SUMMARY: As Adam copes with single parenthood, his middle child experiments with gravity. She discovers that it doesn’t bend to her will but perhaps her father understands her more than she thinks.
RATING: G     WORD COUNT: 37, 631

Adam’s Little Women Series

Queen of the Dunes

The (Almost) Grand Adventure

 

The (Almost) Grand Adventure

 

Chapter 1

She was doing it again. His eldest was giving him that same stern gaze he used on her and her sisters. Brows scrunched tightly in a way that created a sharp line between them, with one arched just slightly higher than the other. Eyes narrowed a bit, Beth’s tongue pressed against the side of her cheek, as though it were the last physical barrier between the thoughts in her brain and her mouth. The tightness of her jaw made it clear that the metaphorical dam was about to burst.

It was truly beyond disconcerting how well his eleven-year-old could pull off his this-is-your-last-warning look, not to mention the fact that she felt free to direct it at him with such ease. Then again, Adam didn’t expect anything different from Beth, the embodiment of Cartwright hardheadedness.

He wouldn’t have minded her expertly copied version of his stare so much if he could understand why she thought it necessary.

“Are we no longer interested in a story tonight?” he asked mildly. “I thought we might introduce Nora to one of your favorites.” Adam lifted the book so his middle child could see it clearly—the well-worn cover of Five Weeks in a Balloon.

Already tucked into her bed, Nora reached for the book, her eyes lighting up at the illustrations on the front. Years of love by her big sister hadn’t dimmed the gilt title or balloon, nor dulled its ability to spark the imagination. He passed it to her with a soft word of caution about handling it carefully, before glancing at Beth once more.

Rather than snuggle in beside her sister until the younger girl fell asleep, she remained standing beside the bed. Beth took in Nora’s eyes, bright with anticipation, and shook her head. “I don’t think that’s an appropriate book, Papa.”

The words were spoken sharply, even critically, in the same voice Beth used to scold or redirect Georgie. The protective stance beside the bed certainly caught his attention, too. Beth was in full big sister mode, something setting off that inner alarm of hers.

Must be ringing like a church bell in her ears.

Adam had his own when it came to Hoss and Joe who still activated it at times; the curse of being the eldest.

Alarmed or not, he had never been permitted to speak to Pa that way without consequence, and he would not allow Beth to do so either. Both of Adam’s eyebrows lifted, his head canting slightly. “Elizabeth…”

Her chin tipped up, defiance flickering in her eyes.

“If you have a concern, you may voice it respectfully. You’re always allowed to speak,” Adam said evenly. “But the only one who gives lectures is me. Is that understood?”

The measured rebuke landed. Beth’s bravado collapsed at once, and she nodded quickly. “Sorry, Papa.” Her gaze dropped to the floor for a long moment before she looked back up. At his nod—acceptance—she offered a small, tentative smile.

“Now,” he prompted gently, “tell me why you believe this is a poor choice.”

She glanced at Nora, already tucked in, eyes bright with anticipation, then back to him. “Because she’ll get ideas.”

Nora blinked. “What ideas?”

Beth shot her a warning look. “The kind where you think you can do things you absolutely cannot do.”

Adam’s mouth twitched. It’s like watching history repeat itself.

“Papa.” Beth’s gaze pleaded with him not to make her list the many ridiculous, whimsical schemes Nora dreamed up.

Amusement flickered in his eyes. “Such as…?” He had strong suspicions about the examples Beth was trying to avoid. She wasn’t wrong, Nora had a creative streak.

“Remember this summer,” she began, voice a mix of exasperation and awe, “when she tried to build a catapult out of the old wheelbarrow and the barn gate? Georgie got shot into the barn loft!”

Nora’s eyes widened, and she murmured, “That was an accident. She got in the way at the last second. I just wanted to see how far it could go.”

“I seem to remember that another child of mine was involved in that, uh, project,” Adam pointed out, quirking an eyebrow meaningfully.

“I was only checking the scientific principles like in your book. It was a promising idea in theory. I did not tell her to use it. Or to launch our baby sister into the loft. Or anywhere else. Or anyone else!” Beth hurried to defend herself. “And what about the time you decided to give the chickens baths? In the trough?”

“They were dusty!” Nora countered, her voice rising indignantly. “Some of them liked it.”

Beth shook her head. “Liked it so much they didn’t lay eggs for weeks. Hop Sing was really mad, too. I think four of ‘em just up and left!”

Adam bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. I need to tell Pa to give Hop Sing a raise if this is what he’s dealing with while we’re out of the house.

“And don’t forget the time you tried to teach the pigs to pull a sled,” Beth added. “On dry ground. You tied yourself to it, Nora. You tied yourself to it.” She slanted a look at Adam. “When Nora says she is ‘curious’ or has an idea… Papa, it’s never good. Those are recent examples, too!”

Nora drew her knees up under the blanket, eyes bright despite herself. “…But some of them almost worked.”

Beth shot Adam a look that plainly said see what I mean? “This is going to be a book of instructions, not a story. I can feel it.”

Adam cleared his throat, though the corner of his mouth gave him away. “All right,” he conceded. “That’s a fair concern.”

His eldest lifted her chin, a brief flash of victory crossing her face.

“But,” Adam continued, “stories aren’t what give children ideas. Curiosity does. And Cartwright children,” he added pointedly, “have that in abundance whether I read to them or not.”

Beth hesitated, worrying the inside of her cheek. “You could read something safer.”

“Safer in what way?”

“Like… something where no one attempts to cross a desert in a basket dangling beneath a balloon,” she quipped.

Adam retrieved the book and sat on the edge of the bed. “Tell you what—if Nora starts asking how to build a balloon, I’ll close it.”

“And if she tries anyway?” Beth’s tone made it clear she was unconvinced.

“Then,” Adam said evenly, “we’ll have a talk about the difference between stories and sense.” From his place on the bed, he patted the mattress, inviting Beth to climb in and try to enjoy the tale. It was her favorite, after all. Surely, she wasn’t going to stand there—or leave altogether—on nothing more than the suspicion that her sister might hatch some harebrained scheme.

For a moment, it seemed she might. Beth stayed rooted where she was, arms crossed, watching her sister like a hawk. She looked ready to intervene at the first hint of her little sister’s imagination taking a dangerous turn.

At last, with a heavy sigh, she gave in, unable to resist the pull of hearing her favorite story read by Papa.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn anyone,” she muttered as she climbed into the bed. For all her grumbling about Nora’s more whimsical, inventive streak, Beth slipped an arm around her little sister and pulled her close.

As Adam opened the book, the frontispiece caught his eye—a meticulously detailed illustration of an elephant hauling a traveling balloon, people visible in the basket beneath it.

Unbidden, his gaze shifted to Nora. “If any ideas start bouncing around in that head of yours, Eleanor, we’ll talk about them before you try anything.” At his pointed look, Nora nodded solemnly.

Beth relaxed a fraction, satisfied that she’d made her case, while Nora studied the cover with fascination, the warning already slipping in one ear and out the other.

—–

“Zanzibar.” Nora repeated the word slowly to herself after hearing it read aloud. She repeated it a few times, as though it might sound less strange the more she said it. “Papa, is that a real place?”

Placing his finger in the book to mark the spot, Adam closed the tome briefly. “It is,” he confirmed. “It’s an archipelago—several islands grouped together—off the east coast of Africa. It’s ruled by a Sultan.”

“That’s like a king,” Beth added helpfully, “We don’t have those here. We told England we didn’t want their king no more—”

“Anymore,” Adam corrected without looking up, though there was a hint of a smile in his voice.

“Anymore,” Beth amended dutifully. “And now we have a president that people vote for. We pick our leaders.”

Nora’s eyes widened, round and bright, the firelight catching in them. “Me too?”

“Not yet; not girls. Someday, I think we will,” Beth stated. “Mama believed in it.” She remembered attending the meetings with Alta, hearing the intelligent women speak about how much they, too, contributed to society. The lectures and discussions made her heart soar in a way Beth couldn’t put into words.

Reopening the book, Adam didn’t resume reading it yet. Instead, he looked down at his daughters. “Someday,” he said. “I believe that you’ll be able to. Both of you.”

“I’d pick someone nice,” Nora declared. She considered other virtues with a serious face. “And brave. And someone who wouldn’t yell.”

Adam reached out and brushed a thumb over Nora’s curls. “Those are good qualities to look for,” he said quietly. “In leaders—and in people.”

Nora beamed, satisfied, and snuggled further under the bed clothes. “I like Zanzibar,” she announced. “It sounds like flying.”

Chuckling, his gaze returned to the page. “There are many places in the world that do,” Adam agreed, and began to read again, his voice steady as the story came alive.

Words like gas, heat, and inflate filled the little girl’s mind as Adam read the scientific preparations of Dr. Ferguson. Nora tried to picture it all in her mind, putting her vague grasp of the concepts together with the air balloon on the cover to create a sort of understanding.

Curiosity bubbled up inside of her, and Nora interrupted again. “How can it fly, Papa? It don’t got no wings.” She reached out, her fingertip carefully tracing the gilt image stamped on the book’s cover—the round balloon, the tiny basket hanging beneath it. “None at all.”

Smiling, Adam gently corrected her. “Doesn’t have any wings.”

“I said that,” Nora grinned, unrepentant. “You see it, too?” She tilted her head, studying the picture as if it might answer her back. “How’s it work without wings?” As Papa closed the book again, she shot Beth a quick, apologetic look, as though she feared she’d finally crossed some invisible line.

The eldest Cartwright sister didn’t mind. She remembered very well how she herself had peppered Papa with questions the first time they read Five Weeks in a Balloon, barely letting him finish a page before interrupting. As long as Nora’s curiosity remained harmless it didn’t trouble Beth at all.

“They fly because of hot air,” Adam explained patiently. “You heat the air inside the balloon. When air gets hot, it expands and becomes lighter than the cooler air around it. Nature likes balance, so the lighter air rises. Up the balloon goes with it.”

Nora’s mouth formed a small, impressed ‘o.’

“But how do they steer it?” she pressed. “Can they make it go where they want?”

“That’s the clever part—and the tricky part. They can’t really steer it. Mostly, they travel wherever the wind takes them.”

Nora frowned at that. “That don’t sound very safe.”

“It isn’t always,” he agreed. “But balloonists learn to read the sky. The wind doesn’t blow the same way at every height. Sometimes it turns east higher up, or west lower down. By letting the balloon rise or fall—using heat or dropping a little weight—they can catch different currents and guide themselves some.”

Beth nodded. “Like crossing a river by stepping on rocks instead of swimming straight across.”

Adam gave her an approving look. “Exactly like that.”

“And if they want to go down?” Nora asked.

“They let the air cool,” he said, “or open a valve at the top so the hot air can escape. They also carry sandbags. Dropping one makes the balloon lighter and go up. Keeping them makes it settle.”

Nora sat very still for a moment, absorbing all of this. Then her eyes shone again. “So, they gotta think the whole time.”

“Yes,” Adam said softly. “They do.”

She rested her chin in her hands, gazing at the book with renewed respect. “I think I’d like to fly like that,” she decided.

Her older sister immediately looked alarmed, but Adam only smiled softly. “You should talk to Uncle Hoss; he’s been in one.”

Rode it, too, if holding on to the ropes as it rose in the air counts.

Simultaneous exclamations of “He has?!” were heard. One was a small shriek of delight, complete with wide-eyed wonder. The other held a considerable note of warning as Beth copied one of his looks again.

“Shh, don’t wake Georgie,” Adam admonished. “Now, let’s try to get through this part, hm? It’s nearly time for you both to be asleep. Especially you, curious girl.” He leaned forward and kissed Nora’s head. Not wanting Beth to be left out, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, too.

Nora’s eyes sparkled with questions still unspoken, but sleep was already tugging at her. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, “I’m going to ask Uncle Hoss about it.”

Eyes rolling heavenward, Beth sighed in that way only an eldest sibling can.

 

Chapter 2

Church clothes shed with a stunning level of rapidity, the youngest generation of Cartwrights burst forth from the main house and into the yard with an explosion of enthusiasm. The enforced quiet and stillness of Sunday services doubled the energy and noise Ben’s grandchildren—ten of them now—were capable of. He watched in wonder as they dashed outdoors, their shoes and boots skidding as they moved quickly, racing each other.

“Outside isn’t going anywhere,” he admonished. “Stop scuffing my floors!”

Half of them out on the porch, a quarter partway through the door, the rest jostling to exit, every child paused. Their heads swiveled towards Ben at the sound of his voice. Grandpa was fun, but he meant business when his voice rose.

Swallowing a chuckle and feeling pleased he could still command the attention of young people, he feigned a stern look. “Someone’s going to hurt the little ones if you’re not careful. Not to mention my floors!”

Several heads dropped, looking at the wood beneath their feet, searching for damage. Discovering none, Benjie let out a loud whoop and proceeded to bound out the door, the others following. Bringing up the rear was Beth, holding a toddler with each hand. She cast a look back at the adults, half apology, half mischief, before shifting her grip and shepherding the little ones forward.

“Slow,” she murmured, though her own smile betrayed her. The toddlers complied for exactly three steps before their feet tangled and they lurched ahead together, squealing as Beth steadied them and laughed despite herself. The porch boards creaked under the renewed movement, but the chaos had softened now—more shuffle than stampede.

Ben shook his head, lips twitching. That made eight out of doors, and two still inside being put down to nap. Good odds.

Unwilling to let Beth bear the responsibility of all the children alone, the adults headed out to the porch. The scent of the tall pines and the crisp touch of fall in the air, combined with the rich aroma of the coffee that filled their cups, made for a warm atmosphere as they settled comfortably together.

From their spots on the porch, they could hear and see all the rise and fall of shrieks as the children enjoyed made-up games, the ball being alternately kicked and thrown as an argument worked itself out over how to play with it. In the center of it all was Beth, keeping a keen eye out, constantly counting heads to make certain no one wandered. A sharp word brought Benjie back when he attempted to sneak towards the corral. The dark glance she sent Benjie as he slunk back transmitted more disappointment than an eleven-year-old ought to be able to summon up.

On the porch, Joe gave a low moan, dragging a hand down his face. “Did you see that look? I think my soul just apologized on Benjie’s behalf.”

He tipped his chair back on two legs and angled a grin at Adam. “You ever notice how she doesn’t have to raise her voice? Just that stare. That very specific, you-know-better stare.”

Adam’s lips twitched in amusement, but he didn’t look in Joe’s direction. He kept his eyes centered on the yard. “She’s responsible,” he said mildly.

Joe snorted. “Responsible? Adam, that was a full Cartwright indictment delivered in silence.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice as Beth redirected two younger children with a touch to each shoulder and a quiet word. “I’ve seen you stop grown men with that exact same look.”

Ben chuckled into his coffee. “He’s right, Adam. That was your look, son. Same angle of the head, too.”

Adam shifted and tugged at his earlobe. “She learned it somewhere,” he conceded, raising both eyebrows.

“Yes,” Joe said promptly. “From you. She just refined it. Made it sharper. Honestly, I’m impressed—and a little afraid.”

Out in the yard, Beth caught Benjie eyeing the fence again. One lifted brow was all it took. He sighed, turned back, and kicked the ball toward the others.

Joe lifted his cup in salute to his niece. “Eight kids, no casualties, and order maintained without a single shout. Face it, Adam. That’s your legacy right there. If we have to live with even more of those looks of yours, at least she’s prettier than you, older brother.”

Adam finally glanced at him. “Finish your coffee,” he said dryly.

Joe grinned wider. “See? There it is again. I’m right, aren’t I, Hoss? Same look he’s been givin’ us for years.”

“Gave you, little brother,” Hoss corrected, his laugh booming across the porch. “A lot more’n he did me.”

The laughter earned him a wounded glance before Joe promptly mimicked Hoss’s laugh—overblown and ridiculous, complete with a shoulder shake and a deep, theatrical ha-ha-ha. It earned him exactly what he was aiming for.

