Rating: K+

Word Count=6396

Summary: Joe finds a mysterious apple pie recipe with directions that must be followed. Happy Early Birthday, Devy! 

Reviews from the Old Library are on the last page.

Recipe for Disaster

Joe concentrated on removing the apple’s peel in one long, curly strip as Hop Sing did. With the cook in San Francisco visiting cousin number 125 (there were so many it was easier to keep track of them with numbers rather than names), the Cartwright men were left to fend for themselves. As it was Wednesday, it was Joe’s turn to make dessert. He squinted at the sheet of paper lying on the table as he stripped the apple.

“Whatcha doin’?” asked Hoss. He’d entered the kitchen because the lack of aromas meant there was no meal preparation. It was Adam’s turn to make an entrée but he’d jumped up from the table after finishing breakfast, saying that he had to check on the fence in the east pasture.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” asked Joe, annoyed that it wasn’t obvious.

“Hey, what’s that piece of paper for?”

“It’s a recipe. I found it shoved under my door this morning. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but I thought I’d give it a try.”

“This here paper says you gotta cut your thumb. You ain’t gonna do that, are you?”

“I don’t want to, but if the recipe says I have to then I suppose I do.”

“Why would you have to?”

“I don’t know. Look, would you leave me alone so I can finish this pie?”

“It also says Adam’s gotta ride for the doc when your thumb gets infected. I don’t see nothin’ about the pie going in the oven.” Hoss turned the sheet of paper over in hopes that there would be more meal preparation instructions on the back. His lips pressed together tightly in a frown. 

Joe stopped in mid-peel and glared a few daggers at his brother. Hoss should be grateful for a real dessert. Pa’s turn was last night and all they got were licorice drops bought at the mercantile. Tonight there’d be a genuine apple pie—maybe not as good as Hop Sing’s but homemade nonetheless. Joe snatched the recipe out of Hoss’s hands and carefully set it back on the work table.

“Don’t you have something to do?” Joe asked his bigger brother.

Hoss almost had an apple in his beefy hand but drew back when a stinging slap was delivered with a wooden spoon. “I s’pose I could muck out the stalls again.”

With one final cut, the peel was removed and the naked apple set in a bowl. Joe figured two apples should yield enough slices for a pie although Hop Sing always seemed to cut up at least a dozen. Joe let out a satisfied sigh as he wiped his hands on the dirty apron. Laundry was another chore that had fallen by the wayside with Hop Sing out of town.

Joe focused on cutting thin slices of even thickness. Hop Sing seemed to have it down to an art—he’d hold half an apple in one hand and the knife in the other, thumb of his right hand managing to stop the blade with just enough pressure to keep from going through his own skin. Joe was amazed that Hop Sing could look over his shoulder, hold a conversation, and never miss a slice. 

“Joseph!”

“In here, Pa.”

”Whose turn is it to mop the floors?” The lines that creased Ben’s forehead deepened with his scowl.

“Check Adam’s chart.”

After Hop Sing left, Adam wrote the chores on slips of paper and dropped them in a hat; each member of the family took a turn selecting until all of the tasks were assigned. As a chore was called out, Adam wrote that person’s name in the corresponding space on a chart so everyone would know which responsibilities belonged to each Cartwright each day. What Adam hadn’t counted on was the bargaining that began after all of the chores were assigned; the chart was full of eraser smudges where names were replaced one or more times after negotiations.

Ben noted his assignment with displeasure. “Since you’re wearing an apron, Joseph, mop the floor when you’re finished with that pie. This place smells like cattle.”

“It’s a ranch, Pa. It’s supposed to smell like that.” Joe took a long sniff and added, “You even smell like cattle.”

“Don’t get smart with me, boy.” Ben emphasized his point with a long forefinger.

Joe pretended to concentrate on slicing an apple while he peeked out of the corner of his eye at his father. Pa’s scowl made it look as if he were wearing a horseshoe on his face. 

“In the corner, by the pie safe.” Joe smiled and suppressed a chuckle as Pa clomped across the room. The way Pa carried the mop made it appear like a lance that Ivanhoe fellow would have used. 

