as he placed a steadying hand on Ben’s shoulder.

Ben squeezed his eyes shut and forced himself to take deep, even breaths. When, at last, he had steadied himself to stand unaided, he turned toward Paris, with a white hot, murderous fury burning in his eyes. “Why, Paris?” he demanded in a tone that sent a chill down the entire length of Joe’s spine. “Why in God’s Name didn’t you tell me you were going to have a baby . . . OUR baby?”

The prophetic words . . . or had that actually been a warning? spoken by the priest this morning had come to pass. She knew also that the very worst of her fears had been realized as well. He despised her. She saw that very clearly in the devastating grief and raw fury now laid bare in his eyes and upon his face. She had thought should this day came, heaven forbid, that she would be equally grief stricken, at the very least, upon suffering the final, irrevocable loss of the only man she loved, that she would ever love. Yet, much to her amazement, she felt nothing.

Absolutely nothing!

“You’re a man of honor, Ben Cartwright . . . highly principled, morally upright . . . had I told you I was going to have a baby, you would have felt yourself obligated and duty bound to marry me,” Paris said in the same dispassionate tone of voice most might use when speaking of the weather. “I couldn’t bring myself to burden you in that way. I loved you too much.”

“ . . . I loved YOU, Paris,” Ben said. “Yes, I WOULD have married you, but not out of any misguided sense of duty or obligation. I would have married you for one reason only. Because I loved you.”

“I n-named her Rose Miranda,” Paris murmured.

That revelation cut through Ben’s heart like a dull knife. He turned away, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

“Rose Miranda?” Joe queried, looking over at Paris.

“My mother’s name.” It was Ben who replied. “I once told Paris that if I’d had a daughter, I would have named her R-Rose Miranda . . . for my mother.”

“I went to my parents,” Paris spoke aloud, addressing no one in particular. “I’d heard that they had left the gold fields and returned to Mormon Springs. They took me in, much to my amazement . . . looked after me until the baby was born. When I had finally gotten back on my feet, Mam and Da promised me they’d give her a home . . . provide for her . . . raise her. In return, I had to promise that I’d leave and never come back, never even try to contact her. I agreed to their damned devil’s bargain, even though it broke my heart. I had no other choice.”

“That’s not true, Paris. You HAD a choice,” Ben said coldly. “You could have come to ME, and . . . allowed me to do the right thing by you and . . . and . . . by our daughter.”

“Ben, I told you— ”

“Yes, I KNOW what you told me, Paris,” Ben angrily, rudely cut her off mid-sentence. “But, I think you and I both know the real reason you fled in the middle of the night like a cowardly thief had more to do with that damned, obstinate, stubborn Paris McKenna pride than with any sense of duty or obligation you thought I might be feeling. I only wish you had thought more of our daughter . . . and of what might have been best for HER . . . than you did of your pride.”

Paris turned away, with tears streaming down her face. “All these years, I thought she was dead,” she continued, her voice breaking. “I thought she had died in the same fire that took my parents and my sisters. John told me she had died.”

Joe warred within himself, feeling sorry for Paris on the one hand, and, guilty, seeing the pity he felt for her as an act of disloyalty to his father.
“H-he must have known all along that she . . . that she didn’t die,” he murmured softly.

Paris turned and favored Joe with a sharp glare for a moment. “Yes . . . . ” she whispered, as his observation coalesced all the animosity she had ever felt toward her brother into a bitter, deep seated hatred.

“Hoss . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?” Hoss queried as he and Joe turned expectantly toward their father.

“Saddle my horse,” Ben ordered.

“Saddle your horse?!” Paul echoed, incredulous and outraged. “Ben, I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing— ”

“I’m going after my daughter, Paul,” Ben replied in that obstinate, resolute tone of voice signaling that a decision had been made, subject closed.

“Dammit, Ben . . . in case you’ve forgotten, you ALSO suffered a head wound,” Paul hastened to point out.

“ . . . which you said yourself was superficial,” Ben argued. “Hoss . . . . ”

“Yes, Pa,” Hoss said curtly. “I’ll saddle YOUR horse, but I’m also gonna saddle MINE.”

“ . . . after you’ve saddled Chubb, I want you to round up as many of our men as you can, and bring them to Blood Alley,” Ben continued without missing a beat.

“Yes, Sir,” Hoss responded with a curt nod of his head.

“Joe . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“You said that you’d sent Candy to get the sheriff?”

“Yes, I did,” Joe replied.

“I want YOU to g’won out and meet them,” Ben said. “Tell Candy and Roy that Stacy’s being held in one of those Blood Alley tenements, and bring ‘em along.”

“I will, Pa,” Joe promised.

Paris closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Ben . . . . ”

“What?” Ben responded in a voice stone cold.

“I’M going with you,” she declared, her face set with the same fierce, stubborn determination he had seen many times before in Stacy’s face, whenever she had made up her mind about something.

Ben pointedly turned his back on Paris. “No, you’re NOT!”

With her mouth firmly set in a thin, determined line, Paris marched with a reckless defiance around the foot of the bed, occupied by Jeff Collier. Stepping between Ben and the door, she looked him straight in the eyes. “Ben,” she pressed with desperate urgency, “I KNOW you must think me the scum of the earth right now, and God knows, you have every right to . . . and, for that matter . . . so does Ro—I mean Stacy. But . . . dammit, no matter what I’VE done or NOT done, she’s MY daughter, too.”

Ben opened his mouth to argue, but the fierce, angry determination he saw in her face stopped him cold. He snapped his mouth shut. “Hoss!” he snapped.

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Hitch up the buggy!”

It was an unbearably hot summer night.

The argument between Grandfather and Uncle John steadily escalated. Though well used to living in a household filled with anger, strife, and bitterness, the altercation between the men had grown ‘way beyond that to a new and frightening intensity. Grandmother, Aunt Mattie, and Aunt Elsie were frightened, too. She heard it in their voices, as they talked among themselves, in the room next to her own.

Finally, unable to bear lying scared and alone in the dark, she had left her bed for the company of the women in the next room.

“What are YOU doing here, Young Lady?” Grandmother demanded, with her back straight, arms folded tight across her chest. Her chin was rigid, as if carved from rock, and her mouth had thinned to a near straight, lipless line. In the dim light of the oil lamp, sitting on the small, round table behind Aunt Mattie, the deep shadows pooling in the hallows of Grandmother’s cheeks, her sunken eye sockets, and the angry lines, eternally etched into her brittle flesh, lent her a frightening, almost daemonic appearance.

Aunt Elsie, seated on a low footstool at Grandmother’s feet was an exact mirror, in her face, and in the stiff, rigid way she held her body. They hated her. Grandmother and Aunt Elsie. She knew that as surely as she knew the sun was going to rise in the morning and set in the next evening. They never said so in words. It was in the way they always looked at her, as if she were the ugliest thing that ever walked on two legs.

“I’m scared, Grandmother. Please? Please let me stay here with you . . . .”

“You’re a big girl now,” Grandmother said sternly. “You’re too old to be afraid of the dark.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark . . . I’m afraid because of the way Grandfather and Uncle John are yelling.”

“Stuff and nonsense,” Grandmother snapped a little too quickly. “Now go to your room, and get yourself back in bed where you belong, or so help me . . . I’ll GIVE you something to be afraid of.”

“Come with me . . . . ” Aunt Mattie called her by that other name.

“You coddle her too much, Mattie,” Grandmother complained.

“She’s just a CHILD, Mother.”

“She needs to toughen up.”

Aunt Mattie gently took her by the hand and led her back to her own room. She realized for the very first time that the hand holding fast to her own trembled.

 

The next thing she knew, Aunt Mattie was calling her . . . again by that other strange, frightening name. She very slowly drew the covers up over her hear, then scrunched beneath them, curling herself into a tight ball, making herself as little as she possibly could.

“Stay still,” she silently exhorted herself. “Stay very, very, very still. Maybe . . . maybe . . . if you stay still enough . . . and keep little enough . . . they won’t even see you.”

“W-Wake up, Child . . . . ” Mattie said, her voice shaking. She began to peel away the covers, one by one, laTTyer by layer, until finally, at long last, she lay completely exposed to the cold and the night.

“Come on, Mattie . . . get that brat up . . . NOW!” Uncle John growled from somewhere in the dark.

“Wake up, Child . . . you have to wake up now,” Aunt Mattie pleaded, as she very carefully, very gently unrolled the tiny, tightly wrapped ball, and helped her to sit up.

“I-I’m scared,” she whimpered very softly.

“It’ll be all right . . . . ” Aunt Mattie promised. “It’ll be all . . . right, I promise you.” Though meant to reassure, the uncertainty she heard in her aunt’s voice deepened her fears.

As Aunt Mattie drew her from the bed to her feet, she turned toward the small window, positioned directly above the head of her bed. The shade that Grandmother always insisted by kept down, shivered slightly then with a loud snap, shot right up to the top, revealing the full moon in the sky above.

“Mattie! What the hell’s taking you so damn’ long?!” Uncle John demanded. “I don’t have all night!”

“Coming, John . . . we’re coming,” Aunt Mattie responded. She took firm hold of her hand, and led her toward the open door and hallway beyond, where Uncle John, Grandfather, Grandmother, and Aunt Elsie waited. “Let’s go, Child,” she quietly, gently urged. “W-We have to go.”

She started to follow, then paused when she caught sight of something quivering in the darkness out of the corner of her eye. She turned and, glancing out the window, saw a pine tree sapling pushing skyward. She watched, awe-struck, barely aware of Aunt Mattie’s gentle, frightened entreaties to hurry. The tree’s branches extended, and its needles sprouted everywhere in thick profusion, and lengthened, until it finally covered the moon completely.

Something about the pine tree . . . .

Aunt Mattie snatched her right off her feet and carried her out of the room, but for that moment in time, she, incredibly, wasn’t afraid. She wrapped her thin arms loosely about her aunt’s shoulders, and kept her eyes glued to the enormous pine tree outside her window, until her aunt finally carried her out of the room, and she could see it no more.

“Downstairs,” Uncle John snapped out the order. His face was twisted into the same horrible mask of rage she had come to know all too well again . . . and he had a rifle.

Grandmother started down first, with Aunt Elsie following. Aunt Mattie set her down on her feet and took her by the hand. Together, they went down behind Aunt Elsie. Grandfather and Uncle John brought up the rear. Their faces . . . her grandparents, her aunts, and her uncle . . . were all hidden in the black shadows of the darkest early morning hours before dawn.

Uncle John herded them all to the downstairs parlor, like cattle bound for a slaughterhouse. Aunt Mattie led her over to the window, while the others gathered around the fireplace.

“One last chance,” Uncle John said in a voice, low and menacing, as he turned to face Grandfather and Grandmother.

“No,” Grandmother responded in a tone of voice stone cold.

“You can make her,” John said, turning now to his father. “If you tell her to, she’ll HAVE to do as you say. All YOU have to do is TELL her.”

“She’s . . . NOT done as I say, by and large,” Grandfather said sardonically, “but even if your mother was the kind of woman that . . . that false man o’ the cloth . . . that wolf in sheep’s clothing of yours calls a dutiful wife . . . I still would NOT tell her.”

“I’ll KILL you,” Uncle John vowed. “I’ll kill you and them, too. When I do, it’ll be mine anyway.”

“You’d shoot down three unarmed women and a child?!” Grandfather demanded, angry and outraged.

“I don’t WANT to, but I will if I must.”

“You cowardly yellow bellied son-of-a bitch!” Grandfather sneered, his voice filled with contempt and loathing. “Your mother and I disowned you when you threw in your lot with that damned devil in priest’s clothing, but now . . . NOW . . . I DENY you! From this time forward, my son is DEAD to me.”

Uncle John raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger. Grandmother and Aunt Elsie both screamed. Pain mixed with anger, fear, and astonishment. Grandfather took a step forward, then collapsed to the floor in an ungainly heap.

Aunt Elsie dropped to her knees and probed Grandfather’s neck for a pulse. When, at length, she lifted her head, her face was white as a sheet. “You . . . you killed him,” she accused, her eyes, her face filled with horror and revulsion. “You KILLED him.”

Grandmother buried her face in her hands and began to cry. Uncle John took aim at Grandmother, and fired. She gasped, then fell, landing on top of Grandfather’s body. As he turned his attention to Aunt Elsie, still on her knees beside Grandfather, Aunt Mattie turned and threw open the parlor window. She, then, whisked her up off the floor, and in a single, fluid motion set her down on the ground below the window.

“Run, Rose,” Aunt Mattie urged. “Run.”

Rose.

That was the other name.

She stood below the window, as if she had just taken root, and watched in stunned horror, as Uncle John fired his rifle again, hitting Aunt Mattie in the back.

Run, Rose.

Run.

Aunt Mattie’s words echoing through her brain galvanized her to action. She ran, blinded by sheer terror, with the deafening thunder of Uncle John’s footsteps pounding against the earth echoing in her ears, coming closer and closer . . . .

Then, all of a sudden, the Pine Tree she had seen from her window was there on the path in front of her. It gathered her up in its branches, and pulled her in close to its trunk. There, nestled within the tree’s strong branches, and deep within needles, surprisingly soft, she watched as her uncle tore down the road, never pausing, never looking back . . .
“PA!” Stacy cried out upon waking up to darkness more frightening than any she had ever faced in the terrible dreams that had tormented her in the ensuing years since that night. She struggled desperately to move, to sit up.

“YOU!”

The voice of the short, pudgy man, called Corporal by his cohorts, once again echoed in the ears of her inward hearing.

“YOU! Get your ass over there ‘n finish off the old man! Now!”

“No!” Stacy whimpered, her eyes stinging with tears. “No!”

“YOU!

. . . finish off the old man!

Now!

NOW!

. . . FINISH . . . OFF . . . the old man!”

“Oh, Pa . . . . ” she whimpered softly, her heart breaking. “Pa! It’s m-my fault . . . it’s . . . all . . . MY . . . fault!” Though Pa had said they were going to catch a whole big mess of trout for their supper, the real reason he had taken her out there was to give her an opportunity to spend the day outside. “I’m sorry, Pa . . . if . . . if only I hadn’t acted like such a baby about . . . about having to stay inside, you’d be . . . y-you’d still be . . . . ” Her words were lost in a fierce torrent of weeping.

A pair of thin arms, encased in tattered flannel gently circled her and held her close. Stacy buried her head on Claire’s shoulder and sobbed. Claire held her distraught cousin, rocking her gently, stroking her long hair tenderly, as a mother comforts a child upon waking from the horror of nightmare.

“C-Claire,” Stacy whispered, when at long last she was able to speak. “Please . . . you’ve got to let me go.”

Claire sadly shook her head.

“M-My pa! I’ve got to find out a-about my pa! Please— ” Stacy tried once again to rise.

Claire placed her hands against Stacy’s shoulders, wagging her head back and forth. The movement exposed Claire’s neck and the angry, red, jagged scar there.

“Daddy did that.” It was Erin. “Daddy did that when Claire was little because she was bad. Daddy told her and told her to stop crying, but Claire wouldn’t. Daddy did that to make her stop crying.”

Stacy would never be sure which appalled and horrified her more. The fact of a father inflicting so grievous wound on his elder daughter for so small an offense, or Erin’s deadpan recounting of the incident.

“P-please,” Stacy forced herself to speak, against the tide of overwhelming fear and revulsion. “You GOT to let me go! Pa . . . he’s hurt! H-He . . . he may be—,” she broke off abruptly, unable and unwilling to complete that dreadful thought. “Claire, you can come WITH me!” Stacy pressed. “You AND Erin! We can all go t-together.”

“No!” Erin vehemently shook her head. “I won’t leave Daddy, I won’t.”

“He’s a monster!” Stacy rounded furiously on her younger cousin. “Can’t you see that?! He’s a MONSTER!”

“No! He’s my daddy and I love him,” Erin declared stoutly, her facial features twisting with rage in a manner similar to her father.

“You want him to do to you what he’s done to Claire?” Stacy recklessly pressed, just short of adding, “ . . . and to your grandparents . . . and two of your aunts . . . and maybe even my pa!?!”

“He won’t do that to me. He won’t! I KNOW he won’t because . . . because I’M a good girl,” Erin murmured, looking very uncertain.

Claire gently touched Stacy’s cheek, and placed a finger to her lips. She rose, then turned and held out her hand to her younger sister.

Erin scampered across the room, and took firm hold of Claire’s hand. “Are you . . . are y-you going to put me to bed now?”

Claire nodded, then started for the door. Before she and Erin got half way across the room, the door opened, and their father entered, dragging their mother unceremoniously behind him. Claire noted the fresh bruise on her mother’s left cheek, her painfully stiff gait, the way she bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out.

“Claire, take your sister around to the other side of the bed,” John ordered in a stiff, wooden tone.

Claire nodded, then did as she had been told. Erin trotted along behind, clutching her sister’s hand so tightly, her knuckles had turned a bloodless white.

“Virginia, for the time being, YOU will join them.”

“Y-Yes, John,” Virginia murmured softly, then scurried around to the other side of the bed, her shoulders hunched and eyes fixed on the floor.

“Claire . . . Erin . . . your cousin, Stacy, was disobedient earlier,” John continued, focusing his entire attention upon his daughters. “Erin?”

“Y-Yes, Daddy?”

“What does the Holy Bible say about disobedience?”

“It s-says . . . if you spare the rod, you . . . you spoil the child,” Erin replied, gazing up at her father through eyes round with terror.

“That is correct, Erin,” John said in a lofty tone. “Claire?”

Claire slowly lifted her head and looked expectantly into her father’s face.

“My riding crop.”

Claire nodded slowly, feeling very sick at heart. She, then, turned heel and fled from the room, as fast as her legs could carry her, loath to leave her mother and sister behind to face her father alone.

For a time, John McKenna stood beside the bed his niece occupied, with back ramrod straight, and arms folded across his chest, staring down at Stacy, his eyes, the same bright blue as her own, filled with loathing and contempt, stirred within her memory of another night, not so far distant from the terrible night that had for so long plagued her dreams.
“Mattie?! MATTIE!”
She raised her head slowly, and standing in Uncle John’s place, saw Grandmother, every bit as real, and as vivid as she had been the day this particular incident had happened, towering high above her, with fists firmly planted on her thin, narrow hips, and the exact same look of disgust in her eyes.
“Mattie!” Grandmother sharply snapped out her aunt’s name. “Damn it, Mattie, you get your arse out here right now, this very instant.”

“Coming, Mam,” Aunt Mattie responded, harried and out of breath.

“How in the hell am I supposed t’ get supper ready ‘n on the table by the time your da gets home with this . . . this . . . CHILD . . . . ” Grandmother grimaced, as she might if she had just bitten into something with an incredibly foul taste, “ . . . CONSTANTLY under foot?!”

“I’m sorry, Mam . . . . ”

“Just . . . get that child OUT of my sight!”

“Aunt Mattie?”

“Yes, Rose?” Aunt Mattie responded, after she had taken her outside, well away from the house and out of sight of the big window in the kitchen.

“Why do they hate me?”

“Why does . . . who hate you, Child?”

“Grandmother . . . Grandfather . . . Aunt Elsie . . . they ALL hate me,” she replied, hurt and bewildered.

Aunt Mattie bowed her head. “No, Rose . . . they don’t hate YOU,” her aunt replied in a voice softer than a whisper, sounding as if she was going to break down and cry any moment.

“Yes, they do,” she insisted. “They DO! You’re the only one who DOESN’T! Grandmother hates me worst of all. I can see it in the mean way she always looks at me, and . . . and even when she’s NOT yelling at me . . . she IS. Aunt Mattie?”

“Yes. Rose?”

“Do they hate me because . . . because I made my mam go ‘way?”

Mattie closed her eyes and very slowly counted to ten through clenched teeth. Three times. “Rose,” she queried, giving her a strange, funny kind of look, “who told you that you made your momma go away?”

“No one’s ever said it to me in words, Aunt Mattie,” she said sadly. “But, one time, when I asked Grandmother where my mam ‘n da were? She said my mam’d gone away when I was a baby. But the way she looked at me . . . made me feel like it was all MY fault.”

“Your mam DID leave like Grandmother said, Child, but it wasn’t YOUR fault,” Mattie said very firmly.

“What about my DA? Did HE go ‘way, too?”

Mattie shook her head. “Your da doesn’t know about you, Rose. If he did, he’d be here like a shot, breaking down the door . . . and there’d be hell t’ pay, like as not.”

“There would?” she queried, her eyes shining with awe at the thought of such a happenstance.

“You BETCHA. Rose . . . . ”

“Yes, Aunt Mattie?”

“There’s something I want you to promise me . . . . ”

“What?”