Ben barked out a laugh, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his cup as he tried to regain control.

“Yes, you’ve had it very rough,” Amanda said sweetly, laying a hand on her husband’s arm, her voice a picture of sympathy even as her eyes danced. “Years of unbearable hardship, enduring brotherly guidance. I don’t know how you survived.”

“See? Nobody understands my pain.”

Across the yard, Beth caught the edge of laughter from the porch and looked up. For a brief second, her eyes narrowed—head tilting just so—before she turned back to the children, issuing a quiet directive that sent two of them scrambling to comply.

“There.” Joe used his cup to gesture towards Beth with enough enthusiasm that he spilled some of the liquid on himself. “That,” he added. “Tell me you didn’t teach her that.”

Adam stared into his coffee for a moment longer than necessary, a grin slowly spreading across his face. At last, he turned towards Joe, one brow lifting in a way that made his youngest brother’s grin falter just a touch.

Their father noticed and shook his head, his chuckle softening into a satisfied hum.

“Pa! Hey Pa! Pa!”

Four heads snapped to attention and scanned the yard for whomever was calling. For Ben, it was a force of habit to look up at such a yell. Anyone shouting at him from the yard, however, wouldn’t be saying ‘pa’—his sons were right there with him.

Adam gave Joe a nudge in the leg with the heel of his boot, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Neither of yours call you ‘Pa’ yet; calm down, little brother.”

Joe straightened, mock-offended, pointing a finger at Adam. “Hey now! They’re just little, give ’em time—they’ll learn to appreciate greatness.”

The eldest brother snorted in response.

“Both of ya simmer down, it’s one of mine,” Hoss retorted, spotting his oldest boy, Benjie, waving.

The hand movements grew to frantic proportions once he knew he had Hoss’s attention. “Pa! Come play!”

Hoss’s grin widened, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he set his coffee cup down. Benjie’s arms flailed with excitement as he spotted his pa moving toward him. Hoss crouched down, opening his arms wide, and Benjie dove into a joyful hug, squealing with delight.

From the porch, Adam shook his head, smiling.

Hoss scooped up Benjie with ease, spinning him around once before setting him down and grabbing two more kids, one under each arm. Laughter erupted, blending with the shouts and squeals of the older children, the yard alive with motion. Hoss’s booming voice called out instructions that were half game, half gentle correction, keeping chaos just orderly enough to be fun.

Joe, watching, felt the familiar tug of competitiveness—and a grin spread across his face. “Well, if he’s going to hog all the fun, I suppose I’d better get in on this,” he muttered, sprinting toward the action.

The children’s heads turned in surprise and delight as Joe arrived, crouching low and making exaggerated sneaky movements, growling playfully as if he were a wild animal stalking prey. The older kids shrieked and scattered in mock terror, while the littlest ones giggled uncontrollably as Joe “chased” them in wide, clumsy circles.

Beth, who had been keeping a careful eye on the toddlers at the edge of the yard, finally set them down and shook out her skirts, a determined glint in her eyes. “You aren’t the only ones who get to play,” she called, striding forward with authority.

The children immediately cheered, recognizing the familiar tone of leadership, and rushed to include her in their games.

Joe didn’t miss a beat, darting toward Beth with mock menace. “Oh, I see how it is!”

Beth laughed and lightly tapped him on the shoulder, and Joe pretended to stumble just enough to elicit peals of laughter from the children. Soon, the yard was a whirlwind of movement—Hoss tossing a ball, Joe chasing the older kids, Beth corralling the littlest ones, and every child in between, shrieking and squealing with pure delight.

Eventually, breathless and red-faced, Hoss called for mercy and dropped onto the porch, stretching his legs out in front of him. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, grinning as the children darted past again.

That was when Nora made her move.

After waiting days and days and days (four whole ones!) for a chance to get Uncle Hoss all to herself to talk about balloons, now was her opportunity. She immediately abandoned the game and darted across the yard, legs pumping as fast as they could carry her.

There was no missing his niece as she came at him with considerable speed. Hoss was more than ready for Nora when she arrived and, rather than let her leap on him, the man opened his arms wide to catch her. Once he did, Hoss tossed her gently in the air before catching her again. “Need a rest, too, honey?” He settled Nora on his lap, waiting for an answer, but he doubted it would be a ‘yes.’ Not with how fast she was moving seconds ago!

Nora wagged her head back and forth. “I needa talk to you!”

The urgency behind her words caught him off guard. His arm tightened around her a little, as if guarding her from whatever invisible threat might be waiting. “Talk to me huh? Well, here I am.” Though Hoss gave her his usual sunny smile, his forehead creased a bit with concern.

Gripping his vest tightly, Nora held on to it as she changed positions, moving to sit on her knees. Now face to face, she tugged on the tan leather, her eyes wide and expression serious. “Uncle Hoss… I gotta know…” Nora was so excited, she gulped in air to speak faster. “Everything ‘bout Zanzibar! Is it hot there? Hotter’n summer here? Was the trees different? Did you see the Sultan? An’ cross the ocean? How big’s the ocean, huh?”

The big man’s mouth opened and closed without speaking as Nora rattled off questions faster than he could process. He briefly glanced around, looking for Adam in hopes that his elder brother could explain what she was talking about. The other man had taken Hoss’s place playing with the children and wasn’t even looking in the direction of the porch. He was on his own.

“Hold on, hold on,” Hoss began, holding up a hand to bring the questioning to a pause. “Zanzi-what now?”

Rather than being thrown off by his obvious confusion, Nora plowed ahead. “Zanzibar,” she repeated. The word was spoken slowly; in case she’d pronounced it incorrectly the first time. “When you was in a balloon. Did you go there, across the ocean in a boat, before you got in a balloon that went in the sky?”

Only the mention of the sky helped Hoss figure out what his niece was asking about, at least in part. “Balloon in the sky?” A wide grin spread across his face. “How’d you know I saw one of those?”

Nora bounced a bit in his lap, thrilled that Uncle Hoss understood her. “Papa! We’re reading a story ‘bout them and he said you been in one. In the book, they go to Zanzibar in a great big boat. It takes them cross the whole wide ocean to get there,” she elaborated. “Did you do that too, Uncle Hoss? Tell me!”

Hoss’s arms tightened around Nora again—this time not to steady her, but to keep her from launching herself clean out of his lap in sheer excitement. He smiled down at her, taking her earnest curiosity seriously.

“Those’re mighty good questions,” he said warmly. “I sure wish I had grand answers for all of ’em, but I didn’t cross no ocean or go clear off to Zanzibar”—wherever that was. “Truth is, the balloon was right here on the Ponderosa.”

Nora’s jaw dropped. “Here?” she breathed. She leaned in so close their noses nearly touched, eyes crossing as she tried to focus on him. “Where?” Another thought sprung to mind, causing her to draw back slightly and narrow her eyes. “Does Papa know? Is it a secret? You can tell me.”

Hoss couldn’t help chuckling and lifted a hand to gently tap the end of her nose. “It ain’t a secret,” he assured her. “And it’s not here anymore.” The way Nora’s face fell brought a fast end to any laughter. “Happened a good while ago—fore I was even your uncle. Before your pa met your mama, even.”

Nora tilted her head, considering how many years ago that had to be. “A very long while?” she pressed.

“Long enough that fences were a lot newer, and I was a whole lot younger than I feel sittin’ here today.” Knowing time felt and moved differently for children Nora’s age, that felt like a better way to explain than to offer vague notions like ‘decade.’ “But it was right here on the Ponderosa. Same trees standin’ tall, same sky. Just a different day when a friend of your grandpa’s came visitin’ and brought it with.”

Nora’s eyes drifted past him toward the rolling land beyond the yard, imagination already taking flight. “So… the sky here is good enough?” she questioned solemnly.

Hoss nodded, just as solemn. “Best kind there is.”

She bobbed her head in agreement, knowing in her heart that there was no other sky like that on the Ponderosa. There was little about San Francisco that she remembered. Brief fragments of memories of her mother were about all that she could recall.

Now that her uncle confirmed he knew of and had experience with a balloon like that in the story, Nora intended to press him for every detail. “Did you go in the basket? Did it go up high? Did it feel like you was flying like a bird? Did the wind push you hard?” The questions fell from her lips as fast as they formed in her mind, giving Hoss little time to answer before the next was posed.

“Well, I didn’t go up in the basket,” Hoss conceded. “I got in it, but that’s not how I rode it. I sorta rode it accidental.” He grinned, watching Nora’s eyes widen as she imagined how that must have occurred.

That wasn’t at all the reason his niece’s bright green eyes grew big and round. Certain he was teasing with that response her lower lip started to quiver. For her, this was serious business! No one else she knew had ever been in a balloon like the one in the story. “I’m really askin’. For really, real. Serious like.”

Her earnest tone and the wobble in her voice cut Hoss to the quick. “Aw, darlin’, I’m not funnin’ ya,” he promised, giving her a squeeze. “It really was an accident.”

Nora’s brows remained knitted together, skeptical still.

“Someone else was in the basket, flyin’ it. Your grandpa, Uncle Joe and me was helpin’ bring it down again. Holding the ropes, pullin’ as hard as we could.”

Now the child leaned in, hanging on his every word, eyes locked on Hoss as he told the story. She was so focused on listening, careful not to miss a single detail, that Nora hardly breathed.

“It came down to the ground and Major Cayley put a big hook on it, so he could use a winch to keep it on the ground. Before he could, it started to rise again and I was holding two of the ropes, see. ‘Fore I knew it, I was floating right up in the air.”

Gasping, Nora clutched his vest once more. “Oooh,” she breathed, the sound almost reverent. “You did fly. Was it wonderful? Did you go high as the trees? Was it pretty? Were you scared?” Not that she could ever imagine her big uncle being frightened, but flying wasn’t something a person did on the average day!

Hoss chuckled, tilting his head so he could meet her earnest gaze. “I’ll tell you everything I remember—the wind, the view, the way your stomach feels like it’s full of butterflies. But you’ve gotta promise me something first.”

Bursting with curiosity, she was ready to agree to anything if only Uncle Hoss told her all those wonderful details. “What’s that?”

Hoss’s grin softened. “Promise me you won’t do anything dangerous. I don’t want to hear ‘bout you trying to fly away over the treetops. I’d sure hate to go chasin’ you across the Ponderosa. Old Chubby’d get mighty tired running that kind of race,” he laughed. “Can you do that?”

Her head bobbed enthusiastically. “I promise!”

That was an easy assurance to give because she was a good girl. It was hardly her fault that danger didn’t reveal itself until after the fact.

 

Chapter 3

Two ranch hands stood just outside the bunkhouse, watching… something. They couldn’t quite figure out what was going on, other than it was bound to be something. Whether good or bad, they couldn’t tell just yet. But the middle of Adam Cartwright’s three daughters was buzzing back and forth across the yard in a curious manner. Typically, that spelled trouble.

If they were honest, anything to do with any of Adam’s three girls spelled trouble eventually. Just last week, the little one had found some green paint and managed to redecorate the side of the barn with it. Along with the ground, the trough, and part of the porch before she was stopped. They’d expected the boss to shout loud enough to be heard in the south pasture when he saw it.

Instead, Ben only called for Hop Sing to warm water for a bath before plucking the toddler up—carefully—and taking her into the washhouse. Another of Adam’s daughters, the oldest, had come careening outside, yelling about the toddler escaping (again), aghast at the disaster created in a few short minutes.

When the hands saw the toddler tied to the porch the next day, neither batted an eye.

Now, they contemplated finding someone and giving them fair warning. What they might warn them about was still unclear. Nora zigzagged across the yard, pulling items from the clothesline one at a time, ducking low so she remained out of Hop Sing’s sight, and dashed away like a hummingbird. Each item was swiftly brought to the side of the house, where a large basket sat on the ground. Large enough for Nora to sit inside it and, she hoped, fly!

She plopped down beside the basket with Grandpa’s shirt in her hands and began tying it to a pair of her father’s pants with a piece of twine. Those were attached to one of Beth’s dresses, the clothing slowly but surely being crafted into a makeshift balloon. The basket tipped slightly as Nora leaned her full weight against it, tongue poked out in concentration. She looped the twine clumsily and gave the knot a triumphant tug.

“There,” she announced to no one in particular. “That’ll do it.”

From the bunkhouse, the two ranch hands exchanged a look.

“That’ll do what?” one murmured.

Before the other could answer, a voice cut through the yard. “Nora Cartwright—Where are you? I said stay where I could see you!”

Can’t even do homework in peace around here!

Beth burst around the corner of the house, dark hair half loose from its braid, arms full of books which she promptly dropped when she took in the scene. The basket; the clothing trailing from it like a wounded flag; the twine. “Is that my dress?” Her voice rose slightly as she began to identify pieces of clothing. “Those are Pa’s good church clothes! And Grandpa’s shirt! What are you doing?”

She glanced towards the clothesline, finding it considerably depleted in comparison to when she arrived home from school. Her head whipped around to Nora again, eyes wide. “Oh, no. No. You didn’t! Not the clean clothes,” Beth moaned. “Hop Sing is going to be so mad.” She could already envision the man’s angry exclamations in a mix of Cantonese and English, all while brandishing—and probably using—that wooden spoon of his. She rolled her eyes heavenward and wondered what it might be like to be an only child again.

Completely ignoring her big sister’s ire, Nora continued with her important work. Tugging the knot tight, she patted it once for good measure. Only then did she turn, chin lifted, to face Beth with a grin far too wide and much too triumphant for the situation unfolding in front of them.

“What. Are. You. Doing?” Beth ground out, jaw clenched tight. Somehow, someway, this was going to end up getting her in trouble. She just knew it!

“It’s a balloon,” Nora announced, bright and matter of fact, as if she were pointing out the weather or explaining why the sky was blue.

Somehow, that wasn’t the answer Beth expected. Her mouth opened a bit, her brows knitted in confusion, and for a good thirty seconds she simply stared. Her gaze flicked from Nora’s beaming face to the swollen shape tugging at its ties, then back. “A… balloon?”

Nora nodded eagerly, braids bouncing. “A big one,” she added helpfully, as though that clarified matters instead of making them worse.

Laughter caused Beth’s head to snap in the direction of the bunk house, eyes narrowed. The men turned away, their laughs morphing into a considerable coughing fit.

Her attention immediately returned to Nora. “Take it apart, right now,” Beth ordered. She didn’t bother to wait for her sister to comply, reaching for the so-called balloon to begin the disassembly herself. “What did you think you were gonna do? Go floating in the sky in Pa’s good clothes?!” A brief glance at Nora’s face told Beth that was exactly what her little sister intended to do.

As far as Nora was concerned, there was no debate to be had. She scrambled into the basket with quick, practiced movements, skirts hiked just enough to keep from tangling and gave the balloon a sharp yank backward before Beth could get her fingers into any of the twine.

“I’m going!” Nora declared. She held the basket with one hand while trying to inflate her balloon somehow with the other. A change in the wind offered a slight assist and the little girl cheered.

“You’re not!” Beth shot back, heart thudding as the balloon tugged again, eager as a living thing. “Get out of there right now, Eleanor Cartwright, I mean it!” She reached for her sister, ready to yank the younger girl out if she had to.

Nora pushed her away, shouting back, “Don’t you big-name me, ‘Lizbeth!”

The words hit Beth sideways. She froze—then snorted before she could stop herself. “Big-name?” she repeated, incredulous. The absurdity of it, paired with Nora’s fierce little glare and the ridiculous balloon looming over them, cracked something loose. A giggle escaped, then another, until Beth had to brace herself against the basket, laughing so hard her sides ached.

Nora scowled, offended on principle. “It’s not funny,” she insisted, though the balloon gave another hopeful tug, as if it disagreed.

One of the ranch hands finally spoke up. “Miss Beth,” he called, “you might want to—”

Before he could finish, a gust of wind swept across the yard. The clothes rustled. The basket shifted.