The knife slipped on bare apple and cut through the calloused skin of Joe’s thumb. The knife clattered to the floor as Joe stuck the fleshy pad of his thumb between his teeth; the salty taste of blood mingled with the sweet juice from the apple. Braving a look, the cut appeared to be shallow even though a flap of skin was pushed back. He wiped the blood on the apron, shook his thumb a few times to relieve the throbbing, and then wrapped his bandana around the wound to make a bulky bandage. Retrieving the knife, he wiped it across the apron and finished slicing the apple. 

After dropping the last of the apple in the bowl, he checked the oven. A wave of heat washed over his face but he was sure the oven had to be hotter to thoroughly bake the pie. There were only three pieces of wood in the box; he’d just have to get Hoss to chop some more. Hoss wanted to eat, he should be willing to work.

Joe wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand. Cooking sure was thirsty work! selected a glass that didn’t look too dirty and filled it to the brim with cool water. After chugging it down in practically one gulp, he pumped more and greedily drank again. He fanned his face with a dish towel and took a couple of deep breaths. When he shook his head, the room spun for a few moments; he grabbed the edge of the work table to steady himself. 

“I suppose that’s what seasickness feels like,” Joe muttered after the kitchen stopped whirling.

He consulted the recipe and saw that a combination of sugar, cinnamon, and nutmeg were to be blended in a separate bowl. Precise measurements were included beside each ingredient, which in combination were supposed to bring out the apples’ juice and flavor. Per the recipe, he sprinkled the mixture over the apples and checked on the next step. It seemed rather strange—pour mixture into pie crust, add top crust, use knife to cut slits in top crust for ventilation, and pass out on the floor. He double-checked that last step; his eyebrows drew together to create a long, furry caterpillar. This must be one of Adam’s jokes. 

The filling plopped into the pie crust but left a sticky mess in the bowl. After getting the last bit scooped out, he centered the top crust and briefly wondered what to do with the overhang. With his tongue pressed into the corner of his mouth in concentration, he carefully sliced the excess dough away and then pinched the edges of the crust as he’d seen Hop Sing do. Finishing, he double-checked the recipe. Yep—he was still supposed to pass out on the floor. That’s just dumb, he thought as he rolled his eyes.

There was one last step before the pie went in the oven—cutting the ventilation slits. He tried to remember how Hop Sing did it—from the center back to the edge or just in the center. With a shrug, he decided to focus his efforts in the middle of the pie. Standing back to admire his work, he again wiped a hand across his sweaty brow and then fell in a heap on the dirty floor.

Ben was in mid-mop stroke when a noise caught his ear. It almost sounded like . . . nah, couldn’t be.

Hoss walked in and Ben’s face turned three shades of red in less time than it took the largest Cartwright to sniff out what was for supper. “Can’t you see I just mopped there?” Ben yelled as pointed an accusatory finger at the offensive boot print on the floor.

“Sorry, Pa,” said Hoss as he jammed his hands into his pockets like a naughty five year old boy caught removing the lid from the cookie jar.

Ben cocked his head and asked, “Did you hear that?”

“What?”

A barely audible squeak came from the kitchen. 

“There it is again.”

“It’s prob’ly just a mouse,” suggested Hoss.

The mop clattered to the floor as Ben rushed for the kitchen. He gasped at the sight of his youngest— Joe’s knees were drawn to his chest, his bandana-wrapped thumb tightly clasped under his chin. He whimpered in pain. Hoss’ eyes widened like saucers and he gulped nervously as his father knelt down beside Joe.

“What happened?” Ben asked softly as he held his son and gently brushed back the sweat-dampened hair.

“I…I…I cut myself,” Joe replied, holding up the crudely bandaged thumb as if it wasn’t obvious.

“It’ll be okay,” Ben murmured as he gently rocked his youngest. He tenderly stroked Joe’s cheek then said, “You’re burning up!”

“I was only following the recipe,” Joe gasped out between teeth-rattling shivers.

“Get him up to bed,” Ben snapped at Hoss. “Then get that bed warmer filled with coals from the fireplace. Where’s Adam?”

“He ain’t home yet,” Hoss said as he swiftly scooped his brother up. 