“Please . . . PLEASE . . . promise me you won’t EVER believe the horrible things Grandfather, Grandmother, and Aunt Elsie say about your mam ‘n da,” Mattie said. Her aunt was mad. She saw it very clearly in her face and in her eyes most especially. But she wasn’t mad at HER. “Your mam left . . . NOT because she wanted to, but because she HAD to. She LOVED you, Child. She loved you so much . . . . ”

“Is she . . . did she die, Aunt Mattie?”

“I don’t know,” Mattie replied, shaking her head sadly. “It’s been nearly seven years. I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking for her.”

“Aunt Mattie?”

“Yes, Child?”

“Why doesn’t my da know about me?”

“Your mam . . . your mam never told him,” Mattie replied.

“Why didn’t she?”

“I don’t know, Rose,” Mattie said sadly. “I honest and truly DON’T know. You and your mam both would’ve been a lot better off if she had.”

“Will I know better why she didn’t tell my da about me . . . when I grow up?” she asked.

“To tell you the honest to goodness truth? I don’t know whether or not you WILL understand any better when you grow up,” Mattie replied. “I only hope and pray that someday . . . some . . . day . . . you’ll find it in your heart to forgive the BOTH of us . . . her AND me. . . for being the damn’ bloody cowards we are . . . . ”

“They knew . . . .” she silently realized, as revelation hit her like a hard blow to the stomach, and the reason behind her aunt’s sad, desperate plea to forgive her and her mother “for being the damn’, bloody cowards we are,” became clear. Grandmother . . . Grandfather . . . Aunt Elsie . . . Aunt Mattie . . . even Uncle John! They knew all the time Ben Cartwright was her father.

As a young child, living under her grandparents’ roof, their animosity and Aunt Elsie’s had left her feeling hurt and confused. But now, as the vision of her grandmother faded, Stacy felt rage. She embraced the fury rising up within her, drawing from it renewed strength and courage.

She lifted her head very slowly. “Why?” she growled.

John McKenna flinched away from the raw fury he heard in her voice and saw burning in her eyes with the bright, agonizing intensity of the sun. He instinctively raised his hands to his face, as if to ward off physical blows.

“You KNEW!” she accused. “You knew all along WHO my pa is . . . WHERE he lives! My grandparents . . . Aunt Elsie . . . and YOU! You’ve always hated me . . . you never wanted me . . . why didn’t you let me go live with my pa?!”

“You . . . you . . . miserable . . . little ingrate!” John growled in a low voice, barely audible. “My mother and father took you in . . . they fed you . . . they clothed you . . . they gave you a name . . . . ”

“They s-sent my mother away,” Stacy shot right back with angry tears streaming down her face. “They . . . they didn’t bother to tell Pa about me. They HATED me . . . they didn’t want me . . . yet they deliberately kept me away from the . . . from the two people in this world who . . . who loved me . . . would’ve loved me and c-cared for me the most. And for that I’M supposed to be GRATEFUL?!”

“Why you . . . you . . . insolent— ” John McKenna’s words were swallowed up in a snarl, more vicious wild animal than human. Balling his hand into a tight, rock hard fist, he smacked her across the face with all his strength and might.

Stacy cried out as her head struck the wall with a sickening thud. Somewhere, beyond the pain and the pulsating yellow spots that had nearly overwhelmed her field of vision, she heard a terrified child scream.

“Virginia,” John snapped. “You shut that brat up right now, or so help me . . . so . . . HELP . . . me . . . I’ll come over there and shut her up myself.”

“Yes, John . . . yes. I will. Right away, I will,” Virginia babbled, as she grabbed Erin by the arm and pushed the child’s face against her abdomen in a desperate attempt to, at the very least, muffle the sounds of the girl’s piteous weeping.

“Willful . . . defiant . . . proud . . . and stiff necked . . . just like your mother,” John muttered softly, as he glared down at Stacy with undisguised revulsion and contempt. “But, you’ll learn. As God is my witness, you’ll learn obedience . . . just as my daughters have learned.”

“If I were free . . . . ” Stacy said slowly, her senses still reeling from the hard blow to her head, “ . . .I’d KILL you for the horrible things you’ve said about my mother . . . my father . . . and me.”

John leaned over, seized her by the lapels of her shirt and pulled her close to his face. His eyes bore into hers with malignant hatred. The raw fury with which she returned his gaze shocked and astonished him. His fingers went limp and she fell back down onto the bed, like a limp sack of potatoes. John backed away staring down at his trembling hands as if they had suddenly turned into things, alien and grotesque.

On the other side of the bed, Virginia watched her husband through eyes round with horror, her entire body trembling. Her arms around Erin tightened. Thankfully, the child had finally stopped crying.

The thought of having to watch John do to Erin what he had done to Claire so long ago . . . .

She couldn’t bear it. She just plain and simply couldn’t bear it.

A moment passed. For Virginia, as she stood desperately clutching her youngest daughter, that moment, that bare space between one heartbeat and the next, lengthened and stretched to a near unbearable eternity, in the face of the mind numbing terror, hopeless despair, and the helplessness that had possessed her for so terribly long. John McKenna abruptly straightened, and pivoted, turning his back to his wife and younger daughter. The awkward, jerking movements of his body drew a soft cry of alarm from Virginia.

Claire entered the room clutching her father’s riding crop tight in both hands. She froze the instant her eyes fell upon her father, with his head bowed, his eyes closed. His entire body shook like a leaf, and he kept drawing one labored, ragged breath after another in rapid succession. On the other side of the bed, her mother slowly turned away. She released the near strangle hold she had on Erin, and buried her face in her hands.

John took one more ragged breath, then straightened. When he lifted his head and opened his eyes, every sign of the intense distress he had just suffered had completely evaporated in an instant. He, then, turned to Claire, as she hesitantly approached, holding out his riding crop before her. He wordlessly held out his own hand, open with palm facing upward.

Claire’s heart went out to her cousin as she reluctantly offered her father the riding crop. She wished with all that was within her that she could find some way to spare Cousin Stacy from her father’s frightful wrath, soon to be unleashed, all the while knowing deep down inside that such was in vain.

“Preferable . . . far more preferable . . . you, and any other child for that matter, be raised in a household filled with a proper and righteous fear of God, and a bitter hatred to all that is evil,” John began to lecture, his voice a stiff, wooden monotone. “My parents’ house fell very short of being such a household in many ways, but you were a lot better off with them than with a mother and a father who thought of nothing but their own insatiable lusts. Now that you are a member of MY household, Rose Miranda McKenna— ”

“My name is CARTWRIGHT!” Stacy rudely cut him off.

John gritted his teeth and slapped her across the back with his riding crop, eliciting a cry of pain, outrage, and surprise.

“In the future, Rose . . . Miranda . . . MCKENNA . . . you will ONLY speak when I give you permission,” he said, his words, his syllables terse and clipped, “otherwise you will remain silent.”
“You are among your own now, Young Lady . . . . ”
Another voice . . . another memory.
“ . . . from this time forward you WILL answer to the NAME given you by your own . . . not to one given you by . . . by . . . . ” the man wrinkled his nose in disgust, “by a band of HEATHEN Paiutes.”
. . . and with those words, one Major Stephen Baldwin, the commander of Fort Charlotte, stole from her the name given her by her beloved foster mother, Silver Moon, and foisted upon her a name, not hers, as it turned out, but the one belonging to a mean, bitter woman, who hated her guts.

She’d be damned first before she allowed the cowardly bully strutting before her playing soldier, steal from her the name hers not only legally, but by right of birth as well.

“My . . . name . . . . ” she said, “is CARTWRIGHT.”

“Your name is Rose . . . Miranda . . . McKenna,” John returned, raising the arm clutching the riding crop once again.

With her balled fist pressed tightly in her mouth, Virginia pressed her face into the corner tight as she could. Erin had left her mother and gone to stand next to her older sister. With arms wrapped tight about Claire’s waist, she had turned and buried her face against the comforting warmth of her sister’s breast. Claire watched her father and cousin, as she held her frightened younger sister close, through eye round with horrified morbid fascination and awe.

“I am a devout man of God,” John said, his body trembling once more. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and drew a deep, ragged breath. “I . . . am . . . a DEVOUT man of God,” he said again, “grateful that he saw fit to spare MY life through the terrible ravages of war, when he didn’t see fit to spare so many others.

“In church, at the feet of Parson Meriwether Lewis, a holy and righteous man of God, and in my own reading of the Holy Scriptures, I have learned that the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom,” John continued. He began to pace, slowly at first, his limp agonizingly pronounced, slapping the riding crop hard against the open palm of his left hand, in cadence with his words. “I FEAR God. I FEAR his wrath. I FEAR his chastening rod. I FEAR his judgment soon to come. I, in turn, have diligently instructed my wife and daughters by example, by reading to them from God’s Holy Word, AND by the chastening rod . . . .

“ . . . and I shall instruct YOU, misbegotten Daughter of Sin and Iniquity . . . the same way.” He slapped his riding crop against the open palm of his hand for emphasis, in cadence with his words. “Now WHAT is your name?”

“Cartwright,” Stacy replied, her voice barely above the decibel of a whisper.

“ ‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.’ ”

“Pa?” Stacy softly whispered, upon hearing his voice, deep and calm as the waters of Lake Tahoe in her most serene mood, speaking from somewhere in the darkness surrounding her.

Her eyes suddenly snapped wide open.

She found herself at home . . . lying on the settee, toasty warm before a cozy fire in the fireplace. Pa sat in his favorite chair, the red one next to the fireplace, with his sacred book lying open in his hands, reading aloud one of his favorite passages:

“ ‘God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore, we will NOT fear . . . though the earth be removed, and though the mountains be carried into the midst of the sea . . . . [11]’ ”

Seeing that she was awake, he smiled.

“I . . . think it’s time YOU were in bed, Sleepy Head. You g’won up, wash your face, and get into your night shirt,” Pa said. “I’ll be up directly to tuck ya in.”

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?”

“Before I go up . . . can I ask you a question?”

“Alright . . . . ” He closed his sacred book, and looked over at her, giving her his complete, undivided attention.

“Pa . . . YOU trust God . . . don’t you?”

“Yes . . . I’ve come to know I can trust God in a lot of things, but I’m still learning,” Pa replied.

“What do you mean you’re still learning?”

“For me, trusting God hasn’t been something that’s happened suddenly . . . overnight,” Pa patiently explained. “As a boy, I learned to trust God first in the small things and as I grew up, I learned that I could trust him in the bigger, more important things in my life . . . and that I could trust him to see me through the hard times in my life. But, the lessons in learning to trust aren’t over for me yet . . . and probably won’t be over until the day I finally draw my last breath.”

“ . . . and THAT won’t be for a very, very, VERY long time yet,” she said firmly, punctuating her words with an emphatic nod of her head.

“No. That WON’T be for a very, very, VERY long time yet,” Pa promised. “Time for you to g’won up to bed, Li’l Gal . . . . ”

“Can I ask you one more question? Please? It’s . . . it’s kinda important, Pa.”

“All right,” Pa agreed. “One more question, then it’s upstairs. Understood?”

“Yes, Sir. Understood.”

“What’s your question?”

“Can you trust someone if you’re afraid of ‘em?”

“It would be very difficult, I think . . . . ” Pa said slowly.

“Why?”

“Because trust walks hand in hand with love, and most people tend to hate the things and the people they fear.”

She fell silent, as she mulled over her father’s words.

“Stacy?”

“Yes, Pa?”

“You’ve asked me a couple of real serious questions tonight,” Pa said. “You mind me asking what prompted them?”

“When I went over to Molly’s after school, I . . . I didn’t eavesdrop, but I still kinda overheard Mrs. O’Hanlan . . . Molly’s mother . . . talking to Reverend Hildebrandt about fearing God,” she explained with a troubled frown, “and I wondered how somebody could trust God if they were afraid of him.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to fear God in the sense of being afraid,” Pa said.

“Then why does your sacred book say you have to fear God?”

“That sacred book is actually made up of many sacred books, written many, many centuries ago in languages different from ours,” Pa patiently explained. “The word in one of those other languages CAN mean to be afraid, but it also means to respect, to have reverence for, or to be in awe of.”

“What’s awe?”

Pa smiled. “Do you remember the way you felt inside the very first time I took you out to see the view at Ponderosa Plunge?”

“Yeah.” She found herself smiling at the memory. “I’ll never forget it.”

“That’s what being in awe of something . . . or someONE . . . feels like.”

“ . . . and THAT’S how we’re supposed to feel about God?”

“Yes . . . in my humble opinion, of course.”

“Well YOUR humble opinion makes a lot more sense than what Reverend Hildebrandt and Mrs. O’Hanlan said. I . . . I think maybe I could learn to trust somebody who could make me feel like I did the first time you took me out to Ponderosa Plunge.”

“You feel a little bit better about things?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. It’s time to go, Li’l Gal . . . . ”

“Go?” she queried, feeling frightened and very sad all of a sudden. “Go where?”

“Time to wake up,” Pa said.

Wake up? Didn’t Pa just get through telling her it was time for her to go to bed?

Wake up . . . .

Daddy?

“Daddy . . . . ”

It was Erin. What was Erin doing here, at the Ponderosa?

“Daddy . . . . ” Erin ventured, hesitant and uncertain, “I . . . I think C-Cousin Stacy’s waking up now . . . . ”

“You are every bit as willful . . . and stubborn . . . as your mother.” The sounds of John McKenna’s voice, calm yet very stern, forced Stacy back to grim reality. He walked back and forth alongside the bed, his steps slow and measured.

Virginia remained in the corner farthest from the door, on her knees, sobbing very softly, with her face buried in her hands. Claire knelt beside her mother, with one hand on her shoulder, the other stroking Virginia’s hair, keeping a wary, yet close watch on Erin, who stood next to the bed upon which Stacy lay.

“Erin,” John snapped.

“Yes, Daddy?” the child queried, her voice barely audible. She held her hands clasped tightly together, with fingers interlacing, to hide their trembling near the center of her chest.

“Tell your cousin, Rose . . . Miranda . . . MCKENNA . . . what God does to those he loves,” John ordered.

“He chastens them,” Erin replied. “God . . . chastens . . . the ones he loves. It says so in the Holy Scriptures.”

“That is correct,” John said. “HOW does God chasten those he loves?”

“With a rod, Daddy.”

“And?” John prompted.

“With a rod and . . . and with his mighty hand.”

“That is correct, Erin,” John intoned. “As God chastens those HE loves . . . so I chasten those I love. GOD spares not the rod; neither do I spare the rod. As I fear God, my wife and my daughters have learned to fear ME. For the FEAR of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.

“Can you trust someone if you’re afraid of ‘em?”

“It would be very difficult, I think . . . .”

“Oh, Pa . . . . ” she inwardly groaned. “I wish YOU were here with me now . . . and not just your words . . . . ”

“My daughters . . . .” John continued, “BOTH of them . . . were conceived in fear of God, and born in the hatred of all that is of the sinful flesh.”

Stacy closed her eyes, feeling sick with revulsion for her uncle and pity for her aunt and cousins. “How?” Her demand was more an accusation than an inquiry. “How can you possibly love God and trust him . . . when you hate him so much?”

With a deep guttural snarl, John lashed out with all his might, this time striking Stacy’s bound legs with his riding crop. “LIAR!” he shouted.

“NO!” Stacy shouted back, repulsed now by the very sight of her uncle, and far too consumed with rage to care about the consequences. “IT’S THE TRUTH! YOU HATE GOD . . . YOU HATE AUNT VIRGINIA . . . YOU HATE CLAIRE AND ERIN— ”

“RECANT!” John howled, his face beet red. “RECANT NOW . . . OR BE DAMNED FOR ALL ETERNITY, DAUGHTER OF SIN AND INIQUITY . . . OF . . . OF SODOM AND GOMORRAH,”

“NO! I WON’T TAKE IT BACK! I WON’T, I WON’T, I WON’T!” Stacy yelled back. “BECAUSE IT’S THE TRUTH!”

John gazed down at Stacy, too shocked, too stunned to move or even speak. His entire body was tensed, like a cat ready to spring on its cornered, helpless prey. “On your knees, Girl,” he murmured in a low, menacing tone.

“NO!”

John, his entire body trembling, seized hold of Stacy’s forearm, and dragged her off of the bed with terrifying ease, dumping her unceremoniously onto the floor. “I SAID . . . on . . . your . . . KNEES,” he murmured in a low, menacing tone. Irregularly shaped patches of bright, angry red appeared on his neck, his cheeks, and his forehead.

Stacy remained when she had fallen, making no attempt to move.

“ON YOUR KNEES, DAMN YOU!” John screamed, as he grabbed the back of her collar and dragged her up off the floor.

“NO.”

John kicked her feet out from under her, forcing her down onto her knees.

“Now you are going to pray,” John said. “You are going to pray and ask God’s forgiveness for your willful disobedience. Then you will beg MY forgiveness . . . on your knees . . . for the vile, filthy aspersions you’ve cast upon ME.”

“Go to hell!” Stacy spat.

John raised his arm, with tightly clenched fist as if about to strike her. He stood, ominously still, wavering, before abruptly turning heel and storming out the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Oh no . . . no, no, no, please! I c-can’t bear it!” Virginia wept in earnest. “Dear God, no, no, please . . . I . . . I just c-can’t bear it . . . not again . . . . ”

“STUBBORN . . . WILLFUL . . . DAUGHTER OF . . . OF . . . OF SIN AND . . . AND . . . AND DAUGHTER OF EVE!” Erin yelled in a sudden burst of rage. With tears streaming down her face, she balled her small hands into a pair of tiny rock hard fist and fell upon her bound, helpless cousin, pummeling her back over and over. “WHY?” Erin screamed, on the edge of hysteria. “WHY? WHY DO YOU MAKE MOTHER CRY? AND WHY DO YOU MAKE DADDY SO MAD?”

With heart in mouth, Claire immediately leapt to her feet and tore across the room. She seized hold of Erin’s wrists, gently yet very firmly, and turned the younger girl around. Looking directly into her sister’s eyes and face, she earnestly, passionately mouthed, “No,” over and over, frantically wagging her head back and forth.

“I HATE him!” Stacy gave reply to Erin’s questions, her voice filled with raw fury and deep, nearly overwhelming sadness. “He’s a monster, a . . . a no good yellow-bellied cowardly bully who . . . who beats up on . . . on women and children who can’t fight back.”

“NO!” Erin yelled, her fury rising to equal her cousin’s.

“HE IS!” Stacy yelled back, with hot, angry tears scalding her cheeks. “HE
IS! HE TOOK MY PA AWAY FROM ME AND NOW HE WANTS TO STEAL MY PA’S NAME! I WON’T LET HIM DO IT, YOU HEAR ME? I WON’T, I WON’T, I WON’T!”

“LIAR!” Erin shrieked. “LIAR, LIAR, LAIR—!” Her words ended abruptly in a startled, outraged gasp, when Claire, in desperation, struck the child’s cheek, hoping against hope to end her sister’s rising hysteria, lest it anger their father more.

Erin stared over at Claire for a moment, then collapsed into her sister’s outstretched arms weeping.

As she gave comfort to her angry, frightened younger sister, Claire stole an occasional glace at Stacy, who had rolled over on her side, turning her back to them all.

No one had ever stood up to her father the way Stacy had, no one. Not the men who had served under him during the war and continued to serve him to this day, not her mother, and certainly not her sister, Erin, or herself. Though Claire was able to summon the strength, the wherewithal to offer what poor measure of comfort she could to her mother and sister, she knew, to her great shame, that whenever her father would order her to fetch his riding crop, she would always do so no matter how sick at heart it left her.

“Stubborn . . . willful . . . . ”

The words uttered by her father and sister echoed again in her ears of her silent hearing.

Stubborn.

Willful.

Yes . . . Cousin Stacy was all of that, but those things alone wouldn’t have given her the strength of spirit needed to stand up to her father the way she had. What made Stacy so different, so strong, that she refused to back down no matter how savagely her father beat her?

As her mother’s and Erin’s intense, piteous weeping lessened, and finally gave way to silence, Claire gave thought to freeing Stacy and fleeing with her to the Ponderosa for sanctuary, bringing her mother and sister along as well. Yet, even as she considered this possibility, Claire knew deep within her own heart that her mother and sister would never, not in a million years, ever agree to leave husband and father.

Go to the Ponderosa with Cousin Stacy . . . alone?

“I . . . I can’t,” Claire silently realized. Her mother’s spirit was shattered, had been since the day she stood by watching, wringing her hands, and weeping helplessly while her father inflicted the wound that forever robbed her of speech. Now all her mother could do in the face of her father’s wrath was turn her face to the wall and weep. She didn’t have the wherewithal to protect her daughters. Claire couldn’t help but wonder if her mother ever did.