And very distinctly, it lifted.

Beth screamed.

“NORA!”

Nora squealed with delight as the basket bobbed like a startled animal. Twine creaked. Fabric snapped taut.

Adam rounded the corner just in time to see his good coat billow, his father’s shirt and other clothing strain, and his middle daughter laughing as gravity briefly reconsidered its loyalties.

There was no time to think about anything, certainly not a rational plan. As the basket bobbed and lifted slightly from the ground, Beth dove inside it. The combined weight of the two Cartwright girls was too much for the twine. With a sound as loud as a cannon shot, the twine gave away completely, setting the laundry free from the basket.

The improvised balloon lurched sideways, garments flapping wildly as the trapped air escaped in every direction at once. Adam lunged forward on pure instinct, boots skidding in the dirt as the whole contraption collapsed in on itself. A coat tore free and sailed past his shoulder like a wounded bird.

Beth, Nora, and the basket tumbled in a tangle of limbs, skirts, and twine. The ranch hands began chasing the clothing as it scattered across the yard on the wind.

For half a heartbeat, neither girl moved.

Then Nora burst into laughter—full-bodied, breathless, utterly delighted laughter.

“Did you see that?” she gasped. “Beth, we lifted!”

Beth lay flat on her back, staring up at the sky, chest heaving. “I… am going… to be sick.”

Suddenly, the sky disappeared, her vision filled with the sight of their anxious father, his eyes sweeping over them, looking for damage. Carefully, Beth sat upright, her heart still racing. She watched as Papa pulled Nora to her feet and checked her carefully for cuts, scrapes, broken bones, finding none. Her turn came next, though she weakly tried to wave him away, Papa refused to be deterred.

Only when he was entirely sure they were unharmed did Adam give any attention to the wreckage. His coat in the dust, his father’s shirt stretched nearly beyond recognition, the remains of clean laundry scattered end to end across the yard. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping near his temple.

“What,” he said slowly, “were you thinking?”

Nora opened her mouth. Closed it; tried again. “I thought… it might work?”

Beth groaned softly and covered her face. A part of her wished the balloon had carried her off after all.

Adam pinched the bridge of his nose and drew in a long breath through his teeth. When he looked back at Nora, his voice was calm—but the kind of calm that warned of a storm being held back by will alone.

“You used the clean laundry,” he said, his voice low and tight, each word clipped as though he were carefully choosing it. He bent and lifted the edge of his coat from the dirt, dust puffing faintly from the fine wool, then let it fall again. “The Sunday clothes.”

Nora nodded, chin trembling now, the thrill of flight draining out of her all at once. “They were the biggest,” she said in a small voice, as if size alone might justify the choice.

Beth, still half-curled on the ground, peeked through her fingers at the destruction scattered across the yard—stretched seams, torn hems, clean clothes now dirtied. “Hop Sing is going to murder us,” she whispered.

Adam straightened slowly, drawing himself to his full height. His expression didn’t soften; if anything, it hardened into something resolute and grim. “No,” he said. “He isn’t.”

That didn’t sound reassuring in the slightest.

For a moment he simply stood there, looking down at both girls—Beth pale and shaken, Nora wilted. Then he extended his hand toward Nora, palm open, firm and unmistakably expectant.

She slipped her small hand into his as Beth stood stiffly beside him.

Adam gathered one torn sleeve from the ground, holding it up between two fingers.

Beth gasped, recognizing it immediately. “My dress. My favorite dress.” She threw an angry glance at Nora.

He ignored her comments, redirecting the conversation. “You could have been hurt,” he pointed out quietly. “Both of you. Do you have any idea what would have happened if that had gone higher?”

Nora swallowed. “I… hadn’t got that far yet.”

He bit back the sarcastic retort that sprang to mind. “And that is entirely the problem,” Adam responded at last. He turned them toward the house with a firm hand on each shoulder. “Inside. You two are going to explain all of this to Hop Sing.”

Beth let out a huge groan. “Pa, I know circumstance evidence is against me right now, but if you hear me out…”

His lips twitched as he fought a smile. Ever the lawyer, this one. “Circumstantial,” Adam corrected. “I’ll hear your defense, inside.”

As Beth tried to explain the outrageous situation, Nora was already planning her next attempt at flight. This one, without a balloon made of clothes.

———

The moment Beth’s foot crossed the threshold, and thereby was ‘inside’ the house, she started to put her defense forward. “Pa, I want it known right now, that I was a very unwilling participant in everything Nora did. All of it! It needs to be put in the record,” she started.

Looking up from his ledgers at the desk in the alcove, Ben hummed thoughtfully and decided not to say a word. It’s going to be one of those days.

“What record?” Adam asked.

“Your record. Grandpa’s record. Hop Sing’s. Any and all records. In the Territorial Enterprise if need be!” Beth stated dramatically. The hint of desperation in her tone was more than a little evident as she worked quickly to distance herself from Nora’s misbehavior.

“She—” The oldest child thrust a stern finger at Nora. “Was out there building a balloon, trying to fly somewhere and I stopped her. That’s all I did. I had nothing to do with… with…”

Adam watched Beth’s temper rise, eyes flashing, chin lifted. If he hadn’t been walking her towards the kitchen, he knew Beth would plant her feet on the floor, place her hands on her hips, and give him that look again.

His look.

“—With an attempted aeronautical ascension!”

And Alta’s fire. He could almost hear Alta’s voice making a similarly grand pronouncement, albeit at a lower volume, her brilliant green eyes alight with the same fire. It was a bittersweet pang, a reminder of the woman who had given him these remarkable, maddening children.

Despite himself, Adam was impressed with Beth’s declaration of Nora’s efforts, even if it was something she’d heard in Five Weeks in a Balloon. He caught the faintest twitch at the corner of Beth’s mouth that told him she knew he’d recognize it. Still—credit where it was due. She was making her case with all the evidence at her disposal. Someday, she’ll be unstoppable.

“I AM NOT!” Nora shouted, stomping her boot loudly on the wooden floor. She glared at Beth, daring her big sister to repeat that. Whatever it was. Nora had no idea. She only knew that if Beth was using that tone, it wasn’t a positive thing.

Definitely maddening; he was going to lose his mind before they reached adulthood, surely.

“She was saying she had nothing to do with your attempt to fly,” he explained carefully, enunciating every word as though clarity alone might tame the chaos.

“Oh.” Nora paused, scowl softening as the meaning finally caught up. She tilted her head, considering this new information. After a moment, she nodded decisively. “Beth didn’t help me at all,” she agreed.

Beth spread her hands wide in a gesture that said, I rest my case, her expression a blend of vindication and exasperation.

Adam could only shake his head. Without commenting—experience had taught him that commentary only encouraged them—he kept them moving toward the kitchen. Or tried to. With every step closer, Nora’s pace dwindled, her strides shrinking until she was barely shuffling, eyes fixed ahead as the steady sound of Hop Sing’s work echoed from within. The sound had a rhythm all its own—precise, practiced.

That was the last thing Nora wanted to hear and the last place she wanted to go. She never considered that there might be complications—namely a run in with Hop Sing—from using the freshly laundered clothing drying on the line. She had no desire to tell him that the laundry had gone flying away, some of it in bits and pieces, across the yard. She slowed her steps to teensy, tiny, miniscule ones. Still moving, but just barely.

Adam felt it before he fully registered it. Nora was no longer keeping pace.

His hand slid from her shoulder to her arm, tightening gently but firmly as he urged her forward. “Normal walking,” he said, already weary.

That, at least, had been the plan.

Instead, Nora abruptly folded bonelessly to the floor, transforming herself into a sack of flour with impressive speed. Adam stumbled, boot catching on her skirts, and windmilled an arm to keep from going down with her. “Nora!” he snapped, more startled than angry.

From somewhere behind him came a very specific sound—a sharp, hearty laugh, hastily smothered but unmistakable. Adam didn’t need to look to know his father was working at his desk and enjoying this spectacle far more than was decent.

Adam stopped short and closed his eyes for a brief, prayerful moment, counting silently to three. When he opened them again, Nora was still sprawled on the floor, cheek pressed to the boards, limbs arranged in a way that suggested she had every intention of staying there until further notice.

“Get up,” he said evenly.

“My legs is broken,” came the muffled reply, followed by a dramatic sigh that carried just far enough to suggest suffering of the deepest kind.

More smothered laughter echoed from the alcove.

Adam exhaled through his nose and looked back over his shoulder. “Beth.”

His eldest daughter stood there, hands covering her mouth, laughter dancing in her eyes. “Still here,” she confirmed, struggling to keep her voice even. Her eyes flicked towards Nora, still on the floor. “I didn’t think she could drop that fast. I wonder why I never thought of that.” Beth met his eyes and snickered behind her hands.

“One of Nora is enough for us all,” Adam noted dryly. “Let’s hope Georgie isn’t nearby taking notes.” Without waiting for further theatrics—or negotiations—he bent, scooped the still-dramatically limp child off the floor, and tucked her neatly under his arm as though she weighed no more than a bundle of laundry.

Nora let out a startled yelp that quickly turned into indignant protest as he carried her straight toward the kitchen.

Beth trailed after them with a long-suffering sigh.

 

Chapter 4

Hop Sing was no fool. He’d seen the clothesline and noted the contents were missing, heard the commotion outside, and known that an explanation was sure to come. He looked up at the trio as they entered, Adam with Nora under his arm and Beth just behind him. The eldest Cartwright son put his middle child on the floor and nudged her forward, then gestured at Beth with his head for her to move up, too.

“Where,” Hop Sing asked, his voice deceptively quiet, “is laundry?”

Nora, sensing this was a question she could answer, piped up. “It’s flying! The wind did it.”

Hop Sing’s eyes narrowed.

Inwardly, Beth groaned. Of course I’m the one that has to tell him. She took a deep breath. “I tried to stop her. I really did. She was making a balloon out of the clean clothes, and I told her to take it apart and then she got in the basket and then the wind… it just… lifted.” Her voice trailed off, sounding weak even to her own ears.

“Nice Sunday shirt… Mistah Ben’s best shirt…” Hop Sing’s voice rose, the Cantonese and English starting to blend into a torrent of fury. “You take… for balloon? For fly? Birds fly! Foolishment! Laundry get clean! Not fly in sky!”

Knowing it was more bluster than anything else, Adam let the man have his say. A day’s work had been ruined, after all, and Hop Sing had every right to be angry. His voice filled the room, sharp and rapid, punctuated by expressive gestures toward the table where once-pristine garments, recovered by the ranch hands, now lay rumpled and torn. Adam listened without interruption, absorbing it all with the patience of a man who knew the storm would burn itself out.

Nora, however, folded under it completely. Her shoulders caved inward as if she were trying to disappear into her own dress. Tears welled in her eyes, spilling over as her lower lip began to tremble. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, the words small and earnest and very, very real.

Adam waited until Hop Sing paused to draw breath. Only then did he speak, his voice steady and measured, carrying just enough authority to settle the room. “They will help you rewash the laundry and repair what can be,” he said at last. “And assist with folding and whatever else you’d like them to do.”

Beth’s head snapped up. “Pa! I didn’t have anything to do with it!”

Hop Sing turned his gaze on her, unimpressed. “How long you not see Missy Nora?” he asked pointedly. “Many clothes gone.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her shoulders slumped as she leaned back against the wall, the fight draining out of her. There was no clever argument to be made there. She had lost track of Nora—long enough, apparently, for half the household wardrobe to attempt flight.

She dragged her hand down her face. “For the record,” she added under her breath, “I tried to stop her.”

Adam’s eyes flicked toward her. One brow rose slowly. “You dove into the basket,” he pointed out.

“Well,” Beth said, pushing away from the wall, bristling again, “someone had to.” She slanted a sideways glance at Nora, who was still sniffling quietly. “I guess.”

For a heartbeat, Adam’s composure cracked. The corner of his mouth twitched, just barely, before he turned away under the pretense of adjusting his coat—anything to keep them from seeing the reluctant amusement that threatened to surface.

“Upstairs,” he said briskly. “Change. I think your dresses will need some mending too,” Adam added. He could see a tear in Beth’s sleeve and the hem of Nora’s skirt was coming undone. “Then back down here. Hop Sing will decide when you’re finished.”

Nora nodded quickly and turned for the stairs, happy to exit the kitchen, for a brief time at least. Beth followed slowly, wondering how, exactly, she always found herself in these situations.

They climbed in silence for several steps, the wood creaking beneath their shoes. Halfway up, Nora’s hand slipped from the banister and brushed Beth’s sleeve. She hesitated, then asked in a small voice, “You mad at me?”

Beth stopped. She looked down at her sister—at the tear tracks on her cheeks, the way she was bracing herself for an answer she already thought she deserved. Beth sighed and leaned her hip against the railing.

“I was,” she confessed. “When I was layin’ on the ground thinking I was gonna be sick.” Beth shook her head. “You get me into so much trouble, you know that?” There was no rancor to her words, only the weariness that comes with being the eldest.

Nora swallowed. “I ruined your dress.”

“That,” Beth admitted, “is a tragedy of historic proportions.” She watched Nora’s face crumple again and immediately regretted her words. They weren’t sincere, but her sister didn’t always understand it when she made comments Papa called droll.

“For you,” she added, lightly poking Nora’s belly. “Because now you’ll have to come with to help me find another. There might be one readymade, or we’ll have to pick fabric. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

Nora blinked, surprised by the sudden turn. “Help you?” she asked, voice still thick.

“Absolutely,” Beth said, nodding as though it were already settled law. “You owe me, after all. And I’ll need a second opinion—someone with vision.” She gave Nora a pointed look. “Preferably the kind that doesn’t involve flight.”

That drew a watery laugh. Nora wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. “I can do that,” she said earnestly. “I’m good at colors.”

“I know,” Beth replied, softer now. “You always pick the best ones.”

They started walking again, slowly this time, the stairs no longer feeling quite so steep. Nora kicked at the hem of her skirt as they went. “I won’t do it again,” she promised. “Not with clothes.”

———-

Doing laundry and mending clothing was a long, hard lesson neither Cartwright sister forgot quickly. Beth was more careful with her clothing after spending so much time putting careful stitches into the items that could be repaired, and made certain to offer quiet thanks whenever Hop Sing did laundry.

“Do you want help?” Beth offered, bringing Hop Sing the clothing she’d collected. While she hadn’t enjoyed doing laundry, finding the chore to be difficult and boring—not to mention leaving her sore and stiff after—it felt wrong not to offer now that she knew what a big burden it could be.

Hop Sing shook his head. “Missy Beth do own work,” he reminded her. Just like the Cartwright boys when they were young, Adam’s children had chores they completed to assist in the running of the house and ranch. “Chores, school. Little missies.”

Beth’s face grew a little red at the reminder she was supposed to help watch her sisters. The incidents of late—Nora trying to fly and Georgie playing with paint—had dented her confidence a bit. She shifted the bundle in her hands. “I know,” she said quietly. “I just thought…”

Hop Sing took the clothing from her and set it aside. “It good thought,” he told her, offering a smile. “But Hop Sing faster.”

“I didn’t mean for anything to happen,” she blurted at last. “Or to make your work harder. With Nora, or Georgie. I was watching—I really was.”

Hop Sing’s mouth twitched. “Watching little missies,” he said dryly, “not same as stopping little missies.”

Beth huffed a small, reluctant breath. “I noticed that.” Exasperation tinged her tone, even as a smile played on her lips.

For a moment there was only the steady sound of water sloshing in the tub. Then Hop Sing spoke again, quieter. “Big missy learn same way little missies do. By doing. By mistake.”

The tension eased from Beth’s shoulders. She turned toward the door, then paused. “I’ll do better,” she promised, though she wasn’t entirely sure how yet.

Hop Sing waved a dismissive hand. “Already do,” he said. “You worry. That big sister job too.”