“Who’s going to ride for the doctor?” asked Ben, wringing his hands.

“I’ll go after I get him settled.”

“OUCH!”

Ben winced at the sound of Joe’s boot smacking into the newel post of the stairs. “Be careful!”

“Yes, Sir,” answered Hoss.

Both men stopped in their tracks when the door opened. Hoss swung his precious burden, bumping Joe’s head into the banister railing.

“Would ya watch it!” Joe said in a pitiful voice, rubbing his scalp.

“Where have you been?” Ben thundered, hands on hips.

“In the east pasture. You told me this morning to check the middle section of the fence.”

“It shouldn’t have taken this long,” said Ben, brow furrowed. “Go get Doctor Martin and tell him to hurry.”

Adam headed for the kitchen. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” asked Ben.

“I’m thirsty.”

“That’s what your canteen’s for. Now go get Doctor Martin.” Ben returned his attention to Hoss and said, “Get your brother up to bed.”

Adam watched the trio turn the corner on the second floor and then he went into the kitchen. As he sipped cool water, he surveyed for signs of disaster. Other than a few drops of blood mixed with some flour on the worktable, there wasn’t an indication of what could’ve happened to require Doctor Martin’s attention. It wasn’t as if Joe had cut off a hand. 

Picking up the pie, he noticed the sheet of paper. He placed the pie in the oven and then carefully scrutinized the recipe for clues. The handwriting was a very neat print rather than flowery cursive. Instructions for making the pie were followed by rather bizarre statements: Hoss carries Joe upstairs, Adam rides for doctor, Joe feverishly thrashes in his bed, JPM. If he didn’t know any better he might think that this was one of those stories for that Devonshire girl who couldn’t get enough of his little brother suffering from rather sadistic wounds. He decided that was pretty far-fetched since Joe hadn’t been shot, beaten to a pulp, shoved off a cliff, or stomped on by a horse; he hadn’t been anywhere near a stagecoach in the past week, either.

“Why are you still here?” asked Ben as he rushed to the sink and primed the pump. 

“Have you seen this?” asked Adam as he held forth the recipe.

“What about it?”

Adam looked it over again and said, “This isn’t Hop Sing’s handwriting. I wonder who left this.”

“Hop Sing probably got someone in town to write it out for him.” Ben stuffed several dishcloths into his pockets then carefully lifted the washbasin so water wouldn’t splash. “If I have to tell you one more time to ride for the doctor, you’ll be beaning horses for a week.”

“Oh alright.” Adam folded the recipe and placed it in his shirt pocket. “Do you want me to ride back with the doctor or can I stay in town for a beer?”

Ben turned quickly, sloshing water onto his boots. His eyes narrowed in annoyance. “What do you think?”

Adam sighed loudly as he closed the door behind him. How did Joe manage to get in these predicaments? Did Joe have some sort of magnetic attraction where bodily harm was concerned? 

*
Ben wrung the dishcloth then gently placed it on Joe’s forehead. He tenderly smoothed back the unruly hair and wished Marie was still alive to tend to her son—she always knew how to calm him with a gentle touch or whispered word.

Joe moaned, kicked at the quilts, and tightly clenched his fists. Another feverish wave of pain struck and his back arched, thrusting his sweaty chest above the bed covers. His body relaxed for a few brief moments before his arms began to flail—one fist hit the wall and the other caught Ben just below the eye.

Hoss was bringing another pitcher of water into the room. “Bet that’s gonna leave a shiner.”

“We’ve got to keep Joe from hurting himself further. Get some twine from the barn so we can keep him still.”

Pulling an apple from his pocket, Hoss shined it on his shirt before asking, “You want me to sit on him for a while?”

Ben’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Just get the twine.”

*
Adam pounded on Doctor Martin’s door for at least fifteen seconds before giving up. He shrugged and headed for the other medical office in town—Doctor Hickman’s Kwik Kure and Soda Shoppe. Back when Joe had been shot and wolf bit, Doctor Hickman had prescribed a serum made from prickly pear fruit but the doctor hadn’t realized the medication was on back-order. As a result, Hoss had had to make a record-breaking ride to Genoa and back for the miracle cure. Adam wondered if the doctor would have something in stock for Joe’s latest boo-boo.