“No,” she silently mouthed the word, while slowly shaking her head back and forth. Despite what she perceived as her own cowardice, she was still the only one able to offer any kind of comfort to Erin, and her mother, too.

“But somehow . . . I’ve GOT to find a way to help Cousin Stacy,” Claire silently, desperately ruminated. If her cousin didn’t get away soon, her father was going to end up killing her. Claire knew that as surely as she knew night followed day.

The sound of horses, on the narrow dirt road just below the window in Stacy’s room, drew Claire from her troubled thoughts. She kissed Erin’s forehead, then rose.

“Are y-you . . . are you gonna p-put me to bed now?” Erin asked as Claire held out her hands.

Claire nodded.

“No,” Erin whimpered. “Please . . . DON’T take me down there,” she begged. “Please?”

Claire nodded, feeling a small measure of relief, knowing that she and Erin would have to pass by the large room in which their father slept in order to reach their own. She pointed to the corner, where their mother yet remained, on her knees, oblivious to all except her own misery.

Erin nodded, then rose, and yawning, slipped her small hand into Claire’s slightly larger one.

Claire took Erin over next to their mother and settled the child on the floor as best she could, then silently crossed the room to the window, and cautiously glanced out.

In the narrow alley below, a woman, tall and thin like her father, emerged from the deep shadow and boldly walked up to the door. The man standing watch at the front door immediately snapped to attention. Claire recognized him as man who had served as the drummer boy in her father’s unit during the war.

 

Jed Matthews watched the woman stagger up the walk toward the house in which Captain McKenna and his family had taken up residence with increasing dismay. He had been assigned to stand watch while his brother, David, ran an important errand for the captain. “ . . . uhhh, Ma’am?” he finally queried, when she had come half way up the dirt path, leading from the alley to the front door. “Ma’am . . . please? Stop right there.”

The woman, dressed in a wrinkled navy blue skirt, with matching jacket and white blouse, advanced three more steps, bringing her less than a yard from the spot where the sentry stood. There, she straightened her posture and glared over at the young man. “ . . . ‘n just who the hell are YOU?” she demanded imperiously, slurring her words. The reek of cheap whiskey was enough to knock a man over.

“I . . . I, um WORK for the man, who . . . who lives here,” Jed stammered. “Is there anything I can, uhh . . . do to, um help you?”

“Man?!” she echoed, indignant and outraged. “What man? I’ll have YOU know, Young Man, that THIS is m’ SISTER’S house.”

“No, Ma’am, no! You’ve . . . y-you’ve . . . Ma’am, I’m afraid you’ve, umm, made a mistake,” Jed stammered. “This IS my employer’s home— ”

“It’s my sister’s house!” the woman insisted. “ ‘N I’ll thank ya kin’ly very much t’ move yourself along. Ain’t seemly for a man, ‘specially a young man like yourself, t’ be parked outside the house of a widow lady, livin’ all by herself.”

Jed moved away from the door. “Ma’am, this IS my employer’s house,” he said again. “There’s no widowed woman living here . . . in fact, before my employer and his family moved in— ” His words abruptly ended with a soft, startled gasp upon feeling the barrel of a gun shoved up hard against the small of his back.

“Don’t move,” a deep, sonorous voice growled very softly in his ear.

Jed felt the blood drain right out of his face. “Y-Yes, Sir,” he whispered.

“Hand me your rifle, Boy! Nice ‘n slow! REAL slow!” Ben Cartwright ordered, keeping himself behind the young man, and well under the cover of the deep shadows cast by a moon overhead, a few days past full.

Jed swallowed nervously as he reluctantly passed his rifle to the man standing behind him.

“Eyes front!” Ben snapped. He snatched the rifle out of the young man’s hand, then ordered him to remove his gun belt.

“Wh-Who are you?” Jed ventured with healthy fear and trepidation, as he reluctantly set himself to the task of unbuckling his gun belt. “If y-you . . . if you m-mean to rob me, my . . . my billfold’s in my right pants pocket . . . b-but you won’t find much . . . . ”

“I have NO intention of robbing you, Boy,” Ben said, sotto voce. “You just keep your mouth shut and do as I tell ya . . . no one’ll get hurt.”

Jed nodded.

“Ben, we’d better tie him up and gag him.” It was the woman who had claimed that the hovel, barely standing behind him, belonged to her sister. Though she still reeked of cheap, rotgut whiskey, she seemed to have sobered up very quickly.

“You got the rope?”

“Right here.”

Ben took the coil of rope she clutched in both hands, then slipped the young man’s revolver out of its holster. “Here,” he said curtly, as he handed Paris the weapon. “Keep it on him,” he ordered. “If this young man so much as bats an eyelash without me telling him he can . . . USE it.”

“You’ll get no argument from me,” she said with a mirthless smile that set the hairs on the back of Jed’s neck standing on end.

“Ben . . . Ben . . . . ” Jed silently turned the man’s name over and over, wincing as he felt his arms being pulled behind his back, and tightly secured at the wrists. The only Ben he knew of— “Oh my—!! Could it be?!” All of a sudden, he felt very lightheaded and sick to his stomach. His stance wavered.

“Sit down, Boy,” Ben ordered.

Jed collapsed to the ground with a hard, dull thud, as his quivering legs gave out from under him.

“Paris, you have a handkerchief?”

“Yes . . . . ”

“Gag him!” Ben said tersely. “We can’t take a chance on him crying out and alerting John to our presence.”

“Paris! The captain’s sister!” Jed realized, nearly gagging when Paris stuffed her balled handkerchief into his mouth.

Ben finished tying Jed ankles, then removed the bandanna from around his neck. “Here! Tie this around his mouth so he can’t spit out your handkerchief.”

Paris quickly did as she had been told, then stepped back, making sure she kept to the darkest shadows, while Ben dragged the bound and gagged sentry out of sight.

“Cousin Stacy’s mother and father! They HAVE to be!” Claire suddenly, silently realized, as she watched the big silver haired man drag her father’s guard around the side of the house, presumably out of the sight of anyone on the street. She waited, with heart in mouth, until he emerged once again from the shadows, and started toward the front door with the woman following close behind.

She turned and stole a quick glance at her mother and sister. Virginia sat in the corner, with her arms clasped tight about her knees and face to the wall, rocking slowly back and forth, whimpering very softly. Erin slept fitfully beside their mother, curled up in a tight little ball. Claire left the window, and ran noiselessly across the room to the door. She opened it cautiously, and peered into the darkened hallway. The coast appeared to be clear in both directions. Breathing a silent sigh of relief, she stepped from the room and made her way down the stairs to the front door.

Claire met Ben and Paris on the front stoop of the house. She placed her finger to her lips, and motioned for them to follow. Ben and Paris exchanged glances. He nodded, knowing instinctively that he could trust the slight, otherworldly being, clad in tattered white flannel, standing before him.

Claire silently led Ben and Paris up the stairs, and down the hall to the last door on the right. She took hold of the doorknob and paused, long enough to turn and place her first finger to her lips. Ben and Paris both nodded. Claire opened the door just enough to allow them entry, then took up position just inside the room.

Ben and Paris silently entered and crossed the room to the cot where Stacy lay, bound hand and foot, sleeping fitfully.

“Dear God!” Paris moaned very softly, upon catching sight of Stacy’s bruised and battered face.

“So help me, if I get the chance, I’ll kill him for that,” Ben muttered, seething.

“Not if I get the chance first,” Paris vowed.

Ben carefully sat down on the bed beside his sleeping daughter. “Stacy?!” he whispered, nudging her gently.

Stacy opened her eyes and turned. For a long moment, she simply lay there, unmoving, with her eyes glued fast to his face. She was almost afraid to believe he was real, even as she in silent desperation hoped and prayed he was. “P-Pa?!” she finally whispered.

Ben quickly put his finger to his lips, warning her to keep her voice down.

“Pa, please? Please . . . DON’T be a dream,” she begged tearfully, as Ben helped her to sit up.

“Shh,” Ben whispered back. He started to untie the ropes binding her wrists, while Paris worked to free her ankles.

“Claire?” It was Virginia. “Claire, who—?!”

With sinking heart, Claire left her place at the door and scampered across the room to her mother, still seated on the floor, huddled against the wall. She cast a quick glance at her sister, noting with a measure of relief that the child still slept.

“Claire,” Virginia pressed, blithely ignoring her oldest daughter’s frantic gestures to keep silence, “there’s someone in this room.”

Claire interposed herself as best she could in the line of sight between her mother and the cot in the middle of the room, where Cousin Stacy’s mother and father worked as fast as they could to untie her. She pointed to herself first, her mother next, and last to Erin, curled up on the floor. “And Cousin Stacy,” she mouthed.

Ben and Paris, meanwhile, helped Stacy to her feet. As she rose, Stacy’s eyes fell on Claire, kneeling before her mother, huddled in the corner farthest from the door. A sudden jolt of realization crashed upon her like a falling brick wall. “Pa,” she whispered frantically, “Claire!”

“Is that Claire?” Paris asked very quietly, inclining her head in the direction of the girl who had led him and Paris to Stacy. She was on her knees, facing the corner on the other side of the room.

Stacy nodded. “We HAVE to take Claire with us. If . . . if he finds out she . . . that she . . . Pa, he’ll KILL her!”

“Stacy, listen to me!” Ben said tersely, his voice a hoarse whisper, filled with urgency. “Right now, WE . . . you, me, and Miss Paris . . . have to get out of here. We’ll come back for Claire, I promise.”

“Who are you?” A young child’s voice, filled with astonishment and outrage, demanded.

“Erin, run quick! Get your daddy!” Virginia ordered.

The child was on her feet in an instant, bolting for the door as fast as her small, thin legs could carry her. Claire rose and set off after her sister on an intercept course. Erin was out of the room and tearing down the hallway beyond, calling for her father at the top of her voice. Claire stamped her foot and banged her balled fist against the wall, angry and frustrated for having missed catching Erin by less than a second. Recovering herself from that sudden burst of temper, she ran over to Cousin Stacy and her parents, frantically motioning for them to hurry.

“Claire, you HAVE to come with us!” Stacy begged.

Claire held up her hands and shook her head vigorously.

“Claire, please!” Stacy implored, genuinely fearful for her silent cousin’s well being. “You KNOW what he’ll do to you, if— ”

Claire emphatically shook her head.

“Please!” Stacy begged, on the verge of tears.

“All of you, stay RIGHT where you are,” a masculine voice ordered imperiously.

Four heads turned slowly, in unison. John McKenna, clad in a brocade dressing gown and matching silk pajamas, stood in the hallway, armed with a rifle aimed squarely at Ben’s head. Erin stood on his right, with a grim, angry look on her face, and arms folded tight across her chest. Jed Matthews stood on John’s left, leveling a murderous scowl at Ben and Paris, while rubbing his wrists. David stood behind his older brother, equally grim faced, cradling his rifle in the crook of his arm. Alexander Deveraux, dressed in street clothes, hastily donned, stood beside his captain, on the right, with a revolver clutched tight in his hand. “Corporal . . . . ”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Have Lieutenant Hilliard and Private Yates arrived yet?”

“No, Sir. Not yet.”

“Private Matthews,” John said curtly, turning to face the elder of the two brothers, “you will go back down stairs and wait for them. When they arrive, escort both of them up here to THIS room.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Corporal, YOU will round up the other men and bring them up here AT ONCE,” John continued.

“Yes, Sir.” Alexander turned heel and roughly pushed his way past the Matthews brothers. His footsteps were heard less than a moment later thundering down the rickety stairs to the first floor.

“Captain?”

John turned and regarded Private Jed Matthews with his left eyebrow slightly upraised. “Question, Private?”

“Sir, I was derelict in my duty just now,” Jed confessed solemnly, with head bowed, and eyes fixed on the floor at his captain’s feet. “My dereliction made it possible for Mister Cartwright and Miss McKenna to gain entry. I hereby submit myself for disciplinary action.”

“Private, the events that resulted in Mister Cartwright and my sister gaining entry to this house were the Hand of Providence,” John said. “I can not, in all good conscience, nor WILL I discipline you for something that was ultimately beyond your ability to control. You may return to your post.”

“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”

John, then, turned to David Matthews. “You will remain with me, Private. There is much for you to learn tonight, not all of it pleasant. I strongly urge you to pay very close attention.”

“I will, Sir,” David promised.

“The rest of you . . . back into my guest room,” John ordered, turning now to Paris, Ben, and Stacy. “I know the hour is quite late for an impromptu visit, but I simply won’t hear of you leaving so soon after you’ve arrived.” His lips twisted upward to form a malevolent, sardonic grin. “If you both’d had the good manners to WAIT for an invitation, I would have had better a better welcome prepared for you, but . . . this will more than suffice.”

Ben and Paris backed into the room, keeping Stacy sandwiched protectively between them.

“Claire, go stand over there . . . next to your mother,” John ordered. “I’ll deal with the both of YOU later.”

Claire nodded, then ran to her mother, who yet remained on her knees, her face pressed into the corner. She knelt down and placed her arm firmly about Virginia’s shoulders.

“John . . . what the hell’s this all about?” Paris angrily, imperiously demanded, keeping back none of the animosity she felt toward her brother.

“You and Mister Cartwright have arrived just in time to join in the celebration of a great victory, one a very long time in coming,” John replied.

“Victory celebration?” Ben echoed with a puzzled frown.

“Yes, Mister Cartwright, a victory celebration,” John affirmed. “The riches for which I’ve labored for long and hard, over the course of the past ten years, are finally within my grasp. I sorely regret that my jubilation will be a bittersweet one, however . . . . ”

“Keep him talking!” the inner voice of Ben’s intuition, respectfully referred to as his mother’s voice, screamed loud and clear. “Why, John?” he asked warily, laboring to keep his tone calm and even. “Why will this great victory celebration of yours be a bittersweet one?”

“I have recently discovered that I am surrounded on all sides by those who would betray me,” John seemed only too happy to explain.

“Are you referring to ME, John?” Paris demanded, her voice filled with rancor.

“No, Paris,” John replied in a lofty condescending tone that set his older sister’s teeth on edge. “I have ALWAYS known you to be my adversary. You’ve never pretended to be anything else.”

“Then WHO?” Ben pressed, as he, Stacy, and Paris came to a stop in the center of the room.

“Private Matthews,” John snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.

“Yes, Sir?” David immediately responded.

“Where does your loyalty lie?” John asked.

“My loyalty first, foremost, and above all, Sir, is to my Lord and my God,” David replied, his tone crisp and businesslike, yet speaking as a schoolboy reciting lessons learned by rote for a tyrannical, exacting teacher. “My second loyalty is to my captain, and my third to the men serving with me.”

“You speak rightly, Private Matthews,” John praised the young man. “As I just told my sister, I have recently discovered that I am surrounded by those who seek to betray me, while vowing their undying loyalty with lying, false hearts and deceitful lips.” He cast a baleful glare over in the direction of the corner, where Virginia and Claire huddled together. “There is ALSO the matter redressing a grievous wrong done to my sister, Paris.”

“WHAT grievous wrong done to me?” Paris demanded.

“Come now, Paris . . . surely you of all people have not forgotten,” John sardonically returned, then sighed. “Sixteen years ago . . . almost SEVENteen, Ben Cartwright seduced you . . . leaving you a defiled harlot. Worse . . . he left you with child.” He looked over at Stacy and grimaced once again.

Paris laughed derisively, without mirth. “I don’t know WHERE in the hell you came by your information, but to set the record STRAIGHT, John . . . then AND now, Ben Cartwright conducted himself like a true gentleman. He did NOT . . . I repeat he DID NOT seduce or in any way force himself on me sixteen going on seventeen years ago. If anything, I was the one who seduced HIM.”

John recoiled. “You brazen WHORE! Have you no shame?! No shame at ALL?”

“John, that’s ENOUGH!” Ben growled. He moved in front of Paris and Stacy, then took a step in John’s direction. “If you think for one minute I’m going to simply stand here and allow you to say such things about my daughter’s mother— ”

“You stop RIGHT where you are, Mister Cartwright . . . or so help me . . . so HELP me . . . I’ll kill you right where you stand,” John vowed, caressing the trigger of his rifle for emphasis.

Frightened, Stacy grabbed hold of Ben’s arm. “Pa, no! Please!” she begged.

John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, ragged breath. He had almost lost control just now . . . he mustn’t again, lest he end up snatching the bitter dregs of defeat right out of the jaws of sweet victory. A knock on the doorjamb drew John McKenna away from his troubled thoughts and deep passions that stood poised to inundate and overwhelm him. He took another deep breath, then straightened his posture.

“Yes?” John responded in a crisp, business like tone, his facial features schooled into a stoic mask of outward calm. “Who is it?”

“Sergeant Alexander Deveraux, Sir, and the men of the “56th Battalion, State of New York, reporting as ordered.”

“It seems CORPORAL Deveraux was recently promoted,” Ben wryly observed in a low voice.

“Enter,” John snapped.

The door opened. Alexander Deveraux stepped into the room first, then stood aside allowing a dozen armed men enter and take up position on the outer periphery of those already assembled, effectively surrounding them.

Jim-Boy Tuttle seized hold of Virginia McKenna’s forearm and hauled her and hauled her roughly to her feet. “Over there,” he grunted, pushing her over toward the bed where Stacy had not long ago lain bound and gagged. He nudged Claire in the same direction with the barrel of his rifle, then took his place in the corner.

“Sergeant Deveraux, have Lieutenant Hilliard and Private Yates arrived?” John asked, frowning. They were nine minutes late.

“No, Sir,” Alexander replied. “Private Jed Matthews remains downstairs waiting for them, as ordered.”

John nodded, satisfied. “Close the door,” he ordered.

Alexander nodded, then obeyed.

“I will have to deal with Lieutenant Hilliard later, and Private Yates also should THAT prove necessary,” John growled. “Erin.”

The child ran from her place at the door to her father’s side, as fast as her small legs could carry her. “Yes, Daddy?” she responded eagerly.

“Tell our guests . . . and your mother and sister as well . . . what the Holy Scriptures have to say about the wages of sin.”

Horrified, Virginia sank down onto the bed, as the muscle and sinew in her legs turned to jelly, unable to support her, and buried her face in the meager shelter of her hands, while Erin squeezed her eyes shut, and struggled to remember. Claire unconsciously placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder, her eyes darting back and forth between her father and sister, desperately seeking an opportunity to mouth the answer to Erin, without their father seeing.

“Erin . . . . ” John prompted through clenched teeth, in a voice low and menacing.

“DEATH, DADDY!” Erin shouted, suddenly remembering to her older sister’s profound relief. She took a deep, ragged breath, as she fought hard to regain some small measure of composure. “It’s death. The wages of sin is death.”

“Very good, Erin. You may go and join your sister for the time being.”

“Yes, Daddy,” she murmured softly.

“Out of the mouths of little children shall come forth pearls of wisdom,” John loftily intoned, as his youngest daughter serenely trotted across the room and took her place beside Claire. “The wages of sin are indeed death.” He then turned and looked Ben straight in the eye. “Mister Cartwright.” A nasty smile slowly eased its way across his lips. “For the monstrous crimes, committed against my sister, I sentence the FRUIT of your unholy union to death.” He paused. The smile on his face broadened. “Now . . . if you and my sister would be so kind as to move away from your daughter . . . . ”

“JOHN, FOR GOD’S SAKE— ” Paris cried out, horrified.

“Using the Lord’s Name in vain only adds to YOUR many sins, Paris,” John said. “As for your daughter . . . YOUR daughter and HIS . . . she’s not FIT to live.”

“NO!” Stacy yelled. “YOU’RE THE ONE WHO’S NOT FIT TO LIVE, YOU . . . YOU . . . SICK . . . TWISTED ****!” The word was a Paiute obscenity for a warrior deemed a coward and a traitor, despised and beneath all contempt. “HOW?!” she demanded. “HOW IN THE HELL COULD YOU STAND THERE TELLING ME HOW . . . HOW DEVOUT YOU ARE, WHEN YOU’RE GUILTY OF MURDER?!”

“How dare you?” John’s soft, calm voice was frighteningly at odds with his stiff body, now trembling with barely contained rage. “How DARE YOU . . . foul, lying spawn of a harlot . . . how dare one such as YOU . . . stand in judgment of ME . . . FOR WHAT I HAD TO DO IN TIME OF WAR?!”

“I’M NOT TALKING ABOUT THE WAR!” Stacy yelled back, her own body trembling with rage. “I’M TALKING ABOUT TEN YEARS AGO, WHEN YOU MURDERED YOUR OWN PARENTS AND YOUR SISTERS, MATTIE AND ELSIE . . . THEN BURNED DOWN THE HOUSE TO COVER IT UP.”