———-

Nora, too, learned some lessons from her first attempt at flying and the consequences that followed. Though hers were exceptionally different from those her older sister retained.

A balloon might not be the best way to fly. Now that she’d had a tiny taste of it—just those few inches off the ground in her clothing-and-twine creation—Nora had to have more. She thought about what the Ponderosa might look like from the sky. Do the trees seem like little flowers from way up high?

Nora sketched how she pictured that view, the trees appearing like a field of flowers. She inherited Adam’s drawing ability and brought these images to life with considerable skill, color enhancing it. Whenever anyone asked what she was up to (a reasonable question given recent events) she simply shrugged her shoulders.

Adam and Ben exchanged looks over Nora’s head, bowed over her paper on the coffee table, and copied her gesture. They didn’t say it aloud, but both were thinking it: At least she’s not into anything.

“’Rah!” Georgie called, trying to get her big sister’s attention.

Nora barely glanced up. “Not now,” she murmured absently, shifting her paper farther from the enthusiastic reach of small hands.

Deeply offended, the toddler planted both palms on the edge of the coffee table and stretched on tiptoe. “’Rah!” she insisted, louder this time, a command rather than a request.

Looking up from her drawing, she glanced at her little sister briefly. “Mine,” Nora explained, gesturing towards her work. She pointed at the small collection of toys near the blue chair where Adam sat. “Those are yours Georgie.”

That didn’t satisfy the toddler, who slapped her hands on the coffee table once more. Leaning close, almost putting her face to the drawing, Georgie pointed at something. “Bird!” It sounded closer to ‘burr’ but the toothy smile she flashed at Nora spoke of how proud Georgie was to identify it.

The little artist smiled despite herself. She leaned closer and followed Georgie’s stubby finger. “That’s right,” she said softly. “A bird. It’s flying.”

“Flowah,” Georgie asserted, stabbing her finger at a tree.

Nora laughed and carefully lifted the page out from under Georgie’s reach. “Trees,” she corrected gently. “They just look like flowers from way up high.”

Adam stiffened just a little at that, sensing trouble. He cleared his throat and asked, “From where exactly is ‘way up high,’ Nora?” He watched her lift her shoulders innocently, but there was a telltale sparkle in her eye. The one that said Nora’s imagination was working overtime.

“Just… up,” she answered innocently.

“Bird!” Georgie chirped once more. “Papa, bird!” She beamed at Adam, pointing in the direction of Nora’s paper. “See, bird?”

The alarm began to seep out of him as Adam rose to examine the drawing, noting the bird that Georgie was fixated on. He offered Nora a soft smile of approval at the creativity and skill of her work. “Takes after me, this one,” he grinned at Ben. “That bird is well done. I can see why your sister likes it.”

“BIRD!” Georgie squealed. Her enchantment with the drawing over with, she bounded off towards her toys. Plucking a carved wooden horse from among her things, she raced over to show it to Ben. “Horsey!”

“Well, my goodness!” Ben scooped her up from the floor, setting Georgie on his knee. “What a magnificent horse that is!” The grandfather had seen it hundreds of times, thousands even, but he always acted as if it were the first time. The way Georgie’s face lit up at the compliment, as though she had never heard it before, gave him every reason to pretend. “Does he have a name?”

“Him Bird,” she repeated solemnly, stroking the horse’s neck with all the seriousness of a rancher gentling a prize stallion.

The grandfather nodded gravely, as though this was the most sensible thing he’d heard all day, his lips twitching as he struggled not to laugh. That’s a new one. “A fine name,” he managed to reply without chuckling.

Adam watched the exchange with a softness that never quite left his eyes when his children were involved.

Still seated on the floor at the coffee table, Nora grinned. “She’s really silly,” she decided with a shake of her head. Georgie was fun, most of the time, even if she didn’t always understand her.

Adam bent closer, his voice barely above a breath. “I remember a little girl who used to march around the sitting room with a basket on her head.”

Nora spun to face him, scandalized delight written all over her face. “Beth?” she gasped, as if he’d just revealed a secret treasure map.

Slowly, Adam shook his head. Then, with a teasing smile, he reached out and tapped the tip of Nora’s nose. “You.”

She sucked in a dramatic breath. “Me?” she cried, green eyes—Alta’s eyes—stretching wide in mock horror. “No!”

Her protest earned a low chuckle from Adam. “Oh, yes,” he confirmed. “You’ve always been full of imagination.”

The comment about her imagination drew Nora’s glance back down to her drawing. She traced the bird with her finger, quite proud of how well it turned out. “I’ve been learning about birds,” she told him.

Adam’s eyebrows rose, curiosity sharpening his expression. “Have you?”

Nora nodded at once, earnest as ever. “Reading the pictures of their wings,” she explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Adam let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh. It was such a Nora thing to say. She didn’t just look at pictures; she studied them, traced meaning into every line and curve. “Reading,” she had called it, as though the wings themselves were telling her stories if she only watched closely enough.

“Is that what you and Grandpa have been looking at together the last few days?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, brightening. “He helps me with the words, but I don’t need help with the wings. The wide ones mean they glide, and the sharp ones mean they’re fast. And some birds—” she paused, brow furrowing as she searched for the right thought, “—some birds fold their wings like they’re keeping secrets.”

His smile softened, pride warming his chest. He reached out and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder. “I never thought of it that way,” Adam murmured.

“They float sometimes Papa, did you know? Birds float! The air just holds ‘em. I don’t know how,” the little girl admitted. “And some got special wings.” The lack of concern at her reading material emboldened Nora, and she shared more knowledge. “An’ they glide.” She demonstrated with her hand. “When they land.”

Georgie chose that moment to wriggle decisively. She planted both small palms on Ben’s vest, gave a determined grunt, and slid down his knee to the floor, landing in a slightly crouched heap of skirts and socks.

“Well,” Ben murmured fondly, hands hovering just long enough to be sure she was steady, “off you go, then.”

Off she went—feet slapping softly against the floor as she made a determined beeline for the coffee table. Her short golden hair bounced with every step, and her little hands stretched out with single-minded purpose for Nora’s carefully arranged pencils, their pointy ends calling to her like a treasure.

“No, Georgie, no!” Nora called, already scrambling forward, papers fluttering as she tried to scoop them up before disaster struck.

The toddler was fast—surprisingly so for someone still unsteady on her feet—but Adam was quicker. He intercepted her just as her fingers brushed the edge of the table, scooping her cleanly into his arms. Georgie let out a delighted squeal as he lifted her high and gave her a playful toss, her giggles filling the room as she landed safely back against his chest.

“Well now,” he said, grinning despite himself as she kicked her feet in triumph, “we need to find you something to do, troublemaker.” He nudged his nose against hers, earning another laugh. As he continued to toss Georgie in the air, letting her wiggle and giggle out some energy, Adam glanced in Nora’s direction and gave his middle child a wink.

Sighing in relief at the quick save, Nora frantically packed up her pencils, colors, and papers. When Papa looked her way, she cast him a grateful smile and moved her art materials away to a safer location—a drawer in Grandpa’s desk.

She shifted her gaze to the window, where a pair of birds flitted past the glass, wings flashing in the sunlight as they banked and turned with effortless grace. Just feathers and air and motion, all working together.

Nora tilted her head, studying it with a thoughtful frown. Her eyes brightened, curiosity sparking as she watched the birds glide and adjust, wings tilting, tails spreading wide.

A balloon made of clothing wasn’t the answer.

But the birds had good ideas: shapes that moved with and on the air; catching it rather than fighting to rise. She leaned closer to the window, her mind racing as an idea began to form. One that was much better than before.

 

Chapter 5

The birds were definitely on to something.

Nora stood watching them, the door open, leaning against the frame. Finches, or maybe Sparrows; she’d ask Grandpa if he ever came down. The only one she knew for sure was the Mountain Bluebird, due to its bright blue color. They played in the yard, flitting around the water trough and hitching rail, up to the top of the barn, and all around. Nora followed them not just with her eyes, but with her head, too. Her hand mimicked the patterns of their flight.

She wished she could move closer, even as far as the porch, but Papa had told her to stay inside when she asked to watch the birds.

He’d said it in that voice: the ‘I’m still paying attention to you even if I’m doing something else that’s trying my patience.’

That something was Georgie, who never got ready nicely for church like her big sisters did.

Beth told Nora, when it was just the two of them, that they never went so very much when Mama was alive and they lived in San Francisco. Just on special days, when it was respected. Nora scrunched her nose up and shook her head. Beth had used a different word. After a moment it came to her: expected. But Grandpa liked church and always went; Nora couldn’t figure out why.

Opening the door and watching the birds from there, while keeping all her toes firmly inside the house, felt like a perfect compromise to her mind. Nora made that decision all on her own, mostly because Papa was busy with Georgie.

————-

Upstairs, the great toddler chase was on. Georgie flew down the hallway in her underclothing, laughing loudly.

Beth looked on from her door, dressed just so, hair perfectly braided, bonnet in hand. She watched as her father ran after her littlest sister and gave a weary sigh. “Pa, you can’t run at her straight on. She thinks it’s a game then.” She was certain she told him the same thing every week, and yet the same chase happened without fail every Sunday.

Adam cornered her in his room, by the bed. “Georgiana, Papa is serious now. We’re not playing,” he told the grinning toddler in a stern voice. “We’re going to get dressed for church now.” Why this dress—a sprigged yellow cotton with a wide sash—seemed to activate chase mode when the others did not, Adam was certain he’d never understand. “It’ll only take a minute.”

Georgie blinked at him, considered his words very seriously… and then bolted.

“Hey—!” Adam lunged, missing her by inches as she darted under the bed, crawling out the other side with unnatural speed. Her giggle echoed like she’d just pulled off the cleverest trick.

“No, no, no!” Georgie laughed, running down the hall again. She darted into Ben’s room and, spying her grandfather, attempted to climb him like a tree.

Adam skidded to a stop in the doorway just as Georgie latched onto Ben’s trouser leg with both hands, grinning up at him like she’d conquered Everest.

“Ga’pa!” Georgie declared proudly. Her hair stuck up in wild tufts, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with triumph.

The man in question grinned as he submitted to her efforts to scale him like a mountain, offering his hands to alternately steady her and serve as footholds.

Adam caught his breath, hands on his hips, the dress hanging limply in one of them. “You are fast,” he said, narrowing his eyes at her. “Suspiciously fast.”

Ben chuckled at how out of breath Adam was, given he’d been chasing the tot for ten minutes straight with no luck at getting her dressed. “Want me to try,” he offered, taking pity on his son.

“I can dress my own child,” Adam ground out.

“Can you?” Ben teased.

“You have to be smarter than she is,” Beth announced, appearing behind Adam. She tugged the dress out of his grasp. “Give her something she wants. She doesn’t take you seriously when you’re stern. She thinks it’s funny.” And Beth thought that was hysterical but kept that thought to herself.

“Like what?” Adam asked. “I’m not going to bribe her into getting dressed. I’ll be feeding her cookies every morning for the rest of her life if we start that now.”

Beth walked past him into Grandpa’s room. “No, you have to make it her idea. Georgie,” she said softly. “Look. It’s the sunshine dress. Pretty and yellow, like the sun! Only the best girls wear the sunshine dress on Sunday. It has the prettiest sash for twirling, too. Don’t you want to twirl and be shiny like the sun?”

Georgie’s interest was piqued, and she paused in her ascent of Grandpa, eyes wide. She looked at the dress, then at Beth, then back at the dress. “’lello,” she repeated. “Su’shine?”

“See?” Beth said to her father over her shoulder. “It’s all about salesmanship.”

Adam watched, skeptical, as Georgie slowly returned to the floor. She toddled toward Beth, reaching a small hand out to touch the yellow fabric. For a moment, it seemed peace was at hand. Then, with a sudden grab, Georgie snatched the dress, clutched it to her chest, and darted off once more.

Suddenly, a series of tremendous crashes rang out from downstairs, followed by the sharp wail of a child’s cry.

—————

As Georgie led everyone on a merry chase upstairs, Nora continued to look at the birds and watch their movements. A sparrow on the hitching post fluffed its feathers, tilted its head, and then—whoosh—launched itself into the air like it had simply decided to fly and its body obeyed.

“I think,” she announced to the empty room, “that birds don’t fall. They just know how not to.”

That was the problem, really. Knowing how not to. Perhaps that was just a matter of practice. Moving towards the staircase, Nora peered up at the banister with serious concentration. Birds jumped from high places all the time. That was practically the whole point.

Maybe she needed to start up high, rather than below, like the birds seemed to. She went up to the landing and stretched her arms wide, simulating wings. Wiggling them experimentally, Nora realized something was missing. Feathers, a way to flap, something.

Looking around the great room, her eyes fell on the answer: Beth’s fancy shawl with the fringes on it. It was just hanging by the door, waiting. For Beth, specifically, but at that moment, Nora was certain it was waiting for her. She dashed down the stairs and retrieved it from the hook, bringing it back with her to the landing.

At the landing, she turned and studied the drop from the banister with narrowed eyes. It wasn’t that far. There was a table, and the horse statue, but since she was going to fly, Nora didn’t concern herself with them. “Birds trust the air,” she told herself. “I trust it, too.”

She climbed onto the banister, balancing carefully, arms stretched wide. “Wings,” she murmured, lifting them higher, one end of the shawl held in each hand. She flapped once. Twice. It didn’t feel right, even with the feather-like fringes, but maybe birds didn’t feel right the first time either.

Nora bent her knees and jumped.

For a very small moment, she felt it—weightlessness, a hush in her ears, the thrilling idea that she might be right. That she might simply know how not to fall—just like a bird!

Then gravity remembered her.

She pitched forward, arms flailing uselessly as the air tore past her face too fast to help. She struck the edge of the table with a hard crash, the breath exploding out of her lungs.

Her weight tipped the table over. Nora, the table, and the horse statue all went down together. The statue hit first, cracking loudly as it chipped in several places. Nora followed with a heavy thud, landing face-first with a startled oof.

The table slammed down seconds later, missing her by inches, its impact against the pine floor sharp and deafening—like a gunshot.

For a heartbeat, the house went utterly still.

Then Nora sucked in a ragged breath and began to wail.

The sounds of her failure tore through the house. Footsteps thundered from above, coming down the hall at speed, as two sets of boots pounded furiously towards the stairs. Beth ran behind, with the thumps of Georgie’s stocking-covered feet bringing up the rear.

She lay where she’d fallen, cheek pressed to the cold floor, the shawl tangled around her arms like useless wings. Everything hurt, but the biggest pain of all was knowing she didn’t fly. Nora had trusted the air, and it let her fall, hard.

Her wail became a sob, her hands curling into the shawl. She gripped the fringe tightly as if it might still lift her, or at the very least tell her why the air hadn’t listened. Even the chipped horse statue stared at her with one eye. For a fleeting, confused second, she wondered if it had tried to fly, too.

Adam skidded to a stop at the top of the stairs. Eyes growing wide, he took in the toppled statue, the overturned table, and his middle daughter splayed out on the floor like a dropped doll, sobbing.

“NORA!”

The little girl cried harder.

The distance between the top step and his child was crossed in seconds. “Don’t move,” he instructed firmly. He heard and felt, rather than saw, the rest of the family crowding nearby.

Ben took one look at his granddaughter and rushed out the door, shouting at one of the hands to go for the doctor.

Having his other daughters beside him as he tried to ascertain Nora’s injuries was a distraction Adam didn’t need. “Beth, Georgie, sit on the stairs,” he told them firmly.

Footfalls told him they obeyed, albeit with a whine from Georgie as her big sister tugged her along. Adam gave Nora his full attention, hands carefully examining her arms and legs, feeling for breaks. “What hurts? Can you tell me?”

Nora’s breath came in broken little gasps. She tried to answer, but it came out as another sob, her face twisting as she clutched the shawl tighter.

“Everywhere,” she whimpered at last. “It— it hurts everywhere.”