Strolling past the saloon, Adam resisted the temptation to stop in for a quick beer; he didn’t want Pa to complain about his lack of compassion. He decided he’d just pour a glass of brandy once he got home and relax by the fireplace with a good book.

The little bell over the door jingled as Adam entered Doctor Hickman’s place of business. Young couples and kids often frequented the soda shop but burly miners were known to occupy a seat when their shifts ended. 

“You here for a soda or to see the doc?” asked Billy, a pimply-faced young man who was more popular with girls his age because of the free samples he doled out rather than his charm.

“The doc. Is he in?”

A scream from the backroom answered Adam’s question.

“Doc’s pullin’ one of ol’ Toby Barker’s teeth. Seems Toby would just have one of the stage drivers sock him in the jaw.” 

A few minutes later, Toby came out with cotton packed into one cheek, giving him the appearance of a chipmunk with its winter collection of acorns. 

Doctor Hickman squeezed his patient’s shoulder in way of reassurance. “Don’t chew on that side for a day or two and change out the cotton in the morning. Try not to swallow any of it but if you do, a good dollop of cod liver oil should pass it. Soda’s on the house. Fix him up, Billy.”

“Sure thing, Doc.”

“Well, Adam,” said the doctor as he extended his hand, “What can I do for you? That brother of yours wolf bit again?”

“No. He cut his thumb while slicing an apple. He’s running a fever, too.”

The doctor scratched the stubble on his chin. “Thumb infection, eh? Those can be mighty serious. Go fetch my rig, Billy.”

Adam slowly twisted back and forth on the stool as the doctor muttered the names of tinctures and syrups on the shelves behind the counter. Doctor Hickman plucked a few jars and bottles from their resting places and carefully put them into his medical bag.

“You’re all set, Doc,” said Billy over the jingling of the bell.

“Will you be riding out with me?” the doctor asked Adam. 

“I’ve got to see Roy but I’ll probably catch you up on the road,” Adam replied.

Adam watched the doctor head down the street, the buggy wheels raising a small cloud of dust. If the horse kept its current pace, Doctor Hickman would probably arrive by suppertime. Adam grimaced as he remembered it was his night to cook supper; he wondered if Sally over at the International House would put a care package together if he promised to escort her to the next dance. 

*
Back at the ranch, Hoss finished securing Joe’s ankles to the bed posts. “That oughtta hold him,” he said, tying a bow.

Ben wrung the excess water out of a cloth and gently laid it across Joe’s forehead. “Everything’s going to be okay, Joseph. Just relax.”

Another bout of shivering held Joe’s body captive and he struggled against the twine. He panted from exertion and whimpered, “Pa.”

“I’m here, son.”

“I…I…I’m s…sorry.”

“It’s just a bruise. It’ll heal up.”

“Pie.”

“Reckon he’s sorry for not finishin’ tonight’s dessert,” observed Hoss. He took a deep sniff and was rewarded with the aroma of apple pie calling to him as a siren’s song. His eyes glazed over and his nose led him from the room.

Ben glared hot coals at the doorway. If his middle son hadn’t been conceived and born on the trail West, he might’ve wondered about Hoss’ paternity. Sometimes that boy didn’t behave like a Cartwright.Hoss must take after Inger’s folks.

Another whimper caught Ben’s ear. “It’s okay, Joseph. The doctor’s on his way.”

“Don’t let…don’t…”

“What, son? Don’t let what happen?”

“Don’t…”

“I won’t let the doctor take your thumb.”

“Not…th…thumb.”

“What? Can you tell me?”

“Pie. Don’t…burn.”

Of all the… Ben couldn’t believe his ears. Since when was Joseph more concerned about food than a JPM? Joe craved his father’s reassuring hugs and touches like a fish craved water. 

Fear’s cold tendrils suddenly gripped Ben’s heart. What if one of those apples had been poisoned by someone who didn’t like JPMs? Where was Adam with that blasted doctor?