“LIAR!” John howled.

“I WAS THERE, I SAW YOU,” Stacy shouted back at him. “I SAW YOU SHOOT THEM DOWN IN COLD BLOOD. YOU SHOT YOUR PA AND AUNT MATTIE IN THE BACK LIKE THE LOW DOWN, YELLOW BELLIED COWARD YOU ARE! YOU WOULD HAVE KILLED ME, TOO, IF AUNT MATTIE HADN’T LIFTED ME OUT THE WINDOW AND TOLD ME TO RUN.”

Paris gasped, as the blood drained from her face. She seized hold of Ben’s arm for support.

“Stacy, are you sure?” Ben asked, deftly placing an arm around Paris’ waist.

“That’s what the dreams were about, Pa,” Stacy said, glaring at her uncle with murderous fury. “THAT’S what they were trying to make me remember.”

“Dear God in Heaven! John, how COULD you?” Paris moaned, numb with horror.

“Don’t LOOK at me like that,” John snarled, with all the bestial viciousness of a rabid animal. “You BITCH! Harlot! Don’t you DARE look at me like that . . . . ”

“How SHOULD I look upon a man guilty of murdering his own father, mother, and both of his younger sisters?!” Paris immediately returned, sparing no pains to conceal the revulsion and the bitter hatred she held in her heart towards her brother. “ . . . and . . . and how should I look upon a man who . . . who tried to kill a child . . . a CHILD, John, no more than five or six years old . . . then reveled in LYING to that child’s mother, leading her to believe her daughter was dead?”

“THEY WANTED TO DEPRIVE ME OF WHAT WAS RIGHTFULLY MINE,” John screamed.

“Of WHAT that’s rightfully yours, John?” Ben asked, desperately hoping and praying they might keep John engaged until Joe and Hoss arrived help.

“THE MONEY!”

“WHAT MONEY?” Paris demanded. “Oh, I remember you damn’ near forcing me to retire to Bedlam with your incessant badgering about Mam’s will when we last met in Saint Jo— ”

“Mam was a wealthy woman,” John adamantly insisted.

“Wealthy!” Paris snorted derisively. “Da might’ve made a decent enough living with the livery he had in Mormon Springs, I s’pose . . . but they weren’t wealthy people, John, not by ANY stretch of the imagination.”

“Mam WAS! She was, I tell you.”

“You’re lying,” Paris accused, “either that, or you’re deluded.”

“It’s TRUE, Paris. I SWEAR it’s TRUE! Our grandmother . . . MAM’S mother, was Lady Eleanor Sinclair,” John argued. “I met her, while I was a student at Westpoint. By then, she was widowed and living with Mam’s youngest brother, Major Josiah Sinclair . . . Virginia’s father.”

“Virginia?” Ben prompted.

“My wife, Mister Cartwright,” John replied.

“But . . . surely . . . even YOU know that the Sinclair home and the entire Sinclair fortune would have passed to Mam’s OLDEST brother . . . along with the title when our grandfather died,” Paris scathingly pointed out.

“True,” John agreed, “but Lady Eleanor Sinclair was a wealthy woman in her own right . . . a VERY wealthy woman.”

“Our maternal grandparents DISOWNED Mam after she ran off and married our father,” Paris said with wry contempt. “Remember?”

“Grandmother Sinclair CHANGED, Paris . . . she did! Honest! When I told her who I was? And who my mother was? Lady Eleanor told me that she deeply regretted the estrangement between herself and her only daughter,” John argued.

“Good for her!” Paris immediately returned, her voice filled with bitter scorn. “Too bad she didn’t come to ‘deeply regret the estrangement between herself and her only daughter’ in time to spare Mam the humiliation of begging table scraps from the scullery maids in her own father’s house during the famine years.”

“But, Grandmother Sinclair more than made up for it.”

“How?! How could she POSSIBLY make up for that . . . and everything ELSE Mam suffered?”

“She left her entire fortune to Mam,” John replied. “ALL of it! Lock, stock, and barrel. But . . . when Mam drew up HER will? SHE left it all to Mattie . . . Elsie, and . . . and HER!” He dramatically thrust an accusing finger in Stacy’s direction. “She didn’t leave ME a thing.”

“ . . . and why in the hell SHOULD she?”

“BECAUSE I AM THE ONLY SON!” John shouted. “I SHOULD HAVE BEEN IN CONTROL OF THAT MONEY . . . NOT THEM!”

“ . . . and why NOT them?!” Paris angrily demanded.

John’s entire body went rigid. “Because Mattie and Elsie are women,” he replied through clenched teeth, overemphasizing each word, “and Rose . . . she was a child, Paris . . . a CHILD. Mam said that since Mattie and Elsie never married, they would need the inheritance to live on after she and Da died, and that Rose could do with a bit of a nest egg, put by. But, it wasn’t right, I tell you . . . it . . . wasn’t . . . RIGHT!”

“Why not?” Ben demanded.

“BECAUSE MATTIE AND ELSIE ARE . . . WERE . . . WOMEN,” John shouted, teetering now on the very edge of hysteria. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Don’t you see?” he continued, speaking through clenched teeth and jaw, rigidly set. “It’s not right to leave so vast a fortune entirely in the care of . . . of women . . . . ” This last word he spat with derision and contempt.

“Why not?” Ben asked.

“They’re EVIL! Corrupt to the very core of their being!” John replied. “Hell spawn, every last one of ‘em . . . just like their mother, Eve. Surely YOU know that, Mister Cartwright. A woman is good for one thing and one thing ONLY.”

“Does that include your own wife and daughters?” Ben asked.

“Of COURSE it does!” John replied. “Maybe not Erin, so much . . . not NOW . . . not YET! But Claire and Virginia . . . THEY number among those who seek to betray me, Mister Cartwright.”

“Oh for—!!” Paris growled, with a sarcastic roll of her eyes heavenward. Her eyes wandered to her sister-in-law, seated on the bed with shoulders hunched, and head bowed, then to her niece, standing next to her mother, with hand lightly resting on her shoulder, watching events unfold with a serene detachment. “HOW, John? Your poor wife, heaven pity her, can’t even summon the wherewithal to raise her head and look at you cross-eyed, for God’s sake! And Claire . . . she’s a child, John. A CHILD!”

“A child who has come into the evil legacy of her mother, Eve,” John growled back.

“John,” Ben said, in a voice stone cold, heartily sickened by the cruel, misogyny that possessed John McKenna, soul and spirit, “listen to me. The day your grandmother died, that money became your mother’s to do with as SHE wished . . . and if it was HER wish to leave that money to her younger daughters and to her only granddaughter, she WAS within her rights to do so.”

“No,” John immediately countered, as he slowly shook his head. “No! Da promised me . . . . ”

“Da promised you . . . WHAT?!” Paris demanded.

“Da promised me that I’D be head of the family when he died,” John replied. “How could I possibly be head of the family . . . if Mattie and Elsie were in control of all that money?!”

“ . . . and just what the bloody hell has all the damned money mother supposedly left to Mattie, Elsie, and . . . and to Rose . . . have to do with YOU being head of the family?” Paris pressed.

“If Mattie and Elsie were in control of that money, they wouldn’t have to submit to my authority as head of the family,” John explained. “Da SHOULD have taken MY side . . . but he didn’t. He took MAM’S side.”

“ . . . and THAT’S the real reason you killed your mother . . . your father . . . your sisters . . . and why you TRIED to kill my daughter . . . then AND now,” Ben accused, seething. “Greed! Pure and simple GREED!”

“THEY WERE IN MY WAY, DAMMIT! MAM, DA, MATTIE, ELSIE, AND ROSE . . . THEY WERE ALL . . . IN . . . MY . . . WAY!” John screamed. He took a deep ragged breath, then squeezed his eyelids together, as tight as he possibly could. “Now . . . .” he continued, his entire body trembling, “NOW . . . Rose . . . is the only one left . . . the only one who stands in my way. Talk is done, Paris. For the last time, I’m ordering you to move away from your daughter.”

Ben quickly pushed Stacy behind him, then, by mutual unspoken agreement, closed ranks with Paris. “We’re not budging, John,” Ben said, taking hold of Paris’ hand.

“Sergeant Deveraux,” John snapped.

“Yes, Sir,” Alexander said. “You four!” He glared at David Matthews, Seth Harris, Alfred Simmons, and Jim-Boy Tuttle. “Move Miss McKenna and Mister Cartwright to a place of safety at once.”

David, the youngest of the four moved in and took firm hold of Paris’ left forearm. “This way, Ma’am . . . . ”

Paris gritted her teeth and punched David in the stomach with all her strength, drawing a startled, agonized gasp.

Ben, meanwhile, landed a swift, powerful right cross in the middle of Alfred Simmons’ face, breaking his nose. Alfred fell over backwards, hitting the floor with a dull thud, where he remained, unmoving, as if he had suddenly taken root. Blood flowed generously from his nose and a split lower lip.

“I’VE got the woman!” Jim-Boy drawled, as he slipped behind her and wrapped his strong, well muscled arms about her waist. “You get over there ‘n give Al and Seth a hand.”

“UnHAND me right now this INSTANT!” Paris angrily, fearfully demanded as she struggled valiantly to free herself. She balled her fists and rained blow after blow after blow on his hands, while screaming the most vile, most obscene epithets she knew at the top of her voice.

David drew his fingers together into a tight fist and swung at Ben, hitting him square on the left cheek. Ben staggered backward a couple of steps, then followed through, almost without thinking, knocking David on his rump.

“PA! BEHIND YOU!” Stacy cried out, the instant she spotted Seth Harris circling around behind Ben.

Upon hearing Stacy’s warning cry, Ben glanced up sharply, just in time to catch a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye. The next thing he knew, someone had grabbed hold of his arms and pulled them behind his back, effectively rendering him helpless.

“YOU DIRTY, ROTTEN, NO-GOOD, YELLA BELLIED SON-UVA-JACKASS!” Stacy shouted, as she set upon Seth, pummeling his back relentlessly with her balled fists, calling him every nasty name she knew in English and Paiute.

David scrambled to his feet almost immediately, delivering two hard blows to Ben’s abdomen with his left fist, then his right in rapid succession. Gritting his teeth against the onset of pain and intense nausea, Ben leaned over as far as he possibly could, given his restraints, kicking David’s right leg out from under him, and pulling forward with all his might, hoping to at the very least loosen the hold Seth had on him.

“TURN MY PA LOOSE RIGHT NOW, YOU HEAR ME?!” Stacy yelled, as she kept up her merciless assault.

“Matthews! Simmons! On your feet, dammit!” Seth groaned. “I . . . I c-can’t . . . hold on to ‘im . . . much . . . longer!”

David once again staggered to his feet. His face was beet red, and his breathing shallow and rapid. He favored his right leg as he moved in on Ben a second time, delivering another hard blow to the abdomen, sidestepping, barely, when Ben once again tried to kick his legs out from under him.

Seth wrapped his left arm around Ben’s shoulders as David delivered another blow, this time to the face. A wild elbow jab with his right arm found its mark in Stacy’s abdomen. The force of the blow knocked the wind out of her, and sent her crashing hard onto the floor. Nauseated, and gasping for breath, Stacy’s arms instinctively wrapped themselves around her abdomen and stomach. Seth tightened his grip on Ben.

“Claire!” John snapped, after Ben and Paris had been dragged away from the center of the room.

Claire looked up at her father and waited.

“Time for YOU to join your disobedient cousin.”

“JOHN, NO! DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN, NO!” Virginia cried out in anguish as she watched Claire leave her side and walk toward the center of the room, where Stacy still lay on her side, clutching her stomach. “JOHN, YOU CAN’T DO THIS!”

“I must, Virginia. Claire is guilty of high treason.”

“High treason?!” Virginia echoed, incredulous and feeling very sick to her stomach. She rose from her place, her entire body trembling his fear. “John, you can’t be serious!”

“Claire led my sister and Mister Cartwright to Stacy, knowing full well they had come to rescue her,” John explained, in the same condescending manner a parent might address a dull witted child. “In so doing, she is, first and foremost, guilty of committing the sin of rebellion against ME, her father, whom the Holy Scriptures have commanded her to respect, honor, and obey.” He paused to allow his wife a moment to ponder and to absorb the import of his words.

“Claire also tried to keep her cousin, Rose, from receiving HER just retribution,” John continued, “and last, because she committed these acts of rebellion and betrayal during the course of a military operation, that makes her guilty of HIGH treason. Virginia . . . you should know as well as I that the penalty for committing high treason is death . . . before a firing squad.”

Virginia rushed forward, half running, half stumbling, blinded by fear and the tears streaming down her cheeks. “NO!” she screamed and sobbed, on the very edge of hysteria, as she reached out and tried to seize his rifle. “NO, JOHN, I WON’T LET YOU DO THIS. I WON’T, I WON’T!”

John carefully set his rifle down on the floor beside his feet, then turned, and seized hold of his wife by the ragged lapels of her well-worn dressing gown. Pulling her close, he struck her hard across the face, several times in rapid succession, with open hand, until her hysterical screams had finally died away to the barely audible whimpering of the utterly defeated.

“Adulteress!” he snarled, grimacing in utter disgust as he released his hold on her dressing gown, allowing her to drop to the floor like an ungainly sack of potatoes. “Jezebel!” He punctuated that epithet with a hard kick to her ribcage, eliciting a cry of pain and anguish. “Go BACK to your corner, Virginia,” he snarled, thrusting arm and pointing finger at the place where she had spent most of the time huddled. “CRAWL back to your corner like the miserable . . . pathetic . . . WORM . . . you . . . ARE . . . and consider yourself damn’ lucky I’m not putting YOU in the center with your errant daughter and the vile abomination my sister birthed.”

Sick with horror and despair, blinded by the tears streaming down her face, Virginia crawled on her hands and knees back to her corner, and there, remaining on her knees, she squeezed her eyes tight shut and placed her hands tight against her ears.

“John, please!” Ben pleaded, blinking his eyes against the sting of tears newly forming. “Let them go. Stacy . . . Paris . . . and Claire, too! Let them go. I’M the one who . . . who in YOUR eyes, wronged your sister. You can keep ME . . . do what you will! I promise ya, John . . . I give ya my word I won’t fight you or try to escape, but . . . for the love of God . . . please! Let THEM go!”

“I can’t do that, Mister Cartwright,” John replied in a tone of voice faintly condescending. “If I let Rose go . . . I won’t inherit Mam’s legacy.”

“I’m Stacy’s legal guardian,” Ben pressed. “As such, I CAN and WILL sign the papers necessary to set aside your mother’s will, and declare you the beneficiary. You get a lawyer, and have everything drawn up, and— ”

“No, Mister Cartwright. Rose MUST die to atone for YOUR sins . . . and those of her mother as well.”

Erin, meanwhile cautiously, silently made her way across the room toward her mother, with her eyes glued to Claire, now sitting on the floor beside Cousin Stacy in the center of the room. She knelt down beside Virginia, wrapping her arms tight her mother’s shoulders, desperately seeking some small measure of comfort and reassurance in the midst of the unspeakable nightmare unfolding all around her.

Although Claire was every bit as terrified of their father as she and their mother were, Erin had known for nearly as long as she could remember that she could count on her sister to kneel down, to wrap her arms tight around her, and hold her very tight. It was in that closeness that Erin took comfort, found protection and strength, and had come to know of something else: a love, unconditional, freely offered, asking nothing back in return.

Sobbing now in earnest, Erin pressed close to her unresponsive mother, who stood with her face in the corner, wholly oblivious to all, except for her own pain. “What’ll I do without Claire?” she silently wondered, panic-stricken. Never in her entire life had she ever felt so horribly alone.

John, meanwhile, turned back towards the helpless, still prostrate Stacy, lying in the center of the room, unmoving, and, with a malevolent, triumphal smile, raised his rifle, slowly.

With a superhuman strength she never even dreamed she possessed, Paris suddenly and with almost ridiculous ease broke free of Jim-Boy Tuttle’s grasp, and rushed headlong toward her daughter, before anyone could even think of stopping her. John, at the same time, pulled the trigger. The bullet meant for Stacy found its mark deep within Paris’ chest. With a sickening gurgle, she collapsed.

“Dammit,” John swore under his breath, as, with trembling hands, he labored to reload his rifle. “Dammit, dammit, dammit . . . . ”

Ignoring her own pain and queasiness, Stacy half ran and half crawled toward Paris, the mother who had given her life, and knelt down. Ben’s own sensibilities rudely returned at the sound of John McKenna’s rifle firing. He vigorously renewed his struggles against the big man, trying desperately to hold him back.

“Stacy . . . . ” Paris whispered.

“Don’t try to talk, Miss Paris . . . M-Mother,” Stacy said with tears streaming down her face. “We’ll get you to Doctor Martin, and— ”

“No . . . b-beyond doctor’s help,” Paris struggled to speak. “F-Forgive me . . . please . . . . ”

Paris reached up with trembling hand to touch Stacy’s . . . no! Rose Miranda’s cheek, and stroke her hair one last time. The instant she lifted her elbow from the floor, a sharp stab of pain shot from her shoulder into her chest. Her hand dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes, eliciting a cry filled with intense grief, mingling with anger at the thought of being denied that one small mercy. With tears streaming down her face, she tried again to reach up, but her arm wouldn’t budge.

Stacy gently took her mother’s hand in her own and placed its palm firmly against her cheek. “I . . . I forgive you, Mother,” she promised.

“ . . . remember . . . . ” Paris gasped. There was so much she wanted to say, but it was growing more and more difficult to keep her thoughts together. “P-Promise me you’ll . . . that . . . you’ll always . . . always r-remember . . . you c-came into this world . . . because your f-father and I . . . because we loved each other. We l-loved each other s-so . . . so very much . . . . ”

“I’ll remember, Mother, I promise . . . I-I’ll always remember,” Stacy said sobbing openly. “And, Mother? I love you.”

Paris smiled, then closed her eyes.

After a ferocious struggle, Ben managed to break free of the men holding him. Three quick strides brought him across the room to his daughter’s side. “Stacy . . . . ?”

“She’s . . . she’s dead, Pa,” Stacy sobbed. Though Ben knelt down and put his arms around her, she immediately sensed the presence of a barrier between them.

“Prepare to join her!” John’s voice suddenly brought Ben and Stacy back to the frightening reality of their situation. He once again raised his rifle and took aim.

Ben immediately shifted, placing himself between Stacy and the end of John’s rifle barrel, then braced himself.

Suddenly, the door to the room burst open with enough force to send it flying off its hinges.

“Drop your weapons! Now!” It was Joe Cartwright. He stepped into the room, rifle ready. Hoss, Candy, and Sheriff Coffee followed.

“Do as he says,” Roy Coffee ordered the assembly tersely.

Seth Harris and Alfred Simmons immediately did as they had been told.

“Don’t be stupid, Boy,” Hoss growled turning baleful eye and the barrel of his rifle on David Matthews as he reached inside his brown leather jacket. “You’ll, like as not, be spending a few years in prison, but you’re young yet . . . with a long life ahead o’ ya after . . . IF ya do the smart thing right now.”

David swallowed nervously as he very slowly, very cautiously withdrew a knife from the inside pocket of his jacket, and with shaking hand offered it to Hoss.

“No,” John McKenna protested with a strangled cry. “No, damn you . . . damn ALL of you! I WILL have my revenge.” With his gun still aimed at Ben’s chest, he started to pull the trigger.

Driven purely by instinct, Sheriff Coffee quickly raised his own rifle, took dead aim at John McKenna’s head, and fired. John collapsed to the floor without a word or sound, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. Across the room, Virginia screamed. She scrambled to her feet, shoving Erin aside, then half ran, half stumbled across the room to where her husband lay on the floor, unmoving. Upon reaching his side, she collapsed onto her dead husband, her body wracked with sobs. Claire, with heart in mouth, immediately left Stacy and Ben, and ran to Erin, who remained in an ungainly heap right where she had just fallen.

While Sheriff Coffee and the men, who had accompanied him and the Cartwright sons, rounded up their few remaining prisoners and confiscated weapons, Joe and Hoss made their way across the room to their father and sister.

Hoss leaned over and gently helped Stacy to her feet. “Come on, Li’l Sister . . . let’s get you outta here,” he said as he placed his arm around her shoulders and led her out across the room to the door.

“Pa?” Joe looked down at his father anxiously.

“You boys came in just the nick of time, Son,” Ben said wearily.

“We got here, soon as we could,” Joe said, as he helped his father to stand. His eyes fell on Paris McKenna’s body.

“Dead,” Ben said, his voice breaking. “She sacrificed herself to save Stacy. I’d like to have her buried on the Ponderosa . . . near the lake. She . . . she had a favorite spot there . . . . ”

“I remember, Pa,” Joe said quietly. “I’ll let Sheriff Coffee know that we intend to claim Miss Paris’ body.”