“All right,” Adam said steadily, even as his jaw tightened. “That’s okay. We’re going slow.” His hands moved with practiced care, gentle but thorough, checking her wrists, her elbows, the long bones of her legs. He paused when she flinched, waited until her breathing eased again before continuing.

Beth leaned forward from the stair where she sat, knuckles white. “Is she—?”

“Beth,” Adam said without looking up. Not sharp, just final.

She swallowed and stayed where she was, anxiously watching him. Sometimes, Beth wished she could be an only child; wished for it hard, when Georgie was being Georgie and Nora was dreaming up silly things that got them into trouble. Now, she felt badly for ever thinking that.

Adam kissed Nora’s head, whispering quiet praise before continuing. “All your big bones seem okay. I need you to help me check the little bones.”

“Little bones?” Nora echoed, beginning to calm. “Where’s my little bones?”

“Your hands and feet,” he explained. “Can you wiggle your fingers for me? Both hands.”

She sniffed hard and obeyed, small fingers trembling as they moved.

Relief loosened something tight in his chest. “I’m going to take your shoes off so you can wiggle your toes, too.”

Carefully, Adam removed each boot. “Move your toes now.”

Her stockinged feet twitched. She let out a shaky breath, as if surprised they still belonged to her.

“That’s my brave girl,” he murmured.

Ben stepped back inside the house and cast a concerned look in Adam’s direction. He caught Adam’s eye and the younger man shook his head; no broken bones, no injuries that he could find. The grandfather let out the breath he’d been holding and nodded once in return. He hadn’t come closer yet, knowing this was Adam’s moment to manage.

Adam’s attention went back to Nora. “I’m going to lift you,” he said. “Just a little. If anything hurts sharp, you tell me right away. All right?”

She nodded, trusting him completely despite everything, and he slid one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back, bringing her up against his chest. She made a small sound, then settled, her head tucking under his chin as if it had always known the way there.

“Hurts?” he asked.

“Just… sore,” she whispered.

“That I can work with.”

Adam held her just tight enough to remind himself she was solid and breathing.

“What,” he said, voice strained, “were you doing?”

“Trying to learn how birds don’t fall.”

He closed his eyes, relief and exasperation tangling together. In moments like this he missed Alta desperately. She knew how to get a squirmy toddler into a hated dress; how to convince Beth to crusade more judiciously; and she’d know just what to say and do with their little bird. How to help Nora understand that her ideas were wonderful, beautiful even, but dangerous.

“Sweetheart,” he said quietly, “birds have wings. You have ideas; wonderful ideas,” Adam assured her. “But they aren’t the same as wings. Fringes can’t work like feathers, no matter how much you want them to. And birds fall,” he added quietly. “More than you think.”

He shifted his grip, careful of her ribs, and pressed his cheek briefly to the top of her head. “They just get very good at getting back up again.”

Nora’s face crumpled. “I didn’t do that.” She sniffled pitifully.

“You did,” he corrected gently. “You’re here, you’re breathing. That counts.”

Adam watched her nod, considering his words, brows furrowed with deep thoughts. “I thought the air would know me,” Nora confessed.

The words hit him harder than the fall must have hit her. “Sometimes,” he said slowly, choosing each word carefully, “knowing isn’t the same as being ready.” Adam carried her towards the fireplace, each step measured. “And sometimes wanting something very badly doesn’t make it safe.”

Ben crossed the room then, slow, and careful, his movements deliberate so as not to startle her. He crouched beside the blue chair as Adam sat, settling Nora into his lap again. The old man’s eyes traced the faint purpling already forming along her cheek, the red marks on her arms, the way she favored one side just a touch.

He lightly tapped her stockinged toes. “These seem to be working?”

She nodded solemnly, demonstrating how her toes wiggled.

Adam’s hand never left her back. “She jumped from the railing,” he said, the words tight.

Ben’s brow creased, but he didn’t scold; didn’t look at Nora like she’d done something wrong. Instead, he looked at Adam. “You were her age once,” he reminded him quietly.

Adam exhaled through his nose and gave his father a look.

“Only you tried to be a duckling and nearly drowned.” He shook his head at the memory, then smiled as Adam’s face colored slightly under Nora’s wide-eyed scrutiny.

“I don’t remember that,” Adam muttered.

“That doesn’t surprise me. You were younger than Nora is; more Georgie’s age,” Ben recalled. “Didn’t even know how to swim. I taught you after that!”

It caused a chuckle when he thought of it now, thinking of how much Adam loved the ducks. He should’ve seen it coming, but Ben never considered that his son might attempt to be one. It certainly wasn’t funny at the time; he’d been terrified the boy was going to sink under the water and never come up again. Adam had been just as frightened, and that was before Ben simultaneously roared at the tiny boy and almost crushed the tot, he held on so tightly.

“Bruises and big scares teach hard lessons,” he noted quietly. Ben gave his granddaughter an inquiring look, a raised eyebrow asking a silent question.

Nora snuggled in closer to Adam. “I won’t do it again,” she promised, voice small but earnest.

Ben nodded, accepting that promise at face value. “Good. You remember our birds we’ve been looking at in books? None of the ones in the pictures fall down the stairs, do they?”

Her eyes widened and then she giggled softly. “No, Grandpa, they don’t.”

“They don’t,” he confirmed, a smile tugging at his lips. He glanced at the stairs, where Beth and Georgie sat. The toddler was now confined to her big sister’s lap, still not wearing her dress, and straining mightily to get away.

Ben’s gaze softened as it lingered on the two of them. He straightened with a quiet groan and held out a hand. “Beth. Georgie. You can come down now.”

Beth slid carefully off the stair, keeping Georgie corralled against her hip. “She okay?” she asked again, voice tight with worry.

Adam nodded. “Sore. Scared. Nothing broken. Doc Martin will come make sure.”

Georgie wriggled free at last and toddled forward, stopping a cautious distance away. She peered up at Nora with solemn concern. “Fly?” she asked.

Nora shook her head sadly “No fly,” she said. “Just… fall.”

The tot considered this, then nodded sagely. “Ow,” she pronounced.

Ben huffed a quiet laugh. “That about sums it up. Come on—let’s put the house back together before someone else gets curious about gravity.” His eyes dropped to Georgie, still in her underthings, and he sighed. “And let’s get you dressed while we’re at it.”

Georgie wrapped herself around his leg, arms locked tight, giggling with absolute delight. “No!” she squealed, burying her face against his trousers as Ben tried—gently, patiently—to peel her off.

“Not the yellow one—” Ben started, eyeing the offending dress that lay draped over the chair, wrinkled.

“The sunshine dress,” Beth cut in quickly, gamely reframing it as she reached for Georgie’s hands.

Ben paused and arched a brow, slow and deliberate. “Thank you,” he said dryly, “for volunteering to wrestle her into something. Anything. I’m not picky, so long as she’s clothed.”

Beth scoffed, heat flaring instantly. “I didn’t!”

“But you were interrupting,” Ben replied mildly, tone calm in the way that made it worse. He bent slightly, attempting again to unhook Georgie’s fingers from his leg. “And that’s as good as. Or were you objecting?”

Beth opened her mouth, then shut it again, scowling as Georgie chose that moment to tighten her grip and giggle louder, clearly enjoying the tension.

“I was clarifying,” Beth muttered at last.

“Ah.” Ben’s mouth twitched. “A dangerous choice when I’m speaking.”

“Noted.” Beth’s cheeks grew pink. “Sorry, Grandpa.”

Ben pulled his eldest grandchild close, giving her a squeeze. “Noted,” he echoed softly, kissing the top of her head. “She’s yours now.”

The toddler finally released him and promptly flopped backward, laughing like the entire exchange had been orchestrated for her amusement.

“C’mon Georgie. Nobody’s going to church today,” Beth announced. “I’ll let you pick out your dress and then I’ll change, too.”

Georgie paused mid-laugh, considering this new information with great seriousness. “Pick?” she asked, suspicious.

“Yes,” Beth said quickly. “You pick. Any dress.” She offered her hand to the toddler, wiggling her fingers.

Georgie stared at the offered fingers like they might vanish if she trusted them. Her brow furrowed, lips pursed in deep toddler deliberation.

“Any?” she pressed, voice small but weighty.

Beth nodded solemnly. “Any dress you want. Pink, blue, any color you like.”

Georgie gasped and slapped Beth’s hand with sudden enthusiasm. “Puh-ple,” she declared at once, confidence blooming now that the power was clearly hers.

They slowly climbed the stairs together, with Georgie chanting, “Puh-ple! Puh-ple!” to herself the whole way.

Ben turned then, the humor softening as his gaze settled on Adam and Nora. The little girl was heavy with sleep now; cheek pressed to her father’s shoulder. He lowered his voice. “Take her upstairs, stay with her. I’ll send Dr. Martin up when he arrives. And keep the other two out of too much trouble.” Ben reached out and gently touched Nora’s hair, careful not to wake her.

“Curious minds are a gift,” he said quietly. “They just need time to grow into them. She reminds me of your mother that way, full of marvelous hopes and dreams.”

“A bit more practical, surely?” Adam wondered. He couldn’t imagine the woman he knew only in pictures ever being as young, or quixotic, as Nora.

“Not always.” Ben’s look softened as he remembered Liz and the dreams they shared, the realistic ones like the Ponderosa, and the fleeting, silly ones, too. “Remind me later and I’ll tell you some stories.”

The younger man nodded. “I’ll do that,” he vowed. “For now, I’m going to take my dreamer upstairs.” Adam rose carefully, adjusting his hold on Nora and turned toward the stairs. She stirred, murmuring something about birds, then settled again. His steps were careful and deliberate as he carried his precious, curious little girl up to her room.

From down the hall came Beth’s voice, exasperated and laughing in equal measure. “Arms go in the sleeves, Georgie. Your head doesn’t even fit in there!”

Shaking his head, Adam closed the door on the chaos before tucking Nora into bed. He sat in a chair beside it, taking up the traditional Cartwright vigil once more.

Then, he heard it.

A bird.

Chirping.

Clearly having no regard at all for the state of his nerves after Nora’s attempt to mimic the birds. Adam scowled at the window, spotting a sparrow singing happily in the tree just outside it.

Snuggled under the covers, eyes closed, Nora smiled as the sound reached her ears. She began to think of new ways to fly, that didn’t involve balloons made of clothing or the railing of the stairs.

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!”

Adam winced, wondering what his girls could’ve done in the past four minutes to make his father bellow.

Nora, however, knew precisely what Grandpa was upset about. Her eyes popped open, searching for Papa. “The horsey flew, too,” she explained.

Groaning loudly, Adam put his head in his hands and felt a small hand pat him in consolation.

 

Chapter 6

The bruises and soreness faded, but evidence of the failure of the air to know her remained. First and foremost, that horsey laughed at her every time she saw it, she was sure of it! Missing the tip of its tail, a part of one hoof, and with a scratch down its flank that she couldn’t place, it was a daily reminder that she hadn’t flown. She’d only fallen, very hard.

But Nora was as determined as ever. The conversation with Uncle Hoss remained in her mind, the things he’d described to her so vivid that they made her heart flutter. The way butterflies had moved in his belly, the awe of being pulled up by the air like he weighed nothing at all—no small feat, that! Wondering if he might go up high enough to touch a cloud, or the very tippy-top of a Ponderosa pine as it stood straight and tall.

She wanted to feel those things. Like the clouds were in reach, the air carrying her higher and higher, the tops of the trees looking like flowers just as she imagined and drew them. A balloon made of clothes hadn’t worked, and neither had the railing of the stairs.

Then, it came to her, the way most ideas came to Nora. Bright, sudden, fueled by her imagination rather than sense. What if she combined height and shape? Surely the man in the book had tried lots of times and failed before he found the answer, too. And the real man, Grandpa’s friend, must have, also. “I won’t give up,” Nora announced.

Her dolls watched, their yarn eyes unblinking. The stuffed cat Mama made for her when she was a baby, Deedee was silent.

Nora took the lack of response as implicit agreement that she was right. She would know if they thought differently.

—————–

The chickens were squawking as if a deadly predator was in their midst, rather than a small child with a dusty parasol found in the attic.

Nora stood in the center of them, feet planted wide in her scuffed boots, the parasol raised high like a banner. Each time she swung it, feathers burst into the air and the flock scattered, flapping and protesting with offended dignity.

“Shoo!” she commanded, her voice high and serious. “You’re supposed to scatter. I can’t climb your coop if you’re all over me!”  She picked her way around the chickens, trying to get them to move so she could get to the coop. The parasol was the right shape—rounded—and the coop was a decent height. This time it was sure to work.

A particularly indignant hen launched herself at Nora’s skirts, wings beating like thunder. Nora squealed, hopping backward, parasol wobbling dangerously in her grip.

“Stop it!” she scolded, jabbing the parasol toward the bird like a lance. “I’m busy.”

Hop Sing ran outside, meat cleaver in hand, expecting trouble given the commotion. He opened his mouth to scold and shoo away whatever was bothering the chickens but stopped short as he took in the chaotic scene.

Chickens were scattering in every direction, feathers floating through the air, and Missy Nora in the middle of it all, brandishing a parasol like a general directing troops.

“Shoo!” Nora shouted again, trying to herd the flock away from the coop. “Move!”

He hurried towards the coop, then turned around and hurried back to the porch. The meat cleaver was no longer necessary, and he placed it on the table beside the window. “Missy Nora!” Hop Sing called over his shoulder. “You stop! Chickens not like that!”

“They’ll calm down once I’m gone,” Nora stated confidently. “I just have to get up there first.”

Hop Sing’s heart lurched as he raced back to the coop. “Up where? What little missy doing?”

As if on cue, Nora planted one boot on the feed box and reached for the edge of the coop roof. The parasol dipped sideways, catching on a wire, and she let go with one hand to steady it.

“No, no, no—” Hop Sing rushed forward, eyes wide with alarm. “Missy come down!” He lunged across the yard.

She froze, recognizing that tone. A part of her knew she should do what he said. Yet one knee hooked over the edge of the feed box, fingers curled around the rough board of the coop roof. So close! I have to try!

Nora hauled herself onto the roof of the coop on her knees. Parasol still in hand, she struggled to get to her feet. “I have to try! I need to see if the air lifts me!”

The chickens, sensing victory, surged back in, clucking and snapping around Hop Sing’s ankles.

“Lift you?” Hop Sing echoed faintly, as if the words themselves had struck him. He reached her and the meaning of her actions clicked. “No more fly!”

Hop Sing grabbed her around the waist and hauled her backward with surprising strength, planting her firmly on the ground. Nora squeaked in protest, boots skidding in the dirt as the parasol flopped uselessly at her side.

“You fall,” he scolded, hands still gripping her shoulders to make sure she stayed put. “You break head. You scare chickens to death!”

Nora’s chin came up, indignant tears shining in her eyes. “I wasn’t going to fall. I was going to fly.”

Hop Sing looked at the parasol, then back at Nora, as if hoping the object might suddenly explain itself. “Parasol for sun,” he said slowly. “Not for fly.”

“But it’s round,” Nora insisted, shaking it once for emphasis. A few loose feathers drifted down around her boots. “Like in the book—”

“Book not say jump off chicken house,” Hop Sing snapped, then immediately softened his voice when he saw her lower lip tremble. He crouched so they were eye to eye, hands still firm on her shoulders. “You scare me. You scare chickens. This no good idea.”

Tears began to slide down Nora’s cheeks. “It was.” Her tone was insistent, even in the face of his censure. “It woulda worked.” Her whole body trembled with frustration at being thwarted yet again, this time by human intervention.

The sound of a horse entering the yard briefly drew their attention. Beth sat in the saddle, schoolbooks in her saddle bags, trying to make sense of the sight before her. Feathers everywhere, chickens milling about with an offended air, Hop Sing bent over Nora in the middle of the chaos, and a parasol lying in the dirt.

“What happened?” Beth demanded, eyes darting from Nora to the parasol and finally to Hop Sing.