*
Adam, biding his time until Sally got a package of food together, stepped into Roy’s office and was disappointed that the sheriff wasn’t in. He’d checked back by the cells to make sure the sheriff wasn’t playing checkers with a prisoner, but no such luck. Noticing a pile of paperwork on the desk, Adam tidied up, placing current wanted posters into a pile and tossing those marked “Caught” into the trash can. 

With a corner of the desk cleared, Adam sat and pulled the recipe from his pocket. The handwriting didn’t match any that he was familiar with and there weren’t any visible fingerprints on the paper. He frowned as he realized that a fingerprint wouldn’t be any good without something to compare it to and no one was going to put up with dipping their fingers into ink just on a whim. There had to be some sort of connection between the blasted recipe and what had happened to Joe. He snapped his fingers in a sudden burst of inspiration and put the paper away for safekeeping.

Adam jogged over to the International House, his boots clattering a staccato rhythm on the boardwalk. He nearly knocked Miss Sally over when he flung the door open.

“Oh, my!” she said, retrieving the brown-wrapped packages from the floor. Regaining her composure, Sally handed the larger bundle to him and smiled in a way that reminded Adam of a hungry coyote. Her eyes sparkled like polished gold nuggets as she said, “You may pick me up next Saturday evening for Lucretia Bailey’s engagement party.” 

Adam tucked the grease-stained packages under his arm and then tipped his hat. “Until Saturday.”

Sally tilted her head as she watched Adam stuff the parcels into a saddlebag. She exhaled a dreamy sigh as he mounted up, his pants tightening in all the right places. 

*****

Ben was lightly dozing when the clip-clop of hooves roused him from sleep. He pulled the curtain aside, revealing Doctor Hickman tying the horse to the rail. He’d expected Doctor Martin, not the town quack.

Downstairs, Hoss greeted the doctor and escorted him to the stairs. “You’ll know the way,” was all Hoss said before returning to the kitchen.

Doctor Hickman entered the sickroom and was surprised to see his patient restrained. He noted the bruising on Ben’s face and hoped this visit would be a two-fer. “Adam told me that young Joe cut himself while slicing apples. Do you have any idea why he reacted this way?”

Ben’s eyes widened in disbelief and his Adam’s apple bobbed a few times. “You’re the doctor. You tell me why this happened.”

The doctor carefully removed the bandana around Joe’s thumb to reveal a thin red line but no swelling or bruising. He gently pressed near the cut and Joe whimpered in response but no blood came forth. Standing, Doctor Hickman put a hand on his hip and ran the opposite forefinger across the stubble under his nose. 

“Well, Ben, I don’t know what to tell you other than I’ll be sending a bill.”

“Isn’t there any medicine you can give him?” Ben asked, his voice rising in pitch.

“I have no idea why Little Joe is so sick. If I prescribed something, it could end up doing more harm than good. In the meantime, just give him water and keep those cool cloths on his forehead to bring his temperature down. I recommend that you put a steak on that shiner,” he added, pointing to Ben’s eye.

As the doctor put on his hat, he said, “Tell Little Joe to stop by once he’s better. He can have a soda on the house.” 

*
Adam passed Doctor Hickman on the road and wondered if medicine had been left to cure whatever ailed Joe as there was no mention of the doctor doing so in the recipe. There was no sense in hurrying, so Adam kept Sport at his current pace.

Arriving home, Adam retrieved the packages from the saddlebag, wrinkling his nose at the smell of greasy fried chicken. He flung the front door open and tossed his hat on the sideboard before bounding up the stairs two at a time. He entered Joe’s room and saw Pa sitting with his hands clasped tightly together, forehead resting on them, mouth moving in silent prayer. Joe was tied to the bed, whimpering in pain.

The wafting aroma of apple pie reminded Adam that the packages under his arm should be in the kitchen. He quietly backed out of the room and quickly descended the stairs. Entering the kitchen, he wasn’t surprised to find Hoss eating directly from the pie pan.

“Doc wadn’t able ta do nuffin’ fer Lil Joe,” Hoss said around a mouthful of gooey apple pie. He eyed the grease-stained packages like a wolf sizing up its next meal. “Whaddya got?” he asked, directing Adam’s attention with the tines of the fork.

“Supper,” said Adam, setting the packages on the worktable. He pulled the recipe from his pocket and smoothed the creases from the paper.