As his youngest son moved off to find the sheriff, Ben turned his attention to Claire McKenna. She now sat on the bed, where he and Paris had found Stacy not long before, bound hand and foot, cradling her sister in her arms. “Claire?”

She looked up at him expectantly, with tears streaming down her own cheeks.

“Please tell your mother that you’re all welcome to come back with us to the Ponderosa,” he offered, “and stay as long as you wish.”

Claire managed a small grateful smile and nodded her thanks.

 

Ben Cartwright sat in the red chair next to the fireplace, his eyes fixed on the glowing deep red embers in the firebox, barely aware of the flurry of activity going on around him. Hop Sing was upstairs, helping Claire McKenna settle her mother and sister in bed for the night. His sons were busy fetching in the last of the McKennas’ luggage from the wagon.

“Pa,” it was Hoss, “Joe and I just took up the last o’ their things.” He sighed, and sank wearily onto the settee. “Not that THEY had much,” he added with a scowl. “Most of what’s in all them trunks and bags we put in t’ downstairs bedroom are HIS things. Can you believe that?”

“I’m afraid so, Son,” Ben replied, sickened and repulsed upon hearing John McKenna’s voice order his own daughter into the center of the room, with every intention of murdering her in cold blood along with Stacy, and seeing him once again cruelly shame and humiliate his wife for her pathetic, ultimately vain efforts to stop him.

“That Claire’s quite a gal,” Hoss remarked, shaking his head slowly in astonished wonder and admiration for the curious, silent young woman.

“Yes . . . she is,” Ben heartily agreed. “She’s certainly got her hands full, though . . . . ” He fell silent for a time, allowing the flickering, almost hypnotic dance of the dying flames to exorcize the terrible memories of John McKenna’s last hours upon this Earth. “Hoss?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“Where’s Stacy?” Ben asked, glancing around.

“I reckon she’s where she usually goes after dark when she needs to be by herself,” Hoss said quietly.

“I guess I should go fetch her,” Ben murmured reluctantly, wondering at the same time how he could possibly face her after tonight’s staggering revelations.

Hoss mistook his father’s hesitation for fatigue. “You’ve been through a lot tonight yourself, Pa. Why don’t you g’won up to bed, maybe get a good night’s sleep?” he suggested. “I’LL go out ‘n fetch Li’l Sister back inside.”

“Thank you, Hoss,” Ben said, vastly relieved. He rose. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Pa.”

 

Hoss quietly slipped out of the house, and crossed the yard to the barn. Inside, the barn, he found Stacy standing beside the stall occupied by her horse, Blaze Face. “Past your bed time, Li’l Sister,” he said in a quiet, gentle tone.

“I-I’m not sleepy, Big Brother,” Stacy said in a small, very sad voice.

“No, with everything that’s happened, I reckon you’re not,” Hoss said, taking a seat on a nearby bale of hay. “There’s somethin’ I’ve been wanting to tell ya, but I just ain’t had the chance until right now . . . . ”

“What’s that, Hoss?”

“The four of us . . . you, me, Joe, ‘n Pa . . . knew we belonged together from the first time we met each other at Fort Charlotte,” Hoss began. “You comin’ home with us clinched things. You were . . . ‘n ARE . . . my sister in all the ways that count.” He paused. “But, I’m really happy . . . and proud to know that you’re also my sister by blood.”

“Th-thanks, Hoss, I . . . . ” Stacy wanted to tell Hoss that she felt the same way. Her words were drowned in a torrent of weeping.

Hoss rose, walked over to the stall, and put his arms around her. Blaze Face nickered softly and nuzzled the top of her head. “That’s right, Li’l Sister, you just let it all out,” Hoss said, feeling the sting of tears in his own eyes. “Blaze Face ‘n me . . . the both of us are right here . . . . ”

 

The funeral for John McKenna took place gravesite in the cemetery, set into the side of the mountain at the north end of town on E Street. Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt, minister of the Virginia City Church, presided. It was brief, and sparsely attended by his widow, his two daughters, and the Cartwrights.

The men, who had served him so devotedly during the war and in the years after, were unable to attend. All save one were locked up in the Virginia City Jail, awaiting trial on charges of kidnapping, murder, and conspiracy to murder. Zachary Hilliard had been taken from “Bill Taylor’s” room at the Bucket of Blood to Doctor Martin, at Sam Yates’ urging less than a half hour before David Matthews arrived with a terse missive from their captain ordering them to report to the tenement house on Blood Alley. Zachary was barely conscious and running a dangerously high fever, the result of massive infection that had set into the wounds on his back, inflicted several days before by John McKenna. When “Bill Taylor’s” secret was discovered, Paul Martin immediately sent for Deputy Clem Foster, who came and within minutes, took Sam into custody.

Though in a great deal of pain and still running a high temperature, Zachary was lucid, resting as comfortably as he could, given his circumstances. He remained in the home of Paul and Lily Martin, under heavy guard. The prognosis for a complete recovery was very good, though it would take time.

Jeffery Collier had spent the night at the Ponderosa, with Hoss, Joe, Candy, and Hank Carlson, the senior foreman, keeping close watch in shifts throughout the night. Though he yet ran a slight temperature, and suffered occasional bouts of dizziness due to loss of blood and the blow to his head, he otherwise appeared to be doing quite well physically.
“Mister Cartwright, I . . . I know you won’t believe me when I say this, and . . . and I can’t blame you, I s’pose,” Jeff said very quietly the night before, “but I’m glad that no . . . that no lasting physical harm has come to your daughter . . . . ”

“I believe ya, Mister Collier,” Ben said wearily, his head throbbing. “I . . . kinda had a feeling your heart wasn’t completely in your captain’s crazy scheme.”

“You’re . . . not the first man to say so, Sir,” Jeff said ruefully, remembering again his last conversation with the late George Edwards.

“Then why—?!”

“I told you, Mister Cartwright . . . I OWED . . . and STILL owe Captain McKenna my life,” he replied. “I . . . don’t know what happened to him . . . what changed him . . . but the John McKenna who died tonight wasn’t the man I knew on the battlefield.”

“You don’t hafta answer this if you don’t want to, Mister Collier, but I can’t help BUT wonder . . . if ya had it do over again . . . would you? Knowing what your captain intended to do, would you have STILL been a willing part?”

“I . . . I don’t know,” Jeff had replied, his voice barely audible. “I . . . honestly . . . don’t . . . know . . . . ”
Jeff Collier had been moved to the Virginia City Jail at his own insistence early that morning. Paul Martin had gone by the jail long enough to give Jeff a cursory once over and change his bandage. He would stop by again sometime in the late afternoon, or early evening to examine the patient more thoroughly.

 

“ . . . to know wisdom and instruction; to perceive the words of understanding; to receive the instruction of wisdom, justice, judgment, and equity; to give prudence to the simple,” Ben somberly read aloud from the first chapter of the Book of Proverbs. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge. But fools despise wisdom and instruction.” [12]

Ben was loath to read that passage, noting John McKenna’s interpretation of those verses in the faded bruises on Erin’s face, in the shame and humiliation to which he had subjected the woman he had to have promised to love and cherish at some point in the past; in Claire, forever silenced by an act of incomprehensible butchery; and in the vivid purple, blue, and sickly yellow green bruising on Stacy’s face.

But Virginia McKenna was adamant. It was, after all, the passage by which her husband had lived. She stood beside the open grave, clad in a dark brown wool skirt, two sizes too large, and a plain long sleeved white linen blouse. Its cuffs were worn, and frayed at the edges. Her hazel eyes, round with shock and grief, and the way she twisted the handkerchief Ben had given her lent Virginia McKenna the air of a lost, lonely, frightened child, with no idea what to do next.

Claire and Erin also wore ill-fitting clothing that their cousin, Stacy, had out grown several years ago. The elder of the two stood with a comforting arm around her younger sister’s shoulders and a watchful eye on their mother.

The Reverend Daniel Hildebrandt gave a eulogy that was mercifully brief. It mentioned John McKenna’s service to his country in time of war, and that he was also husband and father. But its primary focus was on the love of God, and of his promise to be as husband to the bereaved Virginia McKenna, and father to her daughters.

As Ben turned the pages in his Bible to the Twenty-Third Psalm, he understood why Claire McKenna had refused to leave with Paris, Stacy, and himself that night. She had, over the years they had lived with John McKenna, become mother in every sense of the word, short of pregnancy and giving birth, to Virginia and Erin. No mother worthy of being called such would dream of leaving her children to face danger unprotected. Ben took a deep breath and began to read aloud. “ ‘The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul . . . . ’ ”

Claire found herself listening to the words of the Twenty-Third Psalm with rapt attention. Even Erin lifted her red, swollen, tear stained face and turned toward Ben, with eyes round with astonishment and mouth gaping open.

“ ‘ . . . he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.’ ”

Neither Claire nor Erin ever had heard words such as these read to them from the Bible. Ever! Mister Cartwright read them with a quiet, granite firm conviction that extended beyond mere belief and faith to knowing.

“ ‘Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.’ ”

Claire closed her eyes again, blotting out everything—her father’s coffin, resting on the ground next to the open grave, her mother, sister, the minister, the Cartwright family. She focused her thoughts, her whole mind on the remaining words of the psalm, drawing from them a measure of comfort and strength.

“ ‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies; thou annointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.’ ”

Claire slowly opened her eyes and found herself staring over at Mister Cartwright, awe struck. She knew then, that somehow, this man’s deep, abiding faith in and love of God would see him through the pain and anguish that tore him apart inside, and separated him from the love of those he treasured most on this earth, to a place of healing.

“Stacy,” Virginia McKenna left her daughters, at the conclusion of the funeral ritual for her husband.

Stacy stood next to Hoss, with Joe behind her to the right. She looked over at her aunt expectantly.

“I want you to know that your uncle . . . that he wasn’t ALWAYS . . . . ” Virginia’s voice trailed away to uncertain silence. Then, with the suddenness of a summer cloudburst, the sad confusion in her face gave way to a defiant, angry resolve. “It was the WAR,” she declared with an emphatic nod of her head. “The WAR changed him. Before that terrible, terrible day he marched off to war, your uncle was the kindest, most gentle and loving man ever. That’s how my daughters and I will always remember him.”

Stacy looked up at her aunt, her eyes a mixture of grief, rage, and astonishment. The war might be to blame for some things, but not for everything. He had murdered his own parents and both of his younger sisters before the fall of Fort Sumter to the Confederacy. He would have killed her, too, had Aunt Mattie not put her out of the house through the parlor window, and urged her to run. Worst of all, what this “kindest, most gentle and loving man ever,” had done to his eldest daughter . . . . That, too, had happened long before the “terrible, terrible day” John McKenna marched off to war.

Stacy opened her mouth, fully intending to speak of these things, until she felt the weight of a gentle, massive hand coming to rest upon her shoulder. She glanced up, meeting the eyes of her big brother, one she truly knew to be the kindest, most gentle and loving man ever. Hoss, imploring with eyes and face, shook his head.

“Ma’am,” Hoss addressed himself to Virginia McKenna, while Stacy closed her mouth and bowed her head, “we’re glad you have those memories now to comfort you.”

Virginia beamed, nodded, then made her way back to her daughters.

“How can she say that?” Stacy said softly, looking from Hoss to Joe. “After all that . . . that . . . I can’t even think of something nasty enough to call him . . . did to her, Claire, and Erin . . . how can she possibly stand there and defend him?!”

“She loves him,” Hoss said simply, “and maybe . . . just maybe . . . she DOES remember a time when he was all the things she just said.”

“Aunt Virginia’s got the right to remember John McKenna as she likes, I suppose,” Stacy reluctantly allowed through clenched teeth. “But, as far as I’M concerned, he wasn’t a man . . . he was a monster, and I claim no relationship with him whatsoever.”

“What about your aunt and cousins?” Joe asked.

“Them, yes, but not him. I’ll NEVER forget that he killed his parents, his sisters, my mother, and that he almost killed Claire, Pa, and me,” Stacy angrily continued. As she turned to look over at her father, the angry mask blurred and disappeared, exposing a deep, profound grief that had over the past few days, come to possess her entire being. “Even though John McKenna DIDN’T kill Pa . . . he . . . he STILL took him away from me . . . . ”

“No. He hasn’t,” Joe declared stoutly, trying hard to convince himself as well as his young sister. “NO one can take Pa away from you . . . or Hoss ‘n me either for that matter. Even if John McKenna HAD killed him, I know that Pa would’ve somehow found a way to be with us . . . . ”

Stacy shook her head vigorously in denial. “Pa won’t talk to me, and . . . when I try to talk to him? He just says, ‘Not now, Stacy . . . not right now,’ ” she said, her voice catching, “ . . . and when he looks at me? He’s NOT looking at me. He’s looking at something else, or . . . or looking right through me, as if . . . as if I weren’t there at all.”

“Right now . . . Pa’s got a lot to work through, too, Kid . . . just like YOU do,” Joe gently pointed out. “He just needs time, that’s all . . . . ”

“I sure hope Pa doesn’t need too much time,” Hoss silently mused. “ ‘Cause Li’l Sister here needs him NOW.”

The Cartwrights silently and discreetly withdrew, allowing the McKenna family time alone to make their final good-byes. The minister lingered for a few moments to offer his own condolences, before taking his leave.

For a time, Virginia, Claire, and Erin stood silent and unmoving before the simple, pine box coffin that held John McKenna’s earthly remains. Then, at Claire’s gentle prompting, Erin moved forward and placed the bouquet of wild flowers she had gathered on their way into town from the field, half way between Virginia City and the Ponderosa. The little girl reached out and touched the closed lid, then returned to the waiting arms of her older sister. Virginia leaned over and kissed the coffin lid, above the place where her late husband’s head was positioned. Like Erin, she, also, lovingly caressed the top of the lid.

“Let’s go, Girls,” she said in a brisk, no nonsense tone of voice. Stepping past her daughters, she flounced over to the cemetery gate, where the Cartwright family stood waiting, moving like a ship with the wind in her sails. Claire and Erin followed, hand in hand, moving at a slower pace.

“Mister Cartwright,” Virginia said imperiously, as she marched right over to Ben, “before we return to the Ponderosa, I want to pay a call on the men who served with my husband.”

For a moment, all Ben could do was stare at the woman, too stunned, too dumbfounded to move or even speak. “Mrs. McKenna,” he said tersely, the minute he again found his voice, “the Virginia City JAIL is hardly the place to pay a social call.”

With her jaw rigidly set, and hazel eyes blazing with the flames of the hellish inferno raging inside her, Virginia McKenna balled her fingers into a pair of tight, rock hard fists and planted them forcefully down on her hips. “Mister Cartwright, you had YOUR way about them not attending my husband’s funeral,” she raged. “But, I WILL have my way in THIS. Those men served my husband— ”

“I KNOW, Mrs. McKenna,” Ben cut her off, his voice colder than deep winter.

“I would like my daughters AND my niece to accompany me.”

“No!” Stacy protested, appalled and furious.

“Now you listen to me, and you listen to me GOOD, you . . . you spoiled, self centered little brat,” Virginia hissed, as she seized hold of Stacy’s forearm in an agonizing, vice like grip. “Those men— ”

Virginia’s tirade ended in a yelp of surprise and pain, when Stacy brought her forearm down against her aunt’s thumb with all the strength and force of her own growing fury, effectively freeing herself.

“Those men KIDNAPPED me, Aunt Virginia. They HURT my pa. They probably would have killed BOTH of us, if— ” Stacy angrily broke off. She took a deep, ragged breath, as she wiped her eyes with her open palm. “The next time I see those men will be in a courtroom when I testify AGAINST them. After that, I hope I NEVER see them again, EVER!” With that, she stormed off beating a straight path toward her beloved horse, Blaze Face, tethered between Buck and Cochise at the cemetery gate.

For a long, tense moment, Virginia stared after Stacy, stunned to the core by not only the girl’s fierce stubborn determination, but by the intensity of her fury as well.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Hoss?”

“Why don’t you, Joe, an’ Hop Sing take Stacy on home? I’LL go on over to the jail with Mrs. McKenna ‘n the girls.”

Ben nodded.

“We’ll see you at home later, Big Brother,” Joe murmured quietly, before turning to leave with his father . . . .

 

“Ma’am, words can’t say how sorry I am about the death of your husband . . . OUR captain,” Jeff Collier said quietly. He was on his feet, his fingers wrapped around the bars of his cell for support. Sam Yates and Jim-Boy Tuttle hovered close behind, like a pair of brooding mother hens, keeping a close watch.

“Thank you, Sergeant,” Virginia murmured, her voice breaking. “I . . . I c-can’t help but notice . . . there’s one among you, who’s . . . who’s missing.”

“Yes, Ma’am . . . Lieutenant Hilliard,” Jeff replied.

Virginia’s cheeks reddened and she bowed her head, too ashamed to look anyone in the eye as memory of all the awful things she had confessed about herself and the lieutenant came to mind. “Yes,” she murmured softly. “Lieutenant Hilliard. I . . . I h-heard he was ill . . . . ”

“He was BEATEN, Mrs. McKenna . . . within an inch of his life,” Sam Yates said, his voice filled with bitterness and contempt. “The wounds on his back have become infected.”

“I’m sorry,” Virginia said contritely.

“You SHOULD be! He was innocent.”

“Mister Yates, you’re out of order,” Jeff snapped.

“If it hadn’t been for the lies SHE told her husband— ”

“I SAID you’re out of order!”

Sam lapsed into sullen silence and very pointedly turned his back on Jeff Collier and Virginia McKenna.

“Mister . . . Yates is it? I . . . I truly am very sorry for the harm that’s come to Mister Hilliard,” Virginia said plaintively. She blinked against the acrid sting of tears forming in her eyes. “I . . . I didn’t WANT to c-confess to those awful lies, but John MADE me say those things. That’s the honest truth, I swear.”

“Mrs. McKenna . . . it’s hardly MY place to stand in judgment of my captain, but I WILL say this,” Jeff said very quietly. “The man you and your daughters laid to rest today wasn’t the man I knew on the battlefield, and I don’t think he’s the same man you knew and loved before the war.”

“No, he w-was NOT,” Virginia reluctantly agreed. “Mister Collier . . . . ”

“Yes, Mrs. McKenna?”

“I SWEAR . . . I-I’ll swear on a stack of Bibles if you’d like, but I meant Mister Hilliard no harm . . . no harm whatsoever! Please, Mister Collier . . . please!” she begged. “You’ve GOT to believe me— ”

“I do, Ma’am.”

“Thank you, Sir . . . and . . . and I hope Mister Hilliard will be feeling better very soon,” she said. “I WILL remember him in my prayers.”

“Thank you, Mrs. McKenna. He’ll appreciate that, I know,” Jeff said. “Speaking for myself, I appreciate you stopping by, but . . . perhaps it’s time you returned to your daughters?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Hoss growled. He stood framed in the open door between the sheriff’s office and the jail cells, flanked on either side by Claire and Erin. “Claire, would ya mind lookin’ after Erin for a— ”

Claire laid a gentle hand against his chest and shook her head, her eyes and face imploring. She then touched her own chest and pointed toward her mother.

“You tellin’ me that . . . YOU wanna g’won in ‘n get your ma?” Hoss asked.

Claire nodded, then mouthed the word, “Please.”

“Alright,” Hoss acquiesced. “Though I hafta tell ya, it’s against m’ better judgment. Erin ‘n I’ll be waitin’ for ya in the other room.”

“They’re BAD men,” Erin grumbled, as Hoss took her hand and led her back into the sheriff’s office. “I hate ‘em, Mister Hoss. If . . . if I had a gun right now, I’d KILL ‘em. I’d kill ‘em ALL.”

“They ain’t very nice men, that’s for dadburned sure,” Hoss agreed wholeheartedly, “but Erin?”

“Yes, Mister Hoss?”

“I can’t say as I blame ya for hatin’ those men, ‘specially for upsettin’ your ma the way they did just now,” Hoss said quietly, yet very earnestly, “ ‘n you, like as not, have other reasons for hatin’ those men, too. But, I hafta tell ya somethin’ . . . . ”

“What?”

“The only one you’re hurtin’ by hatin’ those men is YOU.”

Erin looked up into his face with a puzzled frown. “How?” she demanded.

Hoss picked the child up and gently set her down on the edge of Sheriff Coffee’s desk. “It takes a lotta energy t’ hate, Erin . . . a lotta energy that could be better spent doin’ somethin’ ELSE.”

“Like WHAT?!”

“Lovin’,” Hoss replied.

“Not those men!” Erin exclaimed, grimacing as if she had just bitten into something with a very foul taste.