Hop Sing straightened, relief flickering across his face at the sight of reinforcements. “Missy Nora try to fly,” he said flatly.

“Fly.” There were layers of resignation in the young girl’s tone.

“With parasol,” Hop Sing added, as if that somehow made it worse.

Beth rolled her eyes hard. “I tried to warn him,” she muttered under her breath. Dismounting, she led her horse to the hitching post and tied the reins to it. Then she rolled up her sleeves.

“Come. Here.” Beth called sternly. She tried her best to sound commanding, like Pa did when they were in serious trouble and even pointed to the ground in front of her.

The little girl’s eyes went wide. Beth’s imitation of Papa was good; too good. She briefly cast a look up at Hop Sing but found no sympathy. “I didn’t do it yet,” she called, as if that might save her.

Beth crossed the yard in long strides, boots crunching feathers. Up close, she took in Nora’s dusty knees, the trembling parasol, the way Hop Sing hadn’t quite let go yet—as if Nora might sprout wings the second he did.

“Only because you were stopped. You climbed the coop,” Beth said, not a question.

Nora sniffed. “I had to get higher.”

“Well, now you’re grounded.” Beth reached out and took Nora’s hand, then looked up at Hop Sing. “I’ve got her.”

He hesitated, then eased his hands away, though he stayed close enough to grab Nora again if she so much as breathed funny. “She fast,” he warned. “Like squirrel.”

Her big sister’s words rang in Nora’s head. “You can’t do that. You’re not Papa!”

“And you won’t stop trying to fly. I’m not getting in trouble because you fall and break your neck,” Beth retorted. “This way, you stay put, I do my homework, and everyone is happy.”

Several minutes later, Beth sat at the table on the porch and started working on her homework, content with the knowledge that Nora was going to stay on the ground…

Since she’d tied her to it.

————

He didn’t even notice the girls at first. The day had been a long one, and Adam was ready to sit somewhere other than a saddle for a while. There was no missing the sight when he exited the barn though. Adam stopped mid-step, his eyes narrowing as they swept across the yard.

“What in the—?” Adam began, his voice catching somewhere between shock and disbelief. He stepped closer, taking in the scene: Nora, seated on the ground like a tiny, stubborn anchor, parasol drooping in one hand, a rope snug around her waist and tethered to the porch. Beth sat stiffly at the table, book open but forgotten, her eyes darting between her sister and their father, as if she might be rethinking some of her life choices.

“Beth…” Adam said, and the single word was all it took. His mouth tightened, his jaw flexing as he fought to process the absurdity. “Would you… care to explain why your sister appears to be tethered to the porch upright?”

His oldest child looked him in the eye and answered simply, “Because she is?”

Adam’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. He ran a hand over his face, blinking rapidly as though that might reset reality. “Because she is?” he repeated, voice a notch higher, a dangerous edge creeping in. “Beth. That is not a reason. That is… that is—”

Beth swallowed and leaned forward slightly. “I… I didn’t know what else to do,” she said, voice tight. “She tried to fly again, off the chicken coop—” She gestured helplessly at the tethered figure. “If she can’t stay on the ground, I’m making sure she stays attached to it.”

He let out a slow breath through his nose, the kind he used when a fence post refused to line up, and brute force would only make it worse. He looked at Nora again—at the rope, the parasol, the scuffed knees—and then back to Beth.

Nora lifted her chin. “I almost did,” she said, helpfully. “But Mr. Hop Sing pulled me down.” The pouting resumed.

Adam stood there a moment longer, eyes shut, counting off slow breaths. One. Two. Three. When he opened them again, the absurdity hadn’t gone anywhere.

“Hop Sing,” he said quietly, as if the cook might materialize and somehow make sense of all this.

No such luck.

Adam turned back to Beth. His voice was steadier now, but there was an edge under it. “You tied your sister to the porch upright?”

Beth’s shoulders squared. “I can’t hold her all afternoon. She can’t be left alone, clearly. I did tell you about the story,” she reminded him, raising a stern eyebrow. “So, I… secured her. I had homework to do.”

He stared at her for a long second, the way he did when he was deciding whether to laugh, scold, or start fixing something that should never have been broken in the first place.

“You secured her.”

She nodded once, resolutely.

Silence settled over the yard. The rope creaked faintly as Nora shifted, testing its limits once more like a sailor checking a knot.

Adam exhaled. Slowly. Deliberately.

“Well,” he said at last, “I appreciate the… initiative.”

Beth’s eyes flickered—hopeful.

“But I’m raising children, not livestock.”

Despite appearances to the contrary at times.

“And we are certainly not tying children to porches like wayward goats.”

Nora brightened. “Goats climb things too. I bet I could climb right now if I tried!”

“That,” Adam said without looking at her, “is not helping your case.”

He stepped closer to Nora and crouched so they were eye level. The irritation on his face softened just a fraction, enough to let concern show through. “Eleanor… you’re not a bird. Or a goat,” he added quickly.

Hurt settled heavily on her face before Nora ducked her head. Inwardly, Adam winced. The line between not crushing her wonderful, dreamlike sense of wonder with the world, that beautiful imagination, and letting her go too far was so thin. He reached for her chin, gently tilting it upward.

“You’re going to get hurt; badly hurt. I won’t allow that.” His voice was gentle, but firm, commanding her attention without frightening her. “We can’t keep talking about this. Your feet need to stay on the ground. No more climbing things to try to fly. Or it’ll stop being a conversation and become a necessary talk instead.”

Her lower lip trembled, but Nora held it in place with stubborn determination. “But birds get to try,” she rebutted.

“And you are not a bird, Eleanor Violet Cartwright.” Adam let the full weight of her whole name, a signal of how serious he was, hang between them for a long moment.

“Birds are built for flying,” he said. “Hollow bones. Wings. Instinct. You’re so brave and so clever, but those things don’t stop the ground from breaking you when you hit it.”

Nora swallowed. Her eyes stayed locked on his now, wide, and bright and far too serious for someone her size. “I don’t want to stop trying things,” she whispered. “If I stop trying, then… what if I miss something I was supposed to be?”

That one landed square in his chest. He drew a slow breath, steadying himself, and shifted so he was sitting back on his heels instead of crouching tight and coiled. “Trying things isn’t the problem,” he said. “Trying things that can kill you is.”

Adam brushed a stray curl back from her face, his thumb lingering at her temple. “You can build. You can imagine. You can ask questions that make grown men feel foolish. Those are gifts. But gifts don’t mean you get to ignore danger.”

He lowered his forehead until it nearly touched Nora’s. “Listen to me,” he said quietly. “There are a thousand things you might be meant to be. Builder. Dreamer. Thinker. Inventor. But none of them matter if you don’t grow up long enough to choose.”

Nora’s breath hitched. “I don’t want you to stop me forever.”

“I won’t.” He gave a small shake of his head. “But I will stop you today.” Forcing himself to ignore her tears, Adam reached for the rope around her, testing the knot Beth had tied; it held.

Of course, it did.

Somehow, that made everything worse.

“Beth,” he said over his shoulder, not looking up, “come untie her.”

He watched his oldest daughter push back her chair at once and cross the porch. Her hands worked the knot with nervous speed, cheeks turning pink.

“I didn’t mean it like… like a goat,” she muttered. “I just—she won’t listen.”

The rope loosened. Nora felt it immediately and shot to her feet, wings—arms—lifting instinctively.

Adam’s hand landed on her shoulder, steady, and grounding. Unmovable. “No,” he said. “You stay right there.”

She froze, eyes wide, breath caught in her chest. Then, slowly, Nora lowered her arms.

“You are grounded. Inside, up to your room,” he instructed, voice level but stern.

Nora blinked at him, clearly searching for a crack in his certainty. Her mouth opened, closed, then she tried anyway. “But I’m already on the ground.”

For a heartbeat he just stared at her. Then his jaw tightened, and he exhaled through his nose.

“Spiritually,” he said. Belatedly he realized that it wouldn’t make sense to a child her age and tapped his chest, right over his heart, to give the word meaning. “And physically. In the house, in your room, for two days. No climbing, no flying, no books about birds, no experiments. Nothing dangerous.”

Nora deflated in front of his eyes and began to cry earnestly. She looked ready to crumple to the ground at his feet and never rise again.

“Upstairs,” he added, firmer now. Adam wasn’t going to give in to tears. Not after another flight attempt. “Right now.” He pointed toward the door, eyebrows arching in a way that promised this was not a moment for negotiation. He watched her shuffle past him, and somewhere between the door and the stairs begin to wail.

Heaven help us.

And that left Beth.

He turned back towards her to find Beth almost bracing herself, shoulders back, chin up, appearing ready to meet him head-on if he intended to censure her. Doubt had crept in; she was questioning her choices now. The small, unconscious motion of her forefinger and thumb worrying a bit of her dress told him that.

Adam saw so much of himself in her at that moment. Always wanting to do it right. Always wanting to be everything for everyone. Wanting to shoulder every burden so Pa didn’t have to do it alone.

“You were scared.”

Beth blinked. “I—”

“You were scared she’d get hurt,” he continued, and that stopped her cold. “And you were scared you’d be blamed for it. I remember that feeling, and that level of exasperation, too.” Adam inclined his head towards the rope.

She swallowed hard, nodding. “I… I just didn’t know what else to do.”

Adam rubbed the back of his neck. “There are ways to keep her safe, ways that don’t involve ropes and knots. You’ve got to use your head as well as your heart.”

A soft smile settled on Beth’s face. “That sounds like Mama.”

Adam’s mouth twitched despite himself, the ghost of a smile pulling at one corner as an old memory surfaced. “Your mother had a way of saying things that stuck,” he said quietly. “Usually right when you didn’t want to hear them.” The words seemed to settle between them, carrying her voice in their cadence, familiar and unavoidable.

Beth managed a small, shaky smile, as if even the memory loosened something tight in her chest.

He shifted then, resting his hands on his hips, and let his gaze travel across the porch. The rope lay limp and coiled where it had fallen, harmless now, and the parasol leaned against the railing at an awkward angle, its torn fabric sagging like an exhausted accomplice that had finally given up. The whole scene looked smaller without the tension in it, stripped of urgency and danger.

“Beth,” he said, bringing his eyes back to her, steady and certain, “you are not Nora’s jailer.”

She nodded quickly, too quickly, as if agreement might keep the thought from being tested. “I know.”

Adam’s expression softened further, his eyes full of understanding. “You don’t have to solve everything alone,” he said, voice low and deliberate, making sure it landed.

The words hung there, heavier than he’d intended, and Beth’s nod slowed this time. She pressed her lips together, eyes dropping to the porch boards as if the grain might give her something solid to hold onto.

“I just… someone has to,” she said after a moment, spreading her hands wide.

“I know why you think that,” Adam replied. He knew better than Beth could ever know. He didn’t want to place the same burden on her that had been placed on him. One that he bore out of necessity, and love, but one he didn’t want for her if it could be helped.

He shifted his weight, boots scuffing softly, and looked out toward the coop, where the hens had settled themselves again. “But that someone doesn’t have to always be you. Not alone.”

Beth drew in a careful breath. “If I don’t step in, it feels like I’m failing. Her, you.”

Adam turned fully toward her then. “Stepping in doesn’t always mean stepping over,” he said. “Sometimes it means stepping back far enough to be helpful or call for help.”

She glanced up at him, uncertainty plain on her face. “Even if it makes things worse in the moment?”

“Especially then,” he said gently. “That’s when it matters most.”

Beth’s shoulders sagged, the last of that braced tension slipping away. She scrubbed at her cheek with the back of her hand, embarrassed at the moisture there. “I don’t want her hurt,” she whispered.

“I know,” Adam said, without hesitation.

They stood there in the quiet for a few seconds longer, the house settling behind them, the day moving on as if nothing remarkable had happened. Finally, Adam straightened.

“You’re grounded from creative problem‑solving for the afternoon,” he said dryly.

Beth almost smiled despite herself. It tugged at her mouth before she could stop it, a brief, disbelieving thing, as if she weren’t quite sure she’d heard him right.

“That means,” he added, already anticipating the way her mind might test the boundaries, “no supervising sisters, no clever fixes, and no taking responsibility that isn’t yours.”

“Yes, Pa,” she said, the words lighter now, relief threading through them.

“Go sit,” he went on. “Read. Do something that doesn’t require you to save the world before supper.”

She nodded, starting toward the door—but halfway there, a flutter of relief and gratitude stopped her. Beth turned and ran back, throwing herself into his arms.

There was no hesitation as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. The tension in her shoulders eased against his, the tight coil of fear and frustration she hadn’t even realized she carried loosening in his embrace.

Adam rested his chin atop her head, and she let out a soft, contented sigh. They stayed like that longer than either expected—just holding on, wordless, letting the quiet of the moment fill the spaces between them.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes shone, a small, grateful smile tugging at her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispered. He gave a small nod, his hand lingering briefly on her shoulder—a quiet promise that he understood more than words could say.

He watched her turn and gather her things with care before stepping inside the house. When the door closed, Adam remained on the porch a moment longer, eyes drifting back to the coiled rope and the sagging parasol, and then to the sky beyond—already calculating how many more lessons like this lay ahead, and hoping he’d be equal to them.

And really, truly, desperately hoping with every fiber of his being that Nora would give up on flying.

He would, of course, be disappointed.

 

Chapter 7

The eldest Cartwright son raised a hand as he spied his younger brother coming from the other side of the meadow, another day’s work behind them. Hoss’s white hat waved in response and the pair met each other in the middle.

Adam reined in first, stretching the stiffness from his shoulders as Sport shifted beneath him. “You look like you wrestled a bear and lost,” he said dryly. “Probably don’t look much better myself.”

The younger man grinned, undeterred, and wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. “I feel like it, too. That fence along the south pasture’s done, but it sure put up a real argument about being mended.”

They continued towards the spot where they tended to split towards their own homes, the sound of hoofbeats steady and familiar. For a moment there was only the creak of leather and the rustle of grass in the evening breeze.

Then Hoss cleared his throat, shifting in his saddle. “Adam?”

Adam glanced over, reins loose in his hand. “Yeah?”

“You uh… you did get your part of the present, didn’t you?” Hoss asked, trying to be casual and missing it widely.

For a brief second, Adam was tempted to ask what present. He let the thought pass with a small inward smile and kept his voice even. “I did. Or rather, part of it. The saddle blanket is at the house; Pa took my tiny terror with him to collect the saddle today.”

Hoss let out a breath he’d clearly been holding. “Good; good.” He nodded to himself, then added, “I keep worryin’ I forgot somethin’. Pony’s one thing, but it don’t mean much if he can’t get to riding it right away.”

“You didn’t forget anything. I know you’ve asked Joe about the rest of the tack at least three times,” Adam noted dryly. “And this is the second time you’ve asked about our part.”

The bigger man just grinned, unabashed.

“Trust me, the saddle is perfect. Pa, Beth, and I chose the saddle blanket together. I couldn’t let the younger two in on it; they’d never manage to keep a secret. It’s probably at the house right now if you want to see it.”

Hoss could relate to his young nieces and the excitement of surprises being too much for a person. “I already slipped once askin’ him if he liked chestnut ponies.” He winced at the memory, then brightened again. “I’ll do that though.” Chubb flicked an ear back as if approving the change in plans. “I just want it to be… right. First pony, first saddle. Feels like it matters.”

“It does,” Adam said simply. “And we’ve all done right by him. We wouldn’t let Benjie—or you—down.”

“Reckon I might still worry between now and his birthday. In case he doesn’t like the pony or somethin’.”

Adam gave a soft huff of amusement. Each of Hoss’s children had a way with critters and Benjie had talked for the past year or better about when he’d get his own pony and how well he’d care for it.

“I’d be shocked if one of your kids disliked an animal of any kind. Whether Benjie’s ready for it, on the other hand…”  The elder brother grinned. “Can Benjie keep himself still long enough for one? He and Teddy wrestle like bear cubs. The way we used to on occasion. Except I haven’t seen yours take down a fence yet trying to tackle each other.”