“Whatcha doin’?” asked Hoss, face scrunched in concentration as he untied one of the greasy bundles.

“You’ll see.” Adam reached into his pocket and removed a pencil he’d pilfered from the sheriff’s office. Adam turned the recipe over and wrote: Hoss chokes on chicken. Adam saves him. With that, Adam looked intently at his brother, waiting to see if his theory was correct.

Hoss suddenly dropped the slim chicken leg and clawed at his throat. Adam watched in fascination as his brother turned an interesting shade of purple. After a few seconds, Adam thumped Hoss’ back several times, sending the chunk of bird to its correct destination. 

Hoss braced himself against the worktable, sucking deep breaths into air-starved lungs. “How?” he squeaked.

“This piece of paper is under some kind of enchantment. Whatever is written on it happens.” Adam held up the recipe and used the tip of the pencil as a pointer. “See here, where it says you carry Joe upstairs? That happened, right?”

Hoss’ mouth formed an “O” as his face faded to the color of flour. He nervously chewed on a fingernail for a second before saying in a loud whisper, “Joe smacked me with a wooden spoon. You don’t suppose that Gigi is behind all this, do you?” He furtively looked around the kitchen, half afraid that she’d leap from behind a pot and scare the bejeebers out of him.

“It’s got to be one of those girls who love seeing Joe suffer. They must be getting desperate if they’ll settle for a simple little infection instead of a good old-fashioned bronc-stomping.”

“That can’t be Gigi, then,” said Hoss in relief. 

A smirk crept across Adam’s face as he wrote. Hoss plucked another drumstick from the package and leaned against the worktable. 

Early One Morning echoed throughout the house as Ben sang at the top of his lungs. Adam snickered at his creativity. Hoss stuck his forefingers in his ears, the greasy piece of fried chicken resting against his hair. 

Picking up the recipe and the pencil, Adam nodded for Hoss to follow and the two went upstairs. Despite his hands covering his mouth, Ben was still singing away. Joe thrashed against his bonds, beads of sweat glistening against the bare skin of his chest. Ben couldn’t help but notice the mischief in Adam’s eyes and vowed his eldest would spend the next month digging privy pits for the lineshacks. 

“That was real good,” said Hoss as the echo of his father’s singing faded.

Ben slowly removed his hands from his mouth and loudly exhaled in relief. “What’s going on?”

“Adam found a magic paper,” said Hoss around a mouthful of chicken, gesturing towards his brother with the bone.

“A magic paper?” asked Ben, one eyebrow rising in question.

“Not exactly magic,” said Adam, trying to keep his discovery to himself. “It’s that recipe Joe was following to make the pie. Turns out what’s written on it happens.”

“I see,” said Ben, his mouth tightening in annoyance. “I don’t suppose that…paper…had anything to do with my singing.” 

Adam nervously shifted his weight back and forth, a habit he’d had since childhood when fixed by his father’s stern glare after hedging around the truth. “I had to find out if my theory was right,” Adam finally said.

“It sure was, wasn’t it?” asked Hoss as he stripped the last bits of meat from the bone.

A soft moan drifted through the air and Ben moved from the chair to the bed to gently stroke Joe’s sweat-soaked curls. 

“It’s going to be okay, Joseph. Adam’s going to make everything alright.” Ben looked at his eldest much as a vulture might regard a dying steer. “Aren’t you, Adam?”

Knowing his father wouldn’t tolerate any argument, Adam pulled the pencil from his pocket and hastily scrawled Joe makes a miraculous recovery and cooks supper.

Ben brushed limp hair back from Joe’s brow and worried when a soft sigh escaped his youngest’s parted lips. He leaned closer to examine his son’s face for any sign that the enchantment was lifted.

Joe’s eyelids fluttered open and, startled by a pair of dark brown eyes so close to his own, he tried to sit up but only succeeded in head-butting his father’s forehead. 

Ben rocked back and carefully probed the rising knot over his left eye. 

“Ow!” Joe yelped. He tried to move his hand but couldn’t. Looking around, his eyes widened in fear at the twine holding him tightly to the bed. “Pa?” he asked in a soft voice. 