Hoss shook his head. “I was thinkin’ about your ma ‘n your sister,” he explained. “Your sister lost HER pa, too, ‘n your ma . . . well, SHE lost somebody she loved very, very much. They’re gonna need YOUR love, Erin, every bit as much as you’re gonna need theirs.” He paused, allowing the girl a moment to give thought to his words. “For every minute you spend hatin’ those men in there . . . that’s a minute you ain’t spendin’ on lovin’ your ma ‘n sister.”

“Can I be mad at ‘em?”

Hoss nodded. “Just don’t stay mad at ‘em,” he cautioned.

“What if I can’t stop being mad at ‘em, Mister Hoss?”

“You might try feelin’ sorry of ‘em . . . ‘n their families,” Hoss gamely suggested. “That Sergeant Collier fella . . . he’s got three kids, who ain’t got a ma, ‘cause she died . . . ‘n they ain’t likely t’ have their pa either, not for a very long time.”

“Why not?” Erin asked.

“ ‘Cause he’s gonna go t’ prison,” Hoss replied. “He could be locked up for a good ten, maybe fifteen years at least. He may even end up being locked up for the rest o’ his life.”

“Is that because he helped Daddy get Cousin Stacy?”

“Yeah, but that ain’t the only reason why,” Hoss said. “He broke other laws too, ‘n now he’s gonna hafta be punished.”

“Is it . . . is it like the way Daddy punishes . . . USED to punish . . . Mother, Claire, and me . . . when WE were bad?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Hoss said somberly, feeling sick at heart at the child making mention of her father as the family disciplinarian. “Yeah. It works somethin’ like that. But those men in there . . . they don’t have a pa here t’ punish ‘em. That’s why THEY hafta go to jail.”

“ . . . Sergeant Collier, I . . . I want you t-to know that I . . . I don’t blame you one bit for . . . f-for telling the C-Cartwrights where . . . where t-to find Stacy,” Virginia, meanwhile, continued her conversation with Jeff. “I-I can’t blame you for not wantin’ to kill a young lady Stacy’s age, and . . . and y-you telling them were we were . . . I think you ended up saving Claire life, too.”

“As I told Mister Yates . . . the captain had changed,” Jeff said stiffly. “He would never have sought to kill his own daughter had he been in his right mind, Ma’am, and I don’t think he would have tried to kill his niece either, but mind you . . . my first loyalty was and is . . . to my captain. Had he given me a direct order to kill his daughter or the Cartwright girl, I’d have done it without a moment’s hesitation.”

“I . . . I understand,” Virginia said. Though her eyes rested squarely on Jeff Collier’s face, they fell very far short of meeting his eyes. “You and the others . . . including Lieutenant Hilliard . . . served my husband ably and well, with love, devotion, and loyalty, far, far above your bounden duty to do so. No commander could’ve asked for better.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

“I’m sorry you weren’t allowed to attend Captain McKenna’s funeral observances . . . . ”

“That wasn’t YOUR doing, Mrs. McKenna,” Jeff said, “and speaking for myself, I don’t hold it against Mister Cartwright, either. Had I been in his shoes, I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.”

Virginia nodded, then straightened her posture. “Sergeant Collier, I wish you and the others all the best, and as I said before . . . I hope Lieutenant Hilliard recovers soon.”

“Thank you, Ma’am. I wish you and your daughters all the best as well.”

 

“Mister Cartwright? We’re back,” Erin announced, as she trudged into the house ahead of Claire and her mother. “Mister Hoss said to tell you he’s taking care of the horses.”

Ben wearily glanced up from the open payroll ledger on the desk before him. “Thank you, Young Lady,” he said softly.

“Claire, you and Erin go on upstairs,” Virginia ordered, in a tone of voice faintly imperious. “I’ll be along directly.”

Claire nodded, and held out her hand to Erin.

“Do I have to, Mother?” Erin whined. “Mister Hoss said he’d show me the new baby kittens after while.”

“You do as I say,” Virginia snapped, her eyes flashing with anger.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Erin muttered in a sullen tone of voice, as she turned to take Claire’s outstretched hand.

Virginia watched as her daughters crossed the great room, and started up the stairs. She nodded her head with smug satisfaction, then turned her attention to Ben. “Mister Cartwright, I want to inform you that I received a reply from the wire you sent my father,” she said with stiff formality.

“Oh?”

“A messenger from the Western Union office in town brought it over to the sheriff’s office just as we were leaving.”

“What did your father have to say?”

“He said that we . . . my daughters and myself . . . should come.”

“Being with family . . . and having a change of scenery will do you and the girls a world of good,” Ben said, inwardly relieved. “You said your parents live in New York?”

“Westpoint,” Virginia said. “My father teaches at the Army academy there.” For a moment, her eyes softened, and a dreamy smile spread across her lips. “John and I first met on the academy parade grounds, Mister Cartwright.”

“I see,” Ben said stiffly.

“My father sent money to the Overland Stage Company to cover the cost of our fares,” Virginia said briskly, her thoughts returning again to the present. “Your son was kind enough to stop by the stage depot on our way home, so I made arrangements for us to leave Friday morning on the ten o’clock stage. I . . . should’ve booked passage on the stage leaving tomorrow morning, I suppose, but Miss McKenna WAS John’s sister . . . and my daughters’ aunt as well. I feel that we should remain for her funeral observances. I hope that won’t be TOO much of an imposition . . . . ”

“No imposition at all,” Ben said quietly, before returning his attention to the ledger before him. When Virginia made no move to leave, he reluctantly glanced up. “Is there . . . something ELSE, Mrs. McKenna?”

“Yes, Mister Cartwright,” Virginia said. “My parents have a large house . . . a VERY large house . . . well able to accommodate them, my daughters, and me . . . with plenty of room to spare.”

“Your point being?”

“I’ve been thinking about Stacy ever since . . . ever since . . . . ” Virginia fell silent, as she became painfully aware of the sudden warmth flooding into her cheeks and neck. She bowed her head, focusing on the edge of the desk directly in front of her. “Ever since my late husband made known the, ummm . . . rather indelicate nature of . . . of Stacy’s c-coming into the world.”

Ben scowled. “The only thing indelicate, Mrs. McKenna, was the manner and language your husband chose to make known the circumstances of my daughter’s birth.”

“You’re . . . you’re n-not making this easy for me, Mister Cartwright.”

“Say what you intend to say, and let’s be done with it,” Ben said impatiently, in a voice stone cold.

“As I just said, I . . . I’ve been thinking about Stacy, and . . . well, you know,” Virginia continued. Her face and neck were beet red, and though she lifted her head, her eyes fell very far short of meeting his. “All things considered, I . . . I . . . feel it would be best for everyone concerned if . . . well, if she accompanied my daughters and me to Westpoint.”

“Is this what Stacy wants?” Ben asked slowly, feeling as if he had just taken a hard blow to the stomach.

“I’ve not spoken to Stacy of this,” Virginia admitted. “I thought it best to approach you, since you ARE her father and . . . and legally empowered to decide what’s best for her.”

“Why do you want to take Stacy with you?”

“To spare her . . . and spare YOU, too, Mister Cartwright . . . you AND your sons . . . the humiliation and scandal that will almost surely follow, once your friends and neighbors learn the . . . .” she grimaced delicately, “ . . . details of Stacy’s ignoble origins. If you send her to Westpoint with me . . . well, you know what they say. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“I see,” Ben murmured, inwardly seething. “Tell me something, Mrs. McKenna . . . how did you intend to explain Stacy’s presence in Westpoint?”

“We would simply tell people that she is John’s niece, and leave it go at that.”

“No!”

Ben and Virginia turned toward the stairs, and found Stacy standing there, her face pale, her entire body shaking with fear and anger. Joe stood on the great room floor next to the staircase, his emerald green eyes smoldering with his own just kindled rage.

“Pa, no! Please!” Stacy begged, as she bounded across the room. “Please, don’t make me go.”

“If you’d stop and think beyond your own selfish wants and desires, Young Lady, you’d see that it’s for your father’s and brothers’ better good . . . and YOURS as well,” Virginia said scathingly.

“I WON’T go with you, Aunt Virginia . . . I WON’T!” Stacy passionately declared.

“Now you see here!”

“NO, Aunt Virginia . . . YOU see here. If . . . If Pa tries to make me go, I’ll run away. I swear . . . on my mother’s grave not yet dug, I SWEAR . . . I’ll run away before I go ANYWHERE with you.”

“Stacy— ”

“I MEAN it, Pa,” she angrily cut him off. “You try to make me go with her, I WILL run away.” With that, she turned and bolted for the front door.

“STACY . . . STACY, PLEASE WAIT— ” Joe cried out, as he started after her. She ran outside, slamming the front door behind her, before he could get half way across the room.

“That’s another thing, Mister Cartwright,” Virginia said in a condescending tone of voice. “That girl is far too outspoken and independent for her own good. If she is to grow up to be a proper young lady, she needs a WOMAN’S influence.”

“Mrs. McKenna, I think Stacy is just fine the way she IS,” Joe declared, as he turned the full force of his growing anger on Virginia. “The very last thing in the world I want is for some woman’s ‘kindly’ influence to turn her into some . . . some weak willed, lily-livered sissy who can’t DO for herself or THINK for herself— ”

“Joseph . . . . ” Ben growled in a low voice, as he slowly rose from his chair behind the desk.

“ . . . and another thing,” Joe continued with reckless, passionate abandon. “My sister came into this world because her parents LOVED each other. There’s nothing one bit shameful about that! NOTHING!”

“JOSEPH!” Ben’s terse voice cracked like a whip.

“Pa, I’m sick and tired of constantly hearing this . . . this . . . self-righteous hypocrite cast aspersions on MY sister,” Joe vehemently declared, his entire body trembling. “I WON’T stand for it. Not anymore!”

Virginia McKenna pulled herself up to full height. “Young Man, I DEMAND an apology.”

“I’ll be more than happy to apologize, Ma’am . . . after YOU apologize to my sister for . . . for . . . intimating she’s . . . that’s she’s something less than she oughtta be,” Joe immediately returned, his eyes blinking excessively against the angry tears now forming. “Pa, I’m going outside. The AIR in here’s suddenly gone very stale.” This last was said with a scathing glare directed at Virginia.

“It’s more than abundantly clear you haven’t raised your youngest son properly either,” Virginia said with a disparaging sigh, after Joe had gone.

“Mrs. McKenna, first of all, I raised my sons and I am raising my daughter in the manner I deem most fit,” Ben said, taking no pains to conceal his own anger and contempt for the woman standing before him. “Second, my son, Joseph, knows full well that by and large, I DON’T approve of him losing his temper like that with a guest in our home. I ALSO know full well, that in THIS instance, his anger is justified.”

Virginia gasped, indignant and outraged.

“Everything he said concerning Stacy just now speaks for ME as well,” Ben continued in a low voice, laden with the deadly quiet of a storm about to break. “I love my daughter too much to sweep her under the rug like dirt, and forget about her. So . . . unless SHE decides otherwise, Stacy’s staying right here where she belongs.”

“She belongs with her family, Mister Cartwright,” Virginia said stiffly. “Her REAL family.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Mrs. McKenna,” Ben replied, “and that’s exactly where my daughter is going to STAY! Right here with her REAL family!”

Virginia exhaled a long, melodramatic sigh and shook her head. “Mister Cartwright, you disappoint me. I had thought that YOU, at least, would be sensible about— ”

“Mrs. McKenna,” Ben rudely cut her off, “this conversation is OVER.”

 

Joe, meanwhile, bolted across the yard toward the barn, hoping against hope that he could catch up with his sister. Entering the barn, he ran head on into his big brother, literally. He wobbled on legs that had suddenly turned to rubber, like a tall stalk of grass caught in a ferocious wind, before losing his balance and falling over backwards.

Hoss blindly reached out, grasping his younger brother by the forearms, preventing what might have been a nasty fall. “Joe? Hey, Li’l Brother . . . y’ all right?” he queried with an anxious frown.

“Whoa! Guess you’ve been right all these years when . . . when y’ said it wasn’t f-fat, it w-was . . . it was all r-rock hard muscle,” Joe wheezed.

“Come on. Let’s get ya off your feet for a minute,” Hoss said, as he half dragged, half carried Joe into the barn and sat him down on the nearest bundle of hay. “You SURE you’re alright?”

“Will be . . . in just a minute,” Joe replied, still breathless. “Where’s The Kid?”

“Stacy?”

“Yeah. You seen her?”

Hoss nodded. “She came in here a minute ago, lookin’ madder ‘n nest fulla wet hornets.”

“Where is she now?”

“She told me she had t’ get away for a li’l while, then saddled Blaze Face ‘n left.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No . . . ‘n she was long gone before I could even think t’ ask.”

A few terse, unintelligible syllables escaped from Joe’s lips.

Hoss frowned. “That sounds an awful lot like what Hop Sing says, right after he says he’s gonna quit ‘n go help some cousin o’ his with a restaurant.”

“We gotta find her, Hoss,” Joe said, ignoring that last comment from his big brother.

“What happened?”

Joe curtly shared the entire conversation between their father, himself, and Virginia McKenna.

“Dadburn it!” Hoss growled. “That Mrs. McKenna oughtta be taken out back ‘n horsewhipped! I . . . I hate like all get out sayin’ that ‘bout a woman, especially a woman who’s suffered as much as she has . . . but at t’ same time, I’m gettin’ real sick ‘n tired o’ her goin’ on ‘n on ‘bout Stacy’s comin’ into this world.”

“Thank heaven they’re leaving day after tomorrow,” Joe said with heartfelt relief.

“Amen to that,” Hoss readily agreed. “What did PA say t’ all her goin’ on?”

“I don’t know,” Joe replied. “Between The Kid and me, I’m afraid there wasn’t any room for him to get in a word edgewise.”

“Well . . . what EVER he might’ve said t’ Mrs. McKenna after you ‘n Li’l Sister left, I’m pretty sure he’s gonna have plenty t’ say t’ the both o’ YOU later on,” Hoss said soberly.

“No doubt,” Joe said ruefully. “But, I couldn’t just stand there any longer and let that woman talk about OUR sister the way she was.”

“I know,” Hoss sighed.

“I’m gonna ride out to Ponderosa Plunge,” Joe said. “Stacy goes out there most of the time when she’s feeling low, or she’s got some things to think through.”

“After all that time Pa had t’ keep her on restriction . . . she may not appreciate ya ridin’ out there t’ check up on her,” Hoss warned.

“If she wants to cuss me up one side, back down the other, ‘n call me every rotten, nasty name in the book, she’s more ‘n welcome,” Joe said grimly. “But I AM going after her, first off to make sure she’s alright and second, to keep her from doing something rash like running away from home.”

 

“Supper ready ten minute,” Hop Sing announced, a couple hours later, as the big grandfather’s clock struck the quarter hour before seven o’clock.

Claire tapped Hoss on the shoulder. When he looked up she touched her chest and pointed toward the stairs.

“Yeah,” Hoss nodded, “better g’won up ‘n wake your ma.” He turned to Erin. “Come on, Li’l Lady, let’s you ‘n me g’won out to the kitchen ‘n wash up.”

Erin smiled, and happily fell instep along side the big, gentle man.

“Hoss?”

“Yeah, Pa?”

“After you and Erin wash up, would you mind going out to the barn and fetching in your brother and sister?”

“Sure thing, Pa . . . . ”

 

“ . . . I don’t see ‘em, Mister Hoss,” Erin said a few moments later, as the two of them peered inside the barn.

“Me, neither,” Hoss murmured with sinking heart. “You do me a real big favor ‘n wait right here, by t’ door, alright?”

Erin nodded.

Hoss stepped into the barn, noting with growing dismay that the stalls allotted to Cochise and Blaze Face stood empty. “Daggone it, I’d have thought they’d be back long before this,” he muttered under his breath as he beat a straight path toward the tack room. As he stepped inside, he saw at once that their saddles and bridles were also missing.

“Mister Hoss, is everything ok?” Erin asked, an apprehensive brown creasing her brow.

“Joe ‘n Stacy ain’t here,” Hoss said quietly as he reached for the little girl’s hand.

“Is Hop Sing gonna be mad?”

“He ain’t gonna be real happy ‘bout this, that’s for dang sure,” Hoss said. “Neither will Pa!”

“Do you know where Mister Joe and Cousin Stacy went?”

“Mister Joe rode out to a real pretty place called Ponderosa Plunge,” Hoss replied. “He went t’ look for your cousin, Stacy.”

“Cousin Stacy went to Ponderosa Plunge, too?”

“Well now, she didn’t SAY she was goin’ t’ Ponderosa Plunge, but that’s where she usually goes when she’s upset, ‘n needs t’ think about things.”

“Oh. Mister Hoss?”

“Yeah, Erin?”

“I hear horses,” Erin said. “They seem to be coming from around the other side of the barn.”

Hoss smiled. “That’s probably Mister Joe ‘n your cousin, Stacy, comin’ back now,” he said, the relief evident in his voice. Relief very quickly turned to disappointment when Candy and two other hands rode into view.

“That’s not Mister Joe ‘n Cousin Stacy,” Erin stated the painfully obvious, the frown already on her face deepening.

“Come on,” Hoss said as he started in the direction of the returning men. “CANDY . . . HEY, CANDY!”

“I’ll be with you guys in a little while,” Candy told his companions, as he brought his horse, Thor, to a complete stop.

The other two men nodded.

“What’s up, Hoss?” Candy asked, was he walked over toward Hoss and Erin, with Thor’s lead firmly in hand.

“You happen t’ see Joe ‘n Stacy when you were ridin’ in just now?”

“No, we didn’t,” Candy immediately replied.

“Dadburn it! Pa’s gonna be fit t’ be tied, ‘n Hop Sing . . . . ” Hoss sighed and sarcastically rolled his eyes heavenward.

“You know where they went?”

“Joe rode out t’ Ponderosa Plunge lookin’ for Stacy,” Hoss replied. “Stacy didn’t say where she was goin’ when she took off earlier, but I’m assumin’ it was Ponderosa Plunge.”

“Tell ya what, Big Guy,” Candy said. “There’s still an hour . . . maybe an hour an a half of daylight left. Why don’t I ride out in that general direction and see if I meet ‘em half way?”

“Thanks, Candy, I’d really appreciate that,” Hoss said gratefully. “If you DO happen t’ spot ‘em . . . tell ‘em t’ get a move on?”

Candy grinned. “I certainly will, Hoss . . . . ”

 

“Yes and no, Mister Cartwright,” Candy said with a melancholy sigh, nearly an hour later. “I DID run into JOE on his way back from Ponderosa Plunge . . . but Stacy was no where to be seen.”

“Damn!” Ben swore, his fear and concern mixing with rising anger.

The Cartwright men and Candy stood in a tight circle, over in front of the desk, while the McKennas sat together on the settee. Claire and Erin were engrossed in a game of checkers, while their mother sat, looking over at the men, straining to catch their every word.

“Where’s Joe now?” Ben demanded.

“In the barn seeing to his horse,” Candy replied.

“Hoss,” Ben turned on his middle son. “You were out in the barn unhitching the buckboard and seeing to the horses when Stacy left. You MUST’VE seen her . . . . ”

“Yeah, Pa, I did, ” Hoss said quietly. “She told me she had t’ get away for a li’l while, then saddled Blaze Face ‘n left.”

“ . . . and she didn’t tell you WHERE she was going?” Ben pressed.

“No, Sir, she didn’t.”

“You didn’t ASK?! Or better yet, try to STOP her?”

“Pa, that li’l gal of ours has been through a lot these last few days, what with . . . . ” Hoss cast a quick, furtive glance over toward the McKennas, noting with satisfaction that the girls remained engrossed in their game. Taking great care to lower his voice, so that only his father and Candy could hear, he continued, “what with everything she went through with that crazy uncle o’ hers . . . not t’ mention rememberin’ how her grandparents ‘n aunts died . . . findin’ out you ‘n Miss Paris are her pa ‘n ma by blood, then losin’ her ma ‘fore she had much of a chance at gettin’ t’ know her . . . .

“ . . . and, Pa? I . . . can’t HELP feelin’ sorry for Mrs. McKenna. She reminds me a lot of a horse, that’s been beaten ‘n tormented day in ‘n day out, ‘til finally, it’s spirit ends up broken. But, at t’ same time, havin’ her around ain’t HELPED Stacy a whole lot, either.”

“I’ve told Mrs. McKenna that she’s NOT to speak any more of the circumstances surrounding Stacy’s birth, AND I let her know in no uncertain terms that Stacy is NOT going with her to Westpoint, New York,” Ben said quietly. “I ALSO know full well that Stacy has a lot to take in and work through, and that she’s going to need time alone to do that. But, that’s no excuse for her taking off like she did without telling someone where she was going.”

A few moments later, Joe wearily entered the house. He immediately removed his hat and placed it on the peg nearest the door.

“Joseph?”

Joe froze upon hearing his father address him by his true given name, swallowed nervously, then turned.

“Hoss told me you rode out to Ponderosa Plunge looking for your sister.”

“That’s right,” Joe replied, feeling uncomfortably on the defensive.

“Was she there?”

“No, Pa . . . I didn’t see hide nor hair of her or Blaze Face at Ponderosa Plunge,” Joe replied, his voice filled with anger and worry.

“Didja check for tracks?” Hoss pressed.

“Yeah, I checked,” Joe said curtly. “There was nothing. In fact, from the look of things, I don’t think anyone’s been out there since Pa and Stacy went last.”

“Did she tell YOU where she intended to go?” Ben asked.

“No.” Joe shook his head. “She was gone by the time I reached the barn.”

“Mister Cartwright?”

“Yes, Candy?”

“Most of the men are out in the bunkhouse right now, fixing up their own supper. I’m thinking maybe one of ‘em saw her, or she might have told someone where she was going. If you’d like, I’ll go out and ask around.”

“Thank you, Candy. You’ll let me know what they say?”

“I sure will,” Candy promised, before letting himself out the front door.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Joe?”

“Maybe Hoss and I should go out and look for her,” Joe anxiously suggested. “I . . . know she’s got a half dozen or so places BESIDES Ponderosa Plunge, where she likes to go when she needs to be by herself. Hoss and I could divide ‘em up . . . maybe ask Candy and some of the other men to help us look.”

“It’ll be dark before you could reach ANY of those places,” Ben said ruefully.

“We can’t just leave her out all night,” Joe argued. “What if something happens to her?”

“Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to her, Joe,” Hoss said quietly. “Li’l Sister knows all t’ ways back and forth between here and her favorite places like the back of her hand. She also knows how t’ track every bit as good as you, me, or Pa . . . AND she knows how t’ follow the stars. Ain’t no way she’s gonna get lost.”

“She CAN get hurt, Hoss.”

“She’ll be alright, Joe,” Hoss said, as much to convince himself as to convince his younger brother and father. “Why . . . I’ll betcha anything Stacy’s gonna walk right through that front door any minute.”

As if on cue, the front door opened.

Hoss grinned. “See? I told ya— ”

“Mister Cartwright . . . . ” It was Candy.

Hoss’ face fell, as his father and younger brother turned their attention to the junior foreman.

“ . . . I asked everyone out in the bunkhouse,” Candy said somberly. “I’m sorry, but none of ‘em saw Stacy and she didn’t tell any of THEM where she was headed, either.”

“Thank you, Candy,” Ben said, his voice a bland monotone.

“If there’s anything else I can do . . . . ”

“There isn’t,” Ben said curtly, his voice barely audible. “Not tonight.”

“In that case . . . I’ll see you in the morning,” Candy said, not quite knowing what else to say.

“Good night, Candy,” Hoss said.

“If Stacy’s not back by the time we finish supper . . . I don’t care HOW dark it is . . . I’M gonna go out and look for her,” Joe declared, his mouth and jaw line rigidly set.

“Mister Cartwright?”

They turned and found Virginia McKenna standing in their midst. Though her daughters remained on the settee, they had turned around to watch the interaction between their mother, and the Cartwrights. Their game, half played, sat forgotten on the coffee table.

“Is . . . something wrong?” Virginia asked.

“No,” Joe snapped, drawing a glare from his father and a look of reproach from Hoss.

“Everything’s gonna be alright, Mrs. McKenna,” Hoss addressed her in a more conciliatory tone.

“It’s just that we’ve been waiting nearly an hour for supper to be served and— ” She suddenly broke off, as a smug, triumphant smile became to spread across her face. “This has something to do with my niece, doesn’t it.” It was an accusation, not an inquiry. “This is just the sort of thing— ”

“Hoss, why don’t you g’won out to the kitchen, and ask Hop Sing to fix up a couple of biscuits along with some jam, perhaps, and two glasses of milk for the girls,” Ben said, cutting Virginia off mid-sentence, “and a cup of coffee for Mrs. McKenna, as well, to tide them over until— ”

“Mister Cartwright, when you sit down, have supper?” Hop Sing demanded, as he barreled around the corner, from the dining room to the great room. “Hop Sing keep warm in oven long time. If Hop Sing keep warm in oven much more, dinner ruin. No good except for throw away in garden.”

“A few more minutes, Hop Sing . . . please?” Joe begged. “We’re waiting for Stacy.

Hop Sing’s jaw dropped slightly, as he looked from Joe to Ben, his dark eyes wide with surprise. “Miss Stacy not back?”

Ben immediately pounced with both feet. “Hop Sing, did she tell YOU where she was headed?” he demanded, anxiously.

“No, Mister Cartwright. Miss Stacy not tell Hop Sing where she go,” Hop Sing said tersely. “When Hop Sing ask, she only say she need get away, need be alone. Hop Sing want to tell Miss Stacy be alone LAST thing Miss Stacy need. Miss Stacy need family . . . . ” He looked Mister Cartwright full in the face, his mouth set in an angry, determined line, “ . . . especially papa!”

Ben abruptly turned away, without a word.

A heavy, stunned silence fell over everyone gathered, and remained until broken by the sound of a single horse approaching. Next came the sound of Candy’s voice, followed by Stacy’s, both raised.

“Excuse me,” Ben muttered, as he turned and beat a straight path to the door. “You’re late!” he said curtly, the minute his daughter stepped into the house.

Stacy said nothing. She glared back at him with equal animosity, her jaw rigidly set with obstinate determination and mouth thinned to a straight, angry line.

“Where have you been?”

“Out!”

“Out WHERE?”

“OUT!”

“WHERE?”

“I RODE DOWN TO THE LAKE!”

“The lake?!” Joe echoed, incredulous and a little angry. “You went all the way down to the lake?! Chiminey-Christmas, Kid— ”

“I didn’t MEAN to go to the lake . . . exactly,” Stacy tried to explain. “I had to get away . . . you know . . . . ” She turned and glare over at her aunt for a moment.

“Yeah, Kid. I know,” Joe said curtly.

“I . . . I just started riding, not going anywhere in particular, except for . . . for away,” Stacy continued. “Next thing I knew, Blaze Face and I were at the lake.”

Ben, meanwhile, closed his eyes and took a few slow, deep, even breaths, and tried desperately to count to ten. He only got as high as six. Barely. “Stacy Cartwright,” he said through clenched teeth, wit jaw rigidly set, “you KNOW very well what time we serve supper in this house.”

“I know,” she snapped.

“ . . . and you HAD to have known that you couldn’t possibly have made the trip from here to the lake and back again . . . and STILL be on time for supper,” Ben continued.

“I just TOLD you, Pa . . . I didn’t MEAN to go all the way down to the lake—”

“YOU WENT OUT . . . WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE WHERE YOU WERE GOING, AND NOW YOU’RE AN HOUR LATE!” Ben finally exploded, giving full vent to the fear and anxiety that had been building over the entire span of that hour. “I’VE BEEN WORRIED SICK!”

“HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY BE WORRIED SICK?” she shouted back, clearly on the edge of tears. “YOU HAVE TO CARE ABOUT SOMEONE BEFORE YOU CAN B-BE . . . BEFORE YOU CAN BE WORRIED SICK ABOUT ‘EM . . . . ” With that, she abruptly turned heel and fled to the safety and privacy of her room upstairs.

Ben stood, unmoving, staring after Stacy’s fast retreating form. Just beyond the top of the steps, she melted into the deep shadows as she turned and ran down the corridor. A moment later, the loud bang of her bedroom door being slammed shut reverberated through out the house.

“Let’s have supper,” Ben muttered in a stone, cold voice.

 

The meal was taken in silence.

Hop Sing dutifully served the dried, leather hard roast beef, the congealed gravy, the biscuits now rock hard, along with ice cold mashed potatoes, peas, and squash. He directed an occasional glare at Ben and Virginia, as he slammed the meat platter and serving bowls down in the table, then, mercifully retreated to the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

Tonight, even Hoss’ legendary appetite had dwindled to practically nothing. Fixing his gaze to the meal before him, he focused all of his attention to the task of sawing the big slab of meat on his plate into smaller pieces. Erin, seated between Hoss and her mother, sat back in her chair, with arms folded tight across her chest and an angry scowl on her face. Virginia spared an occasional glance toward her youngest daughter, ordering her to eat. She spent the rest of the time cutting her own beef, squash, and biscuits into tiny, tiny pieces. Joe cut his meat, then pushed the food on his plate back and forth across his plate, until finally lumping it all into an unappetizing greenish-gray lump in the middle. Claire sat next to Joe, staring down at her plate. She tried a bite of beef, followed by half a spoonful of mashed potatoes. She swallowed, then set her spoon down on the table with a soft, melancholy sigh.

At length, Ben resolutely pushed away his plate, it’s contents untouched, and rose. “Ladies,” though he spoke softly, the anger still festering within him made its existence known in the clipped syllables, tersely uttered. He briefly made eye contact with Virginia and her daughters. “If you would excuse me.”

“Certainly, Mister Cartwright,” Virginia murmured in a voice barely audible, her eyes riveted to her plate.

Ben glanced over toward the stairs for what amounted to the space of a single heartbeat, then abruptly turned away. “Hoss . . . Joseph . . . . ”

Hoss glanced up sharply. “Yeah, Pa?”

“I’m going into town. I’ll be very late returning. Please DON’T wait up.”

Both Hoss and Joe stared after their father, stunned, as he threw his napkin down on the table, and walked toward the door, his back stiffly erect. His footfalls, surprisingly soft and quiet given a man of his size, culminated in the slamming of the front door.

“It says somewhere in the Bible, I ain’t sure where exactly, that the greatest act of love is when a man . . . or woman gives up their own life for someone else.[13]” Hoss addressed the small group gathered on the Ponderosa, at Paris McKenna’s grave site the following afternoon, which included the Cartwrights, Hop Sing, Candy, the McKennas, Sheriff Coffee, and Stacy’s best friends, Molly O’Hanlan and Susannah O’Brien.

Stacy stood at the head of the open grave, on Hoss’ right, with Joe on one side, and Molly on the other. Joe looked over at Hoss, with one arm wrapped protectively around Stacy’s shoulders, and tears flowing unchecked down his cheeks. Molly stood on the other side of Stacy, with her arm about her friend’s waist, gazing up at Hoss with a fierce look in her eyes and jaw set with determination. Susannah stood on the other side of Joe, straight and tall, her own face a mirror of Molly’s.

Hoss wanted to take both girls in his arms and to kiss them soundly, knowing beyond doubt, that they and their families would show themselves friends, whom Stacy . . . and the rest of the family, too, could count on in the days to come, when the circumstances surrounding her birth became known. He also noted with dismay that Ben stood near the foot of the open grave, with head bowed, arms folded tight across is chest, holding himself apart, not only from Stacy . . . but from Joe and himself as well.

“I . . . ain’t one to sugar coat things,” Hoss resumed speaking. “Miss Paris had a lot of stubborn pride about her, ain’t no denyin’ that. In the end, I think that might’ve been just about all she had left in this world. Her pride led her t’ make some bad decisions along the way . . . decisions that kept her away from her daughter, Stacy, ‘til about a month ago. Those decisions also kept Stacy away from her pa, Ben Cartwright, an’ from her brothers, Adam, Joe, ‘n me.”

The McKenna daughters stood together, behind Joe, Stacy, Molly, and Susannah. Erin, with her arms wrapped tight around her sister’s waist, buried her face against Claire and sobbed piteously. Claire held Erin close, stroking the child’s long hair. Their mother, Virginia McKenna, stood behind her daughters, facing away from the ritual and those gathered, her face buried in the shelter of her hands. Hop Sing and Candy stood next to Claire and Erin.

“The night ‘fore last, Miss Paris gave her own life to save Stacy, because she loved her,” Hoss continued his eulogy. “She loved Stacy as a friend, an’ as a mother loves her child. As far as I’M concerned . . . and I like t’ think as far as a Loving an’ Merciful God might be concerned . . . there’s a special place in Heaven for a proud, stubborn woman who loved her daughter so much, she gave her own life so her daughter could live.”

Sheriff Roy Coffee stood at the foot of the grave, hands at his side, his eyes moving from Hoss’ face, to Ben, and then to Joe and Stacy. Though not the most sensitive man in the world, by his own admission, even he could see the distance that had grown between Ben and all of his children. He bowed his head, focusing on his hands clasped in front of him, his eyes blinking excessively. In all the years he had known Ben, the boys, Hop Sing, and most recently Stacy, they had come to embody the love, the strength, the trust, and being there for one another, he had come to define as family. He fervently hoped and prayed that the Cartwrights would somehow find the where withal to come to terms with Paris McKenna’s death and the startling revelations that had come out of it.

After Hoss finished speaking, Ben opened his Bible and began to read from First Corinthians:[14] “Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could move mountains, and have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing,” his voice broke on every third word.

“L-Love suffereth long, and is k-kind,” Ben continued, his voice trembling, “love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, d-doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not its own, is not provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Love . . . Love n-never fails.”

Hop Sing and Candy led the McKenna family back to the waiting buckboard. Sheriff Coffee and Stacy’s two friends silently followed, leaving the Cartwright Family alone. Ben, his two younger sons and daughter watched as three of the Ponderosa ranch hands began to lower the coffin into the newly dug grave.

Ben peered into the deep shadows of the open grave, as the coffin gently came to rest, his eyes riveted to the place he imagined Paris’ face to be. Overwhelmed by the agony of her loss one minute, bitterly despising her the next, and wondering how two such extremes could possibly exist in such close proximity left him fearing for his own sanity. He cast a furtive glance over at Stacy, flanked now on either side by Hoss and Joe, not quite meeting her eyes. He had failed her. In failing to earn the trust of her mother, he had failed both of them in the worst possible way a man could fail a lover and their child. All the anger and rage he held in his heart toward Paris for keeping secret her pregnancy and the existence their daughter could never alter that fact. He had failed Paris and ultimately Stacy every bit as much as Virginia McKenna had failed her own children.

“Hoss . . . Joseph . . . . ” Ben looked up, meeting the eyes of his two sons. “I’ll see you back at the house later.”

“Where are you going, Pa?” Joe asked with a frown. “It’ll be dark in less than an hour.”

“I know what time it is,” Ben rounded furiously on his younger son, “and I’m not accountable to you for my comings and goings.”

“Pa . . . . ” Joe protested vigorously.

“I’ll see you back at the house later,” Ben growled back. He turned and started walking resolutely toward Buck.

Hoss and Joe stood unmoving, staring after their father’s retreating back, anxious and bewildered.

With mounting rage and a bullheaded determination that bordered on foolhardy recklessness, Stacy waited until Ben had mounted Buck and disappeared into the surrounding woods. “I’ll see you guys at the house later, too,” she told her brothers, her face set with grim resolve.

“Where do you think YOU’RE going?” Joe demanded, as he placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.

Stacy furiously shook him off with a force and intensity that shocked him. “I’m going after Pa,” she muttered through clenched teeth.

“Stacy, I think you’d better come on back to the house with us,” Hoss insisted.

“I SAID I’m going after Pa,” Stacy replied in a tone that brooked no argument. She abruptly turned, and started past her mother’s final resting place, toward the tall tree, where she had tethered Blaze Face.

Joe and Hoss exchanged worried glances. “How in the world does she expect t’ find him?” the latter queried with a puzzled frown. “He’s had ’way too much of a head start.”

“The Kid learned how to track from the Paiutes, Big Brother, remember?” Joe said tersely. “She’ll find him. Count on it.” He turned and started walking briskly toward Cochise.

“Joe,” Hoss had to run to catch up with his younger brother, “you ain’t fixin’ t’ do what I THINK you’re fixin’ t’ do . . . are ya?”

“If you’re thinking that I’m about to go after that pair of stubborn, hardheaded fools we’ve been blessed with for a father and a sister . . . then the answer is yes! I am,” Joe said grimly.

“I’m coming with ya,” Hoss said.

 

The distant whiney of a horse, and the sound of footsteps approaching through the brush drew Ben from his tormented thoughts. “Who’s there?” he demanded.

“It’s me, Pa,” Stacy said, marching doggedly into the clearing.

“I said I wanted to be alone,” Ben said angrily, turning away.

“I know what you said.” Stacy walked around so she could talk to him face to face.

“Stacy, I’ll be home in a little while,” Ben said in a more conciliatory tone. “I just need a little time to— ”

“I’m not leaving,” Stacy defiantly folded her arms across her chest.

“Stacy— ” some of the anger crept back into his tone.

“NO! DAMMIT, PA . . . I’VE JUST LOST MY MOTHER,” she gave full vent to her own grief and anger at the top of her voice. “I AM NOT GOING TO STAND IDLY BY AND LOSE YOU, TOO.”

Ben reeled, physically and emotionally, against the onslaught of her raw, unbridled primal fury.

“You’ve been avoiding us,” she accused, her jaw rigidly set, “ALL of us, especially me.”

“Stacy, I HAVEN’T been avoiding you— ” Ben’s defense sounded flimsy and false even to his own ears.

“THE HELL YOU HAVEN’T! YOU’VE HARDLY SAID TWO WORDS TO ME SINCE MISS PARIS DIED,” Stacy turned on him furiously. Her pain and rage pushed her to the edge of tears.

“Stacy . . . do you have any idea . . . any idea at ALL . . . what it means to be known as . . . as a child born out of wedlock?!” Ben demanded. Though his tone of voice was harsh with anger, inside, his heart ached under an enormous burden of guilt, too heavy to be borne.

“No! I DON’T know, and I don’t CARE!”

“You may find yourself wishing that I HAD opted to send you to Westpoint, New York with your aunt and two cousins,” Ben said bitterly, “because you’re going to find out very quickly that the ‘good’ people of Virginia City agree with John McKenna. They’ll deny it to your face, of course, and, like as not they won’t say so using the words your uncle did— ”

“I DON’T GIVE A BLOODY TINKER’S DAMN WHAT PEOPLE THINK OR DON’T THINK!” Stacy passionately declared, enraged and grief stricken, with all sincerity, using words, she had heard Miss Paris utter on a few occasions. “THE ONLY THING RIGHT NOW THAT I DO CARE ABOUT IS . . . is . . . I just w-want m-my pa back.”

Ben’s anger evaporated, as quickly and as suddenly as a drop of water, dribbled onto desert sands, evaporates under the relentless glare of a merciless afternoon sun. “Stacy, I-I’m sorry,” he said contritely, his eyes burning with the acrid sting of tears. “I’m so sorry. The last thing in the world I ever wanted to do was hurt you, but I HAVE . . . in the worst way possible . . . beginning, it seems, the day you were born.”

“No, Pa!” Stacy vigorously denied her father’s self-incrimination. “Right before she died? Miss Paris told me to . . . to remember that I . . . that I c-came into the world because you two loved each other,” she continued, her voice trembling. “John McKenna told me HIS children were . . . that they were c-conceived in fear and . . . and born in hatred. YOU saw the way he treated them. In the end, he was going to KILL Claire . . . his own daughter! Aunt Virginia, for all HER crying and carrying on, was still going to stand by and LET him. You and M-Miss Paris did everything you could to SAVE me.”

She began to sob openly, unable to hold back. “Pa, I . . . I’d rather be a . . . a child born into this world because her ma and pa loved each other than any ten children, like . . . l-like my two c-cousins . . . conceived in fear and . . . and born in hatred to . . . to parents who . . . who h-happened to be married to each other.”

Ben embraced her fiercely, clinging to her as desperately as he clung to his pain, his grief, and his guilt. He felt her arms wrapping themselves tight about his waist, her fingers clutching the material of his jacket. He wept openly with her, mourning Paris, the love they once shared, all that had been lost, and all that might have been. He also mourned for Stacy herself, for those very first years, forever lost. He would never know the joy of holding her as a baby, never hear her utter her first word, or see her take her first halting steps. “I-I had no idea,” Ben said, his voice ragged and unsteady. “No idea in the world she was pregnant.”

“I know, Pa,” Stacy sobbed, her own heart breaking with his. “I also know that if you . . . if you HAD known, you would have moved earth, heaven, and hell to find me . . . and f-find M-Miss Paris, too! . . . and you wouldn’t have stopped looking either, until you DID find us. That . . . that no good, dirty, rotten, yella-bellied **** . . . . ”

The word was Paiute. Though he had no idea as to its meaning, Ben winced against the intensity by which she contemptuously spat the word.

“ . . . he tried to make me say it w-wasn’t true, but I wouldn’t.”

With tears streaming down his cheeks, Ben very gently pushed back the hair that had fallen down into her face. “Is . . . is that why he . . . why he did this?” he asked in a voice barely audible.

Stacy nodded.

Ben stood for a time, gazing down at his daughter’s bruised face, and into her bright blue eyes, filled with grief, pain, anger, confusion, and something else . . . .

. . . something very strong and powerful, that reached out to bolster him against the pain and the guilt, that had so grievously burdened his heart since he had learned the reason why Paris McKenna had left so abruptly in the dead of night sixteen, going on seventeen years ago.

Love . . . .

. . . and Trust.

This precious knowledge lifted the terrible, crushing burden from his heart, then pierced it through, like a rapier, all in the same, swift stroke. “I . . . I l-love you, Stacy,” Ben said, his voice breaking under a fresh onslaught of tears.

“ . . . and I . . . I . . . oh, Pa, I love you, too,” Stacy said, sensing that the barriers that had risen the night he and Miss Paris had come to rescue her were gone. Feeling the sting of new tears in her own eyes, Stacy buried her face against his chest, and wept anew.

“Pa . . . Stacy . . . . ” It was Hoss. “Joe and I are here, too.”

Ben reached out for both of his sons with one hand, while keeping the other arm tight around Stacy. He felt their arms, their love, surrounding both him and Stacy. He could hear Joe, standing to his left weeping openly, and feel the moistness of Hoss’ tears flowing down his cheeks to mingle with his own.

Drawing strength from the loving bonds that connected them all not only with each other, but with the land called Ponderosa, and all that lived, breathed, and had being upon her, Ben found the courage to finally let go of the pain, the grief, the guilt, and the anger he harbored towards the mother of the young woman he held so close. With that release, he could acknowledge the love he had, and would always have for one Miss Paris McKenna. There would always be a special place in his heart for her as there were special places for Elizabeth, Inger, and Marie. It would take time, lots of time, for all of the wounds to finally heal. Even so, he could feel the healing beginning within himself.

“Stacy?”

“Y-yeah, Pa?

“Are YOU . . . all right?”

“Not now,” Stacy shook her head vigorously, “but I will be.”

By her answer, Ben knew that healing was beginning to happen within her as well. “Stacy . . . Hoss . . . Joe . . . thank you for coming after me,” he said gratefully.

“Pa, you’ve done the same for all of us many times,” Hoss said, wiping his eyes against the sleeve of his jacket.

“ . . . and besides, we’re family,” Joe added, his voice catching every other word. “You, me, Hoss, Stacy, Adam, and Hop Sing.”

“ . . . and don’t you ever f-forget it,” Stacy said, giving in to a fresh round of tears.

“I won’t,” Ben promised. The revelations that had come to light over the course of the last few hours had ripped the Cartwrights to shreds individually and had sundered their bonds as a family. But, here, in the woods by the shore of the lake, new and stronger bonds of love and trust had been forged in the fires of anger, grief, and guilt, acknowledged and released. “I . . . guess we should think about getting back to the house,” Ben said reluctantly.

“That’s assuming we don’t get lost trying to find our way through the woods in the dark,” Joe said, wiping away the last of his own tears.

“We won’t get lost,” Stacy said, “not as long as we have the stars to guide us.”

The four began to pick their way through the dim twilight towards the clearing where they had tethered their horses.

“Pa?”

“Yes, Stacy?” Ben automatically placed his arm around her shoulders as they walked.

Stacy slipped her arm around his waist. “Joe told me that the name Miss Paris gave me . . . Rose Miranda . . . was your mother’s name,” she said.

“Yes, it was,” Ben said quietly.

“I want to change my name from Stacy Louise to Stacy Rose,” she said. “That way, I’d have HER name, too . . . like you and Miss Paris wanted. Would you mind?”

Ben smiled. “Not at all,” he said. “In fact, I think Stacy Rose is a much prettier name, and certainly more fitting.”

“You do?”

“Yep,” Ben affirmed with an emphatic nod of his head.

“Why?”

“Because, you’re a beautiful wild Irish rose, so very much like your mother,” he said, his voice catching on the last word.

“ . . . complete with the thorns,” Joe teased gently.

“Thanks a lot,” Stacy retorted, with a smile.

“Just do me one favor, Little Sister.”

“What?”

“Don’t ever change a thing,” Joe said. “I love you, Kiddo . . . just the way y’ are . . . rose petals, thorns, and all.”

 

Epilogue

“Here y’ go, Angus,” Hoss said, as he picked up the last of four matching bags, belonging to the late John McKenna, captain, U. S. Army, retired, and handed it up to the stagecoach driver.

Angus Dawson lifted the bag from Hoss’ hands and settled it along side its other three mates on top of the stage. “That it, Hoss?”

“Yep. That’s it,” Hoss replied.

“Driver . . . . ” Virginia McKenna called out, as she darted from her place sandwiched between Ben Cartwright and Janet Greeley, a brisk, no-nonsense matron, aged in her late forties. “Driver!”

“Yes, Ma’am?” Angus queried.

Virginia took up position at Hoss’ elbow, to his right. “You make sure those bags are latched down good ‘n tight, you hear me?” she anxiously admonished. “Three of those bags . . . well, their contents may not have much money value, but they’re awfully important to ME.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Angus grunted. He turned and picked up the coil of rope, lying on the roof of the stagecoach, a little behind him to his left, then set to work securing Virginia McKenna’s luggage.

“You needn’t worry none about your bags, Mrs. McKenna,” Hoss said with confidence. “Once Angus Dawson gets somethin’ tied down, the only way it’s gonna get loose is if Angus Dawson unties it.”

“A-Are you sure?” she queried, her voice filled with trepidation and doubt.

“I’m sure,” Hoss affirmed, nodding his head.

“ . . . and . . . your father will send the rest of John’s things . . . after he gets instructions from MY father?”

“We’ll follow your pa’s instructions to the letter, Ma’am,” Hoss solemnly assured her. He wisely chose not to tell Virginia that they had received a wire from Major Sinclair yesterday afternoon, instructing the Cartwright family to . . . .

“ . . . dispose of my late son-in-law’s personal effects in whatever manner you see fit.”

She was the wife of Enoch Greeley, the president of the Vein-Glorious Mining Company, a small, but lucrative operation that had acquired the mining rights to a major vein of silver ore, newly discovered. Enoch and Ben were business associates, in that the latter owned a hefty thirty-five percent share of stock in the former’s mining operation.

Janet Greeley was leaving Virginia City on the Overland Stage, the same day as the McKennas, also bound for Westpoint, New York and the home of her daughter and son-in-law, to be on hand for the birth of her first grandchild. Upon learning that Virginia McKenna and her two daughters were traveling to the same destination, she had offered to take them under her wing, and see them safely to the home of Virginia McKenna’s parents.

“I know you’re not going out of your way, but it was still kind of you to offer, and . . . . ” Ben cast a quick, furtive glance over his shoulder, noting with satisfaction that Virginia McKenna seemed to be in animated conversation with Hoss, while the girls stood with his youngest son and daughter over next to the depot. “ . . . truth be known,” he continued sotto voce, “I was a little worried about the three of them making so long a trip by themselves.”

“Understandable,” Janet silently mused, even if only half of the things about the McKenna woman currently making their rounds through Virginia City’s vigorous rumor mill turned out to be true. Aloud, she said, “Ben, you can rest assured that I’ll deliver Mrs. McKenna and her daughters to Westpoint safe and sound . . . right to her parents’ front door.”

“Janet, I can’t thank you enough for your gracious offer to see the McKennas to Westpoint,” Ben said, grateful and deeply relieved. “I know I’m going to rest a whole lot easier, knowing they’re in your care.”

“Oh posh, Ben,” Janet scoffed gently. “It’s not like I’m going out of my way or anything . . . . ”

“Thank you, Janet . . . and I’ll be sure to keep your daughter and grandchild soon to come in my prayers,” Ben promised.

“Thank you, Ben,” Janet said with a smile. “Though her doctor promises a safe delivery, speaking for myself, I’m going to rest a whole lot easier knowing there’s people praying for my daughter and her baby.”

“Ben?” It was Roy Coffee. With a glance over at Janet Greeley, he politely touched the rim of his hat and inclined his head slightly. “Good afternoon, Ma’am, would ya mind excusin’ Ben for a moment?”

“Not at all, Sheriff Coffee,” Janet graciously assented.

“I’ll only be a moment,” the lawman promised. He and Ben moved apart from the others.

“What’s up, Roy?” Ben asked.

“I just wanted t’ let ya know I gotta letter from Miss Russell in Dodge City about Miss McClelland,” Roy said, lowering his voice. “Seems she was George Edwards’ common law wife. They have . . . HAD a li’l gal, who was found t’ have some kinda blood disease.”

“Had?” Ben echoed with a frown.

“That wire George Ellis got from Miss Russell tellin’ George Edwards someone named Lucy died . . . that was their daughter,” Roy explained. “Ben, I want ya t’ know that so far as I’M concerned none o’ this EXCUSES what George Edwards done, but I CAN understand . . . a li’l anyway . . . . ”

“Go on, Roy,” Ben prompted with the sheriff did not immediately resume.

“In her letter, Miss Russell said the li’l gal was found t’ be sick three, maybe four years ago,” Roy began. “Doctors . . . medicines . . . ‘n hospital stays tend t’ be expensive, as I’m sure ya know, Ben.”

“Yes,” Ben nodded in agreement.

“Seems this George Edwards’d made himself somethin’ of a reputation as a bounty hunter out there in Kansas, ‘fore he met ‘n settled down with Miss McClelland,” Roy continued. “Miss Russell said he doted on that li’l gal ‘n was devastated when he found out she was so sick.”

“I . . . think I can guess the rest, Roy,” Ben said somberly. “He and Miss McClelland found, as time passed no doubt, they couldn’t afford the doctors, the medicines, and other medical care their daughter needed . . . so he hired himself out . . . himself AND his gun . . . . ”

“That’s about the size of it, Ben,” Roy said quietly.

“No wonder,” Ben murmured softly, shaking his head slowly back and forth.

“No wonder . . . what?” Roy asked.

“No wonder he was so good with Arch and Mary Campbell . . . and their boys when their daughter, Amy, died,” Ben replied. “By then, Eddie . . . George . . . who ever he was . . . must’ve known that his own daughter was dying.”

“That Collier fella told me somethin’ else about George Edwards . . . . ”

“What was that, Roy?”

“He said the very last time he spoke t’ Mister Edwards, he told him he couldn’t quite bring himself t’ go through with killin’ Stacy,” Roy replied. “He’d THOUGHT he could . . . with the kind o’ money Mister Hilliard ‘n Mister Deveraux offered t’ pay him, he ‘n Miss McClelland could’ve taken that li’l gal o’ theirs to a specialist somewhere.”

“Yes . . . it could’ve,” Ben agreed . . . .

 

“Cousin Stacy?” Erin, in the meantime, ventured shyly.

“Yes, Erin?”

“Would you write to me and tell me about Mama Cat’s kittens? Please? Mister Hoss showed ‘em to me yesterday . . . . ”

“Of course, Erin,” Stacy promised, pleasantly surprised and touched by her young cousin’s request.

“Oh, Erin, really! Of all the silly— ” Virginia McKenna sighed disparagingly and rolled her eyes heavenward. She, then, turned to her niece. “Now, Stacy, I don’t want you going to a lot of fuss ‘n bother to write Erin a . . . a . . . a whole long missive over a silly litter of kittens.”

“No trouble, Aunt Virginia . . . no trouble at all,” Stacy said very quickly.

“Well, well, well,” Virginia murmured softly, all the while shaking her head in complete bewilderment. “That child is certainly chock FULL of surprises.”

“You, uhhh . . . talkin’ ‘bout my li’l sister?” Hoss queried softly, as he gently took her by the elbow and carefully edged her away from the circle comprised of her two daughters, Stacy, and Joe.

Virginia nodded. “The day before yesterday . . . when we buried my beloved husband? She couldn’t be bothered to fulfill her duty, as John’s niece, in accompanying me and my daughters to visit the men who so diligently . . . so devotedly . . . served her uncle in war time AND in peace . . . yet, she’s more than willing to write Erin just to let her know about a silly litter of kittens. It just plain and simply boggles the mind, Mister Cartwright.”

She sighed again and shook her head. “I DO wish your father would reconsider his decision about keeping Stacy here,” she continued. “With my mother and me taking a good firm hand, that girl would very quickly learn the difference between things silly and frivolous . . . and the things that are her bounden duty and obligation.”

“Ma’am, my pa’s doin’ a real good job in raisin’ Stacy . . . in teachin’ her ‘bout the important things in life . . . ‘n all the things NOT so important,” Hoss said with confidence. “Now he might not be raisin’ her ‘n trainin’ her the way you ‘n your ma would, but I know for fact, he IS doin’ what’s best ‘n what’s right by that li’l gal.”

“Time will tell, I suppose,” Virginia said in a dismissive tone, “and, seeing as to how your father is so adamant about keeping her here, she’s not really mine to worry ‘n fuss over.”

“You’re right about that, Ma’am,” Hoss wholeheartedly agreed.

“ . . . and besides . . . I’m going to have my hands full looking after my own daughters,” Virginia continued. “I’m so grateful . . . grateful beyond words that Mama’s going to be there to help me out.”

“Claire . . . Erin . . . we have a couple of going away presents for you,” Joe said with a big smile. “You got ‘em, Stace?”

“Right here.” Stacy reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out two small gifts, wrapped in plain brown paper. “Hoss whittled ‘em, then Joe and I painted ‘em.”

“Thank you, Cousin Stacy and Mister Joe,” Erin said softly, after her cousin had parceled out the gifts.

Claire smiled, and vigorously nodded her head in agreement.

“Can we open ‘em now?” Erin asked.

Claire gently elbowed her younger sister and mouthed the word please.

“Oh yeah . . . can we open ‘em now . . . PLEASE?” Erin quickly amended her request.

“You sure can,” Joe readily assented, grinning from ear-to-ear.

Without further ado, the McKenna sisters quickly tore off the brown paper. Claire’s gift was a standing horse, painted to match Joe’s horse, Cochise. Erin’s was a napping cat, curled into a perfect circle with its nose tucked under the tip of its tail.

Erin gasped, as she gazed down at the wooden cat figure lying in the palm of her hand. Her bright blue eyes shone with pure delight. “She . . . she looks just like Mama Cat,” she exclaimed.

Claire smiled as she held the carved horse up for a better look. Glancing over at Joe, she first pointed to the horse gently cradled in her right hand, then over at him. She, then, held up her hands in front of her, as if she were holding tight to invisible reins.

Smiling, Joe nodded. “Yeah, Claire . . . that’s Cochise,” he replied.

 

“Mrs. Greeley?”

Janet turned, and glanced up, raising her hand to shield her eyes from the sun, now nearing its zenith. “Yes, Mister Dawson?”

“I just wanted to let you know that the mail’s loaded, and seeing as t’ how you and the McKennas are my only passengers, we can leave whenever you wish,” Angus Dawson said.

“Thank you,” Janet said briskly. “Well . . . the sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll all get to where we’re going.”

“Mrs. McKenna, from t’ sound o’ things, it looks like you folks’ll be leaving early,” Hoss said.

“How early?” Virginia demanded, her eyes round with mild alarm.

“Just as soon as we can get ourselves aboard, Mrs. McKenna,” Janet said briskly, as she gently took the younger woman’s elbow.

“Claire . . . Erin . . . looks like the stage is getting ready to leave now,” Joe said.

“What about our presents?” Erin wailed. “I don’t wanna lose ‘em . . . . ”

Claire turned to her sister and lifted the carpetbag that held all of their belongings.

“That’s a good idea,” Stacy said, smiling. “You can put your gifts inside the bag . . . where they’ll be safe.”

“Claire! Erin!” Virginia frantically called over her shoulder, as Janet kept her stepping lively toward the open coach door. “Come on! We’re leaving!”

“We’re coming, Mama,” Erin called back.

Joe took the carpetbag from Claire and opened it, allowing both girls to place their gifts inside.

“Girls! Come ON!”

“They’re coming, Aunt Virginia,” Stacy called back this time, while her brother closed the carpetbag.

With bag in hand, Joe began to herd the two girls over in the direction of the stagecoach. Stacy followed close behind.

“Up y’ go, Young ‘n,” Hoss said as he lifted Erin up into the stagecoach. “You be sure t’ mind your mama ‘n Mrs. Greeley.”

“I will, Mister Hoss,” the girl eagerly promised. “Will you write to me . . . after we get to Westpoint?”

“I sure will . . . if YOU write me back,” Hoss said with a grin.

Claire turned to the three Cartwright offspring, and smiling, she pointed to herself. Next, she held up her right palm, and with the first finger of her left hand made motion, as if she were writing, then finally, she pointed at Stacy first, then at Joe, and last at Hoss.

“You bet we’ll write to you, too, Claire,” Stacy eagerly promised.

“But, same deal applies to YOU as to your younger sister, Claire,” Joe said. “You have to write to US back.”

Claire nodded and mouthed back the words, I will.

“We’d best get you up inside, too, Claire,” Hoss said. He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her with almost ridiculous ease. “We’re all countin’ on ya t’ help look after your mama ‘n sister.”

Claire nodded solemnly.

“Have a safe trip,” Joe said, as he handed the carpetbag back to Claire.

“We will, Mister Joe,” Erin responded with a smile. “Bye, Cousin Stacy . . . ‘n Mister Hoss, ‘n— ”

“I think a ‘good-bye, Everybody,’ will do, Young Lady,” Virginia admonished her youngest daughter.

“Good-bye, Everybody,” Erin said, waving vigorously.

“Oh! Oh dear, oh dear!” Virginia gasped. “Mister Cartwright . . . Mister Cartwright . . . . ”

“Yes, Mrs. McKenna?” Ben responded.

“Thank you! Thank you so much for everything!”

Ben smiled. “You’re very welcome.”

“Mister Dawson, you’d better close that door right now, lest we be here all afternoon saying good-bye,” Janet said testily.

“Yes, Ma’am . . . .”

 

“I sure hope things go well for ‘em when they get to Westpoint,” Joe said quietly, after the stagecoach had rounded the corner at the bottom of the hill.

“Me, too,” Stacy agreed. “After living with the likes of John McKenna . . . . ” She shuddered.

“Given a lot of time . . . a lot of love and patience, I’m sure the three of ‘em will eventually find a measure of peace and security,” Ben said, as he stepped in between his younger children and placed his arms around their shoulders.

“Mrs. McKenna’s pa WAS real quick in sendin’ an answer back t’ her wire,” Hoss quietly added his own two cents, “ ‘n HE’S t’ one who invited them t’ live with him ‘n his wife in Westpoint.”

“That’s true,” Joe had to agree.

“ . . . ‘n that tells me that maybe . . . just maybe . . . Mrs. McKenna’s pa ‘n ma are willin’ t’ give ‘em a home ‘cause they care about ‘em,” Hoss continued.

“I’ve always said that you’re a real good judge of character, Son,” Ben said, favoring his biggest son with a proud smile, “and seeing as how YOU’RE optimistic, that’s good reason for the rest of US to hope for the best.”

“Thanks, Pa,” Hoss murmured softly, his cheeks all of a sudden several shades pinker than usual. “Well, Li’l Brother, you ‘n me got a lot t’ do while we’re in town today,” he continued, quickly turning his attention to Joe and to all of the practical matters at hand, “so we’d best get at it.”

“You boys remember to bring Hop Sing’s list?” Ben asked.

“I got it, Pa,” Hoss immediately answered, “right here.” He gently patted his vest above the approximate location of his shirt pocket, with a smile.

“All right, Boys . . . see ya both at home later,” Ben said, looking from one to the other. He, then, turned to his daughter. “You and I’d better get a move on ourselves, Young Woman. You have chores to finish and I need to sit down with those ledgers.” This last he said with a melancholy sigh.

“Think maybe you and I could make another trip out to Dressler’s Pond later on this afternoon?” Stacy asked hopefully. “After I’ve finished with my chores and you’ve finished with the ledger, of course . . . . ”

“School’s back in session first thing Monday morning, Young Woman,” Ben quickly reminded her, much to her dismay and chagrin. “After you finish your chores, I think your time might be better spent checking over any written homework and reviewing your reading assignments. You ought to know as well as I do by now that whenever Miss Ashcroft is out sick for any length of time, she tends to grade all the harder.”

“Yes, Pa . . . I know,” Stacy sighed dejectedly.

“Hey, Kid . . . don’t look so glum,” Joe quipped with a broad grin. “Surely you haven’t forgotten summer vacation’s just around the corner . . . . ”

 

The End
April 2002
May 2008 Revised

Next Story in the Bloodlines Series:

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