Hoss guffawed, his face lighting up at the memory of the fence they’d just started putting up crashing down around them. “Pa sure was mad, weren’t he?”

Adam’s grin widened, eyes going distant. “Mad isn’t quite the word. I think he stood there staring at that fence for a full minute, trying to decide whether to tan us, or bury us under the wreckage.”

“And then,” Hoss added, shaking his head, “our own young’uns come along…”

Adam finished the thought softly, almost fondly. “More reckless, louder, and stubborn than we ever were. Equipped with reasons and an alarming amount of confidence. My child tests air Hoss. Air. Not even Joe tried taking flight.”

“Only cause Joe didn’t think of it. He tried just about everything else,” Hoss reminded him. “My two boys are mighty tame compared to our baby brother.”

And compared to Nora.

“But don’t you worry about Benjie none. He’s got a real way with animals, he’ll be just fine,” Hoss reassured him. “But if you ever want a couple a boys to give you a break from those little gals of yours, I got one or two you can borrow for a spell,” Hoss grinned. “Liven things up a bit for you and Pa.”

Adam leveled a menacing look at his younger brother. “We don’t need any help being lively, I promise you. Between Beth arguing with her teacher, Nora trying to commune with the birds, and Georgie impersonating chaos—on chubby little legs that have no business at all being that fast—I’m set. More than.” A smile tugged at his lips. “At least they fight with good cause when they go at it. Other than ‘because.’”

“Cause them little gals fight about sensible things,” Hoss solemnly agreed. “Hair ribbons, who’s dolly is prettier, which one gets to stay up later by a whole minute, and what color is the best of all. Important things.” His response was given with considerable authority, given that he had two daughters of his own.

“Explainable things,” Adam countered. “Did you ever figure out how going to collect the eggs turned into a mud fight that broke a crate?”

Hoss shook his head. “Never did. One of the hens took refuge in a tree, too.” He scowled when his brother broke into unrepentant laughter.

Having survived his own recent encounter with outraged hens, or at least the wreckage, Adam couldn’t help but see the humor in it. “Can’t say I blame her. When chaos starts flying, the smart thing is to get clear of it. Vertically, if necessary.”

The house came into view over the rise, warm and steady against the late afternoon light. Adam expected at least a chuckle, but the other man was silent. Turning towards him, he saw Hoss had pulled Chubb to a halt and was squinting at something.

Hoss removed his big hat and wiped the sweat from his brow. “I think I took too much sun today,” he muttered. Setting the hat back down, he shaded his eyes as he squinted hard at the barn. “The barn just… moved.”

Adam blinked, frowning against the glare. “Moved?”

The answering nod was slow, deliberate, like Hoss was still trying to make sense of it himself. “Sure did. Somethin’ on that roof moved. Is moving, right now.”

Following his brother’s gaze, Adam’s eyes narrowed against the late afternoon sun. The barn didn’t appear any different, sitting in its usual location, the same color as always. Then something caught the light and shifted.

“Something on the roof?” he asked, disbelief threading his voice.

Then they saw it. Adam’s stomach knotted, heart hammering violently in his chest. The tiny figure stood atop the barn, a flurry of white behind her, stubbornly upright, daring gravity to interfere.

“Tell me that’s not…” His voice faltered.

Hoss swallowed hard. “I think it is.”

Knuckles white on the reins, their horses surged forward in a desperate race against gravity.

———–

Small hands clutched the bedsheet tightly, her cheeks flushing with excitement. Nora’s steps were slow and careful as she crossed the roof of the barn. “Today, I fly,” she told herself.

The idea struck her as she helped Hop Sing hang laundry that morning. The bedding was the answer to all her problems.

Nora was confident that this time, she truly would fly. The sheet could billow in the wind, taking any shape it needed to stay aloft. The generous size (Papa’s bed was big!) would capture plenty of air to let her fly across the Ponderosa and back again for supper. There was apple pie for dessert and Nora didn’t want to miss that!

All she needed was a great height to start from. Then, the air would know her and what she needed. Nora trusted that was true with all her heart.

And the barn was the perfect height to start the grandest adventure she’d ever have.

—————

The curry comb paused in mid-air as a strange scuffling sound reached her ears. Beth’s eyes shifted upward, towards the barn’s wide beams, certain the noise came from above her. She was equally convinced that there was something different about it. Having spent a lot of time in the barn doing chores and caring for the horses, she was familiar with certain sounds.

The tiny pitter-patter of birds and little scritches of tiny animals. The heavier thud and scratching of talons of larger, predatory birds. The small, energetic thumps of squirrels as they dashed across. Even the flapping when a bit of the roofing came loose and the wind made it move.

What she heard right now was none of those things and didn’t sound remotely similar. The noise was steady and even, a thump thump thump that felt familiar but completely out of place.

Buster nudged Beth’s shoulder, encouraging her to continue with the grooming he’d earned, pulling the buckboard to Virginia City and back today. Beth stroked his nose absentmindedly as she continued to look upwards with a frown, trying to place that sound.

Realization dawned and she sucked in a breath. Footfalls; small ones. Stomach dropping to her boots, the comb fell from her hands as she raced out into the yard and started to frantically scan the roof for Nora.

It wasn’t exactly her sister that Beth spotted. What she saw was a bed sheet billowing in the wind. Given Nora’s obsession with flight lately, that was enough of a confirmation in her book.

Scrambling towards the ladder, she screamed, “Grandpa! Hop Sing!” But she didn’t wait; couldn’t. Fear lent speed to her hands and feet, and she was at the top in seconds, feeling the warmth of the sun-drenched roof under her hands as she hoisted herself onto it. Panic fluttered in her chest as a single thought consumed her: I have to stop Nora before she falls.

The height of the barn didn’t register. Her own peril never crossed Beth’s mind. Careful not to look down and disorient herself, she began to cross the roof. “Nora! Don’t you dare!” Her voice was tight with anxiety.

The determined flyer turned slightly, greeting her elder sister with a deep, stubborn scowl. “I’m gonna fly!” Nora announced, chin lifted and eyes bright with certainty. The wide, unforgiving expanse of the yard below them didn’t frighten her at all; in her mind, there was nothing but open sky waiting to catch her.

She turned away from Beth, little boots edging closer to the roof’s lip, and stared straight ahead as if she could already see herself floating. Drawing in a deep, steady breath, Nora spread her arms and began lifting the sheet up over her head. Her time to fly had come.

 

Chapter 8

“Nora! Don’t jump!” Beth’s voice cracked as panic surged through her. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she lunged forward, fingers clutching desperately at the smaller girl’s dress. The fabric stretched in her grip as she tried to crawl closer, intent on putting her arms around Nora and yanking her back from the edge.

She was met by a sharp kick in the shoulder that caused her to cry out as all hell broke loose in the yard.

The door of the house opened with a terrific slam against the credenza, followed by the pounding of boots as Ben raced into the yard. He was halted temporarily by the sheer insanity of it all, staring up at the roof as if his mind refused to accept what his eyes were seeing. Beth and Nora appeared to be wrestling on the roof of the barn!

“WHAT IN TARNATION?! GET DOWN HERE THIS INSTANT! BOTH OF YOU!” Ben thundered. Then instinct snapped back into place. His boots dug into the dirt, and he found his speed again, racing toward the barn.

At that same instant, Adam and Hoss thundered into the yard on horseback, hooves pounding as they pulling hard on the reins. Ben barely had time to leap aside as the horses skidded past him, close enough that he could feel the rush of air and grit against his trousers.

“Whoa!” Hoss shouted, hauling Chubb to a stop, while Adam swung down even before Sport had fully stilled, throwing the reins to the ground. All three men looked up at the barn roof in unison, faces draining of color as the full danger of the situation crashed down on them.

For one sickening second, Adam’s entire world narrowed to the sight of his girls—his babies—silhouetted starkly against the wide blue sky. The sun caught at the loose strands of Beth’s hair as the wind tugged at her skirts, her boots braced uselessly on the slanted roof while she clutched at her sister with both hands.

Nora was flailing as she twisted and wriggled, toes scraping dangerously close to the edge of the barn roof, trying to get free of her sister’s grasp. One slip, one lost grip…

Adam hit the ladder at a dead run, boots pounding the packed dirt before he launched himself upward, taking the rungs two at a time. The wood scraped his palms as he hauled himself higher, breath burning in his chest. He didn’t slow—couldn’t—eyes locked on the roofline.

Hoss didn’t even glance at the ladder. He broke into a full sprint, long legs eating up the distance as he rounded the side of the barn, shouting hoarsely for them to hold on. Ben was right behind him, both men spreading out instinctively around the structure, arms lifting, bodies tensing—ready to do the impossible if a child came tumbling down.

“Beth! Don’t move!” Adam shouted, his voice tearing out of him, sharp with fear. “Nora, stay right where you are.”

His heart thundered as he climbed, every rung a prayer. “Don’t move,” he called again, forcing a steadiness he didn’t feel into his voice. “Hold on to your sister. I’m coming—just hold on.”

At last, Beth managed to snag Nora around the middle, hauling her back just as the little girl tried once more to step into nothing.

Getting both arms around Nora, Beth pushed her flat against the roof and held her there. Nora wailed as a sudden gust tore the sheet from her hands, as though she was watching her dreams of soaring away vanish as the fabric tumbled into the wind.

Adam’s hands hit the roof edge hard enough to jar his shoulders. He hauled himself up, chest heaving as the reality of the height hit him, hard. The vast, empty air beyond the edge, the sickening certainty of how unforgiving a fall would be. And with it came the stark, infuriating truth of just how reckless it was for Nora and Beth to be up here at all.

He spotted the girls, small against the expanse of the roof. “Nora,” he called, keeping his voice even by sheer will. “Beth. Don’t move. I’m coming.”

Beth looked up at the sound of Adam’s voice, certain she had never been happier to see her pa than she was at that moment. She kept Nora pinned down, unwilling to let her up until Pa was there to take Nora himself. Beneath her, Nora’s eyes filled with tears as she attempted to track the windswept bed sheet, oblivious to the danger of the entire situation.

Adam took a careful step, then another, and another, inching closer. He could see Beth’s chin lifted stubbornly in that way of hers, telling him she was scared but refusing to let it show.

Anger suddenly flared hot in his chest—at the risk they’d taken, at the terror Beth was trying to hide, at his own failure to keep Nora from going this far and not impressing upon her fully enough the risks she was taking. Fear quickly reclaimed him, overriding the ire with its icy grip, sharpening every movement and each breath.

“Just stay right where you are,” Adam instructed firmly as he moved closer. “Easy now. It’s going to be all right.” The wind tugged at his shirt, a grim reminder of how exposed and vulnerable they were.

“Pa,” Beth called, her voice thin and reedy. She wasn’t even certain whether he heard her, or if the wind had swallowed the sound.

I had to. The phrase seemed to pound in her mind in time with the beat of her heart. Someone had to; even if Beth’s stomach felt hollow and the ground seemed impossibly, terrifyingly far away. Nora wasn’t thinking straight and Beth wasn’t convinced her sister was yet. Despite being pinned down on the roof of the barn, surrounded by anxious adults.

“I had to stop her,” she said aloud, hoping Pa could understand. She hadn’t had a choice but to follow Nora onto the roof.

Adam’s heart lurched at the sound of her. He forced his voice to stay steady, gentle, even as his pulse thundered in his ears. “It’s alright, sweetheart,” he called back, eyes never leaving their small, rigid shape against the sky. “You did good. Do you hear me? You did exactly right.

“I’m almost there,” he added, slower now, deliberate, so she could cling to every word. “Just hold on for me. Don’t look down.”

Reaching them in two long movements, Adam slid down beside the girls. Beth had her body pressed over Nora, hands bunched in the material of her little sister’s dress. He put a hand on Beth’s shoulder and squeezed, his other arm coming around them both, a warm, solid anchor in the terrifying openness of the sky. “You can let go,” he murmured. “I’m here. I’ve got her.”

When Beth didn’t release Nora, Adam didn’t force it. He spoke softly as he leaned closer, his presence steady and deliberate, and began to ease her fingers free one by one. They were locked tight in the fabric of Nora’s dress, knuckles white, trembling with the effort of holding on. He covered her hands with his own, warm and sure, coaxing rather than pulling, murmuring reassurance as he slowly pried her grip loose. “I’ve got her,” he said quietly. “You did good. I’ve got her now.”

Once Nora’s dress was free, Adam set a steadying hand on Beth’s shoulder and helped her sit upright. At the same time, his other arm closed firmly around Nora’s waist, lifting her and drawing her in against his chest, where he held her securely.

Beth sagged the moment Adam took Nora’s weight, her arms slipping away as her strength gave out. Her fingers twitched in the empty air for a heartbeat before he shot a hand out, catching her wrist instantly. The warmth and firmness of his grip grounded her, a tether in the dizzying height.

“Easy,” Adam said, his voice calm but insistent, holding tight. “I’ve got you, too. Don’t move.”

Beth’s chest heaved as she nodded, gulping in shaky breaths. Her legs trembled violently, knees weak, and inch by careful inch put more distance between herself and the edge.

Oblivious to the fear of her father and sister, head tucked beneath Adam’s chin, Nora’s tears began soaking into his shirt. “Papa,” she whined, “the wind took my balloon.”

Adam lowered his chin to the crown of her head and closed his eyes briefly, breathing through an overwhelming urge to shake sense into her. He forced it back, holding Nora more firmly, and drew Beth in closer, wrapping both his girls in his arms.

“Adam?” Ben’s voice carried up from below, sharp, and urgent. He was already halfway up the ladder. “Do you have them?”

“I’ve got them!” Adam answered. Nora clung to him, arms around his neck, while Beth’s hands gripped his other arm so tightly his skin ached. Once both girls were secure, he inched them toward the ladder, never loosening his hold on either of them.

 

Chapter 9

He tested every step before he took it, moving slowly and deliberately. Adam felt every muscle strain with tension as they made their way carefully, battling the wind. After what felt like an eternity, they reached the ladder and let out a collective sigh. Two of them released it in relief; one, heavy with sadness.

“Beth, you’re first. Slow and steady. Grandpa and Uncle Hoss are right there.”

She looked down towards Ben, waiting for her halfway up the ladder, her face pale. “It’s so far…” Beth whispered, voice shaking. Somehow, when she snuggled into the hayloft with a book, the distance never seemed so daunting. The warmth of the barn, its familiar smells and noises, took the edge off the loft’s height.

Out here, as gusts yanked at her skirts and whipped her braid, with nothing but emptiness beyond the roof, it was vastly different. Up here, Beth felt her stomach lurch and a cold, crawling fear sink deep into her bones.

“We’re right here honey.” Hoss’s booming voice cut through the wind. “C’mon down. Grandpa and ol’ Uncle Hoss ain’t gonna let you fall.”

She took a deep, trembling breath and placed her hands on the ladder. Beth’s descent was slow and deliberate; each movement measured against the wind that tugged at her skirts and braided hair. She kept her body close to the ladder, gripping the wooden rungs so tightly that her fingers ached. Each step sent a shiver through her legs, trembling with fear, while her heart drummed wildly in her chest.

Below her, Hoss’s voice rang out—deep, calm, impossible to miss even over the rush of blood in her ears. “You’re doin’ just fine, honey! Keep goin’!” He stood braced with his boots planted wide in the dirt, arms lifted and ready, eyes never leaving her. “That’s it. Easy now.”

Willing her legs to stop quaking, she nodded—just barely, afraid that any bigger movement might undo her—and forced herself to keep going. One careful hand at a time, she slid her grip down the rails, then eased her foot onto the next rung. The ladder felt too narrow, the distance below too wide. She focused on the rhythm of it instead, breath in, breath out, and counted silently in her head. One… two… Halfway now.

The air behind her changed, filled with a presence close enough that she could feel it before she understood it. A strong arm wrapped around her waist, firm and unmistakably real.

“Grandpa,” she whispered, the word slipping out on a shaky breath.

“I’m here, Beth. I’m here,” Ben answered, his voice calm and warm right by her ear. He gave her a reassuring squeeze; not tight, just enough to remind her she wasn’t alone. “Easy now. We’ll go down the rest of the way together.” He adjusted his stance behind her, one hand anchoring her at the waist.

With Ben’s solid presence at her back and his quiet confidence carrying her forward, the ladder no longer felt quite so endless. The tension in her shoulders eased just a fraction.

“Okay… okay,” Beth whispered, more to herself than anyone else, her voice trembling. With Grandpa holding her, fear’s icy grip eased into something more manageable. She swallowed hard, giving a firm nod as she did so. “Ready.”

Step by careful step, they descended together. Ben’s arm was firm but gentle, a constant anchor against the ladder’s wobble. Each rung brought a tiny victory: her boots scraping the wood, breathing steadily, her courage returning bit by bit. She dared a tiny glance downward and saw the yard slowly getting closer. Uncle Hoss was waiting, his face bright and encouraging.

The instant Beth’s boots touched solid ground, all the strength seemed to drain out of her body. Her knees gave way, and she swayed, breath coming in short, shaky gasps.

Hoss caught her before she could fall, his big hands steadying her and then pulling her close against his chest. “Easy now… easy,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cradle the back of her head. “I got you, honey.”

Beth collapsed into him, heart hammering wildly as she clutched at his shirt with both hands, gripping him like he was the only solid thing in the world. Her face pressed into his chest, her body shuddering as the fear and adrenaline finally spilled over. Tears welled up and then fell freely, her shoulders shaking as she cried in his arms.

“Shh… you’re safe now,” Hoss soothed, his voice low and steady. “You’re on the ground. Ain’t nothin’ gonna happen to you.” He began to rock her gently where they stood; slow, instinctive movements meant to calm her racing heart.

Nodding against him, she tried to pull herself back together. Her breathing slowly steadied, though her legs still felt weak and untrustworthy. Hoss didn’t loosen his hold—not even a little—keeping her tucked securely against him. She didn’t dare turn her head to look back at the ladder, where Papa and Nora were still descending. For now, all she could do was stay right where she was; safe, held, and finally out of the sky.

——-

As soon as Beth was safely on the ground and Ben’s steady hands had released her, Adam’s attention snapped back to the small weight still clutched against his chest. Nora hadn’t loosened her grip once. Her arms were knotted tight around his neck, fingers tangled in his shirt. Damp patches darkened the fabric where her cheeks pressed against him, and he could feel each uneven hitch of her breath.

She sniffed, then pulled back just enough to look at him. Her lashes were clumped with tears, her eyes red-rimmed and shining. Her lower lip trembled. “My balloon is all gone,” she said in a small, broken voice, grief and disappointment tangled together.

Before he could answer, the last of her resolve collapsed. She buried her face against his shoulder, a soft sob escaping as her body curled inward. Adam tightened his hold instinctively as she cried out the loss of her grand adventure. And, he hoped, was beginning to understand the danger of it, if not the fright, she’d given them all.

“I know,” he said, his voice clipped and level. “We’ll talk about that once we’re on the ground—and we’ll take our time doing it.” Adam shifted his grip, making sure she was secure. “Right now, though, we’re getting down. Hold on tight,” he warned, leaving no room for argument.

Clutching her to his chest, Adam took a careful step toward the ladder, feeling the rough grain of the wood beneath his boot. His foot found the first rung, sturdy and unmoving, and he let out a quiet breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The ladder held and he took the next step down, slow, and deliberate.

That was when Nora’s little head popped up from his shoulder, her curls brushing his cheek. “Papa mad?” she asked, sniffles punctuating the words. Her wide eyes, still glistening with tears, searched his face for reassurance.

He ground his teeth quietly, questioning, yet again, whether he had the patience to make it through her childhood. “Nora, we are not talking about this here,” Adam said firmly, his voice low but unwavering. “Especially not on a ladder, one rung down from the barn roof.” Feeling her wiggle against him, Adam tightened his hold instinctively before easing down another rung. Every muscle in his arms and legs was rigid, working to keep them steady and safe.

Nora fell silent for exactly half a second, her little brows knitting together in confusion and worry. “But Papa—” Her voice wobbled, a tiny tremor betraying both fear and frustration. “I was just—”

“Eleanor,” he interrupted, the edge sharper than he intended, and immediately he exhaled slowly to soften it. “Stop. Right now, your job is to hang on and stay very still.”

One crisis at a time.

She sniffed, a quiet, shuddering sound, then swallowed hard. Slowly, she pressed her face back into his shoulder, seeking the steady warmth and solidity she trusted so completely.

“Okay,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, but full of reluctant obedience.

He stayed focused on the descent, blocking out everything else—the distance to the ground, the way his arms were starting to tremble, the image that kept flashing uninvited in his mind of what could have happened. Adam’s jaw clenched with every step, patience thinning to a thread he was gripping just as tightly as the ladder.

Nora shifted slightly against his chest, loosening her hold just enough to peek around, her wide eyes flicking down with a mixture of curiosity and lingering fear.

“Papa?” she ventured, her voice small and hesitant.

He didn’t look down this time, keeping his eyes on the next rung. “Yes,” he said, steady and calm.

“…are you very mad?” Her words tumbled out softly, uncertainty lacing each syllable, betraying the tiny knot of worry still twisting in her chest.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the tension in his shoulders to ease just enough to stay steady. “Nora,” he said, tight and controlled, “this ladder is not the place for questions.”

“But—” she began, her small voice quivering, the beginnings of a protest on her lips.

“No buts,” Adam cut in firmly, lowering his foot to the next rung and feeling the wood solid beneath him. The subtle creak of the ladder underscored his words.

There was a weight, a finality, in Papa’s tone that snapped through her hesitation and held her still. Slowly, she pressed her face back against him, curls brushing his cheek, and the last of her muttered protests faded.

They descended in silence for a few rungs, broken only by the scrape of boots on wood and Adam’s steady breathing. His arms burned now, but he welcomed the pain—it kept his mind from straying to everything that could have gone wrong. He felt Nora’s breath, hot against his collarbone, coming in quick little hitches. Each movement was measured and controlled, until finally there was ground beneath his feet.

The moment Adam’s boots hit dirt, Ben took Nora, pulling her close and planting her safely against his chest. Adam stayed where he was for a heartbeat longer, palms still gripping wood, legs weak as the tension drained out of them.

At last, he stepped back, drawing in a deep, ragged breath. His gaze flicked upward—just once—lingering on the roof they’d descended from, before he turned away, shoulders heavy. Dust clung stubbornly to his sleeves and sweat ran in dark streaks down the back of his neck and along his collar.

He hadn’t gone more than a few steps from the ladder before his knees gave way, and he sank into the dirt. Beth dashed to him without hesitation, and he wrapped her tightly in his arms, burying his face briefly in the warmth of her hair. Then, Adam extended an arm toward Nora, drawing her close as well.

Eyes bright with relief and anger alike, he simply held them, savoring the feeling of having his girls in his arms, safe on the ground. His chest rose and fell unevenly, heart still hammering, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to the three of them—dusty, shaken, but alive.

 

Chapter 10

Adam stayed there on his knees longer than he meant to, one arm tight around Beth, the other braced around Nora’s small back.

“Beth—”

His eldest spoke before he could finish. “I had to stop her. I had to,” she said, the words rushing out of her now that her feet were back on solid ground. Beth’s voice shook, not with anger but with the aftershock of fear. Whatever stubborn courage had propelled her up the ladder was long gone.

“I know,” Adam replied, loosening his grip just enough to look at her. His hand slid up to Beth’s shoulder, firm, grounding. “I’m not angry with you.”

She stared at him, blinking quickly as she fought the renewed burn of tears in her eyes.

He softened his voice further. “You were scared, and you still climbed up there for your sister. That took courage. Foolish courage, maybe,” he added wryly, “but courage all the same.”

The last of the tension and fear began to drain out of her. Beth’s shoulders slumped with relief, only to be replaced by the heavy press of exhaustion.

Adam gave her shoulder a small squeeze. “I’m proud of you. Now go on inside,” he said, tipping his head toward the house. “Ask Hop Sing for something to drink and sit down. You’ve had enough excitement for one day.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Rather than obey immediately, she froze. Beth’s gaze flicked toward Nora, face still pressed against Papa’s chest, then back at Papa. Her eyes, wide and shimmering, held a silent plea—not for forgiveness, exactly, but for understanding. A part of her wanted to protect the reckless little daredevil, even still.

At last, with a small, shuddering sigh, she turned. Each step toward the house was slow and deliberate, her feet dragging slightly as if the world itself might tilt beneath her. Her chest rose and fell in uneven, exhausted breaths.

Stepping into the house was like a balm for her soul. The familiar warmth from the large fireplace; the clatter of dishes and the faint scent of cooking from the kitchen. Even the sound of Georgie ‘helping’ by banging a spoon on a pot from the makeshift pen Hop Sing had constructed. Beth closed her eyes, taking it all in, letting the normalcy of it settle her.

“Missy Beth!”

She opened her eyes just as Hop Sing drew her close, his tone filled with exasperation. “Missy Nora, she crazy! Make Hop Sing go back to China!”

The oft-made—but never truly meant—threat brought a small, tired smile to Beth’s face. Hop Sing’s voice, half scolding, half worried, wrapped around her like a warm blanket.

“Hop Sing,” Beth murmured, leaning against his chest for just a moment, “she… she didn’t mean to—”

“Missy Beth have tea. Look too pale,” Hop Sing interrupted, his tone shifting instantly from exasperation to tender care. He began steering her carefully toward the kitchen, one hand on her back, as if he feared she might topple from exhaustion at any moment. He guided her straight to a chair and put a cup of hot tea in her hands.

—————-

Still in the yard, Adam held Nora close, his arms wrapped firmly around her small frame. Her dark hair tickled his chin, face buried against his chest, hiding the flush of fear—or sadness—he couldn’t quite tell. He felt the rapid rise and fall of her tiny shoulders, heard the faint hiccups of leftover adrenaline.

Behind him, the soft scrape of boots and the sound of a wooden door told him his father and brother were moving off into the barn, giving them a measure of privacy. The quiet was almost too loud, filled only with the distant calls of birds and the whisper of wind through the trees.

Before Adam could gather his thoughts, a tiny voice pressed into his chest, muffled by his shirt, tentative and unsure.

“I thought it would work.”

He closed his eyes for a long moment, letting the words sink in.

Sadness, then.

The sharp edge of fear and anger he’d carried down from the roof dulled, giving way to something heavier.

This child will be the death of me.

Slowly, Adam eased Nora back just far enough to see her face. His hands came to her shoulders, giving her a slight shake.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice cracking like a whip. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? One slip. One wrong step.” His chest rose and fell sharply. “I could have buried you, and your sister.”

Nora blinked up at him, eyes wide, stunned by the force of his voice. “But Papa—”

“But nothing,” Adam cut in, the word final. He swatted her backside sharply, ignoring Nora’s indignant howl and immediate sniffles. “This isn’t a game.” Another swat followed. “Or imagination.” He reached for her chin, taking it gently in his hand to make sure that Nora couldn’t look away. “You will never do something like that again. Ever.”

Releasing her chin, Adam straightened and gently but firmly turned her toward the house. His hand rested between her shoulder blades—not pushing, directing. “Go to your room. Right now. And wait for me,” he said. “A necessary talking-to is long past due.”

Nora bent her knees and bounced in place, all that pent-up fear and frustration spilling over at once. Her hands balled into her dress as she stamped a foot. “Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?!” The protest came out sharp, but it wavered at the end, collapsing into a sniffle.

Adam didn’t raise his voice. “No,” he said evenly. “That was to get your attention and make you understand just how serious this is.” His gaze stayed locked on hers. “Now you’re going to your room. Go; right now.”

He pointed toward the door, his expression leaving no room for argument.

Nora’s face crumpled. Tears spilled over all at once, hot and unstoppable, as she turned and ran for the house.

———-

Gone.

Nora’s last hopes of flight, her greatest idea yet for achieving it, was gone.

The cry released at this realization was different. When her balloon made of clothes had snapped apart, Nora only became tearful when facing Hop Sing’s rightful indignation at her actions. A well-earned scolding and the knowledge that she’d disappointed Hop Sing fueled them. And after plummeting to the floor from the railing of the stairs, Nora’s wails had been filled with betrayal. The very air had let her down, quite literally.

Her preempted attempt to fly from the chicken coop had prompted sobs of frustration during her confinement. But now, sitting there in her room, being left with the unknown of her plan, these tears were different. She’d never be able to determine if she was on the right track or not; how close she’d come to soaring over the trees as she’d envisioned.

Nora’s tears held a grief-stricken, agonizing finality; the sound of a great dream dying.

Beth could hear the distinct difference in her sister’s sobs from downstairs. The sorrowful sound suddenly made her want to cry right along with her sister, her own throat thick with emotion. Before truly thinking about her actions, Beth put her tea aside and got to her feet, heading to Nora’s room at speed. There was no knock; she simply let herself in and hugged the sobbing little girl close.

She held on, rocking slightly, letting Nora’s sobs soak into her shoulder. They came in great, shuddering pulls now, the kind that stole breath and made words impossible. Beth tucked Nora’s head under her chin, one hand smoothing the tangle of curls, the other rubbing gentle circles on her back.

“I know,” she whispered, voice rough. “I know.”

Nora’s fists clenched in the back of Beth’s dress. “It was…” she gulped. “It was my last idea!”

Beth swallowed. She could hear it, the despair in Nora’s voice even through the wreckage of it. The disappearance of belief. “I know,” she said gently. “But we could’ve lost you forever and ever.”

That only made the crying surge again, the sound breaking sharp and raw. Beth tightened her hold, rocking more firmly now. “Hey. Hey,” she murmured. “I’d rather have my sister. I don’t care if you’re a famous balloonist or not.”

The younger girl shook her head, the words offering no comfort at all. “It’s gone. I don’t know if I was close. I’ll never know.” She hadn’t experienced the joy of flight and, worse still, didn’t know whether she’d been right.

Beth closed her eyes. That was the true hurt of it: the not-knowing. The way something could be taken before it ever had the chance to prove itself.

“You know what?” she said after a moment. “Someday, when you’re grown, you can try again. Real experiments and everything. Meet people who’ve done it. Or maybe you’ll invent a whole new way—something that isn’t even about balloons.” She huffed softly. “You can do anything. If you stay off roofs and stop trying to jump off things like a froghopper. Pa won’t let you live long enough to grow up otherwise.”

The sound of familiar footfalls reached her ears. Beth gave Nora a tight squeeze, her heart constricting at the idea of Pa punishing her any further when she seemed so shattered already.

A hot, instinctive flash of sisterly defiance flared in her chest.

Especially when this is all his fault in the first place.

Nora heard the steps too, lifting her head to look toward the door.

“Stay here,” Beth directed.

She disentangled herself from Nora’s grip and stepped into the hall, pulling the door shut behind her with deliberate firmness. Planting herself in front of it, Beth crossed her arms and set her jaw.

Just as Adam reached the top of the stairs.

 

Chapter 11

Adam slowed when he saw Beth standing there.

Not just standing; barricading. Arms crossed, shoulders squared, the flash of something hot and fearless in her eyes.

She could feel the abruptness of his pause and the way he tried to determine what she was doing. If she was truthful, Beth was uncertain about that herself. She hadn’t planned this part, or any of it really. Yet here she was, and here she intended to stay.

He was the first to break the silent standoff. “Beth.” Adam’s voice was tight; a warning threaded through it. “Step aside.”

Beth didn’t. She shook her head slowly, feet staying right where they were. The heels of her boots backed against Nora’s door. She took a breath. “No