“You two cut your brother loose,” Ben ordered, retreating to a safe distance.

Hoss stuffed the remains of the drumstick into a pocket before obeying his father’s command.

Once free, Joe shook his hands to banish the tingling and numbness. He noticed the thin, red line on his thumb and was instantly reminded of the pie. Quilts were hastily tossed aside as Joe leapt from the bed and thundered down the stairs.

“I’ll be,” said Hoss before he lumbered out of the room.

The clanging of pots and pans echoed throughout the house as Joe complied with Adam’s addition to the recipe.

Ben sighed in relief at Joe’s miraculous recovery and then caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror—his right eye was swollen shut and surrounded by a large dark purple bruise and a large red knot was rising over his left eye. 

“Did the doc give you anything for that?” asked Adam out of curiosity, pointing at Pa’s face.

Ben turned his attention to Adam, stopping his eldest in mid-step in the same manner a cobra would freeze its prey. Adam nervously swallowed as he recalled Pa’s threat about beaning horses. Ben reached out a hand, palm up, in silent demand.

“I should just toss this in the fire,” said Adam in a barely audible voice. 

Ben curled his fingers a couple of times in a gesture that clearly conveyed, “Hand it over.” 

Adam held the piece of paper between two fingers and stretched forth, keeping his body at a safe distance. He regretted telling Hoss about the enchantment; that blabbermouth would get his comeuppance, with or without magic. Once the paper was out of his hand, he bolted for the kitchen as there had to be safety in numbers.

Ben scrutinized the paper and then a glint of mischief lit up his eye. He plucked a pencil from Joe’s desk and scrawled Ben has no chores. A combination snicker and snort escaped Ben’s nose as he scratched out his previous statement and wrote Adam does all of Ben’s chores. Ben hoped the recipe magically altered the chart. He was soon rewarded with a shout of protest from the kitchen. 

Carefully folding the paper, Ben tucked it into his shirt pocket for safe-keeping. He’d have to find a secure place to hide the recipe, someplace that his sons would never think of looking. A smile crept across Ben’s face at the sound of Adam’s insistent shouting that the chart was useless if no one was going to follow it and it wasn’t really his turn to dust all of the knick-knacks anyway. 

Reaching his room, Ben crossed to the window at the sound of hoofbeats. He looked down into the yard to see a curly-haired young lady trying to get a dappled gray horse to stop turning in a circle despite her best efforts. 

Finally getting the animal to stand still for a moment, she called up, “Did it work? Did you get that JPM?”

Ben connected the dots between the mysterious recipe and his much longed for JPM. “I did but I also got this shiner. You certainly have an unconventional approach to SJS and JPMs. Didn’t Lisa and Southplains explain it right?”

“Yeah, but I’m not much for following instructions.” She reached into her saddlebag and tossed up a shiny tube of concealer. “Put that around your eye so the bruising won’t be so noticeable.”

“Four buckets of quarters, right?” Ben asked.

“Yup. You shook on it and a deal’s a deal.”

“I’ll have them for you tomorrow, at the old Johnson place.”

“Good doin’ business with you, Mr. C.,” the lady hollered as she held onto the saddlehorn to keep her seat since she’d lost a stirrup when the horse sprang into a gallop.

That Patina sure was a nice girl despite her gambling habit. Ben tsked at the thought of all those quarters wasted on slot machines. 

Ben sank into a chair and patted his pocket for reassurance. That piece of paper was going to come in handy when he wanted his boys to do something they didn’t like. He wondered if he could marry one of them off to give him some grandchildren just by writing it down. Then again, maybe he could just request a grandchild or two rather than a ditzy daughter-in-law. Tapping the pencil on the desk, he thought for several minutes.

Shouting continued to drift up from the kitchen, so Ben headed downstairs to stomp his patriarchal boot and put a stop to the arguing. As he crossed the big room, a knock sounded against the door. He opened it and curiously looked down into blue eyes set in a freckled face.

The boy removed his hat, revealing wiry, red hair. He smiled and said, “Hi, Mr. Cartwright. I’m Jamie.”

The End
February 2012

Thank you, Lisa, for the beta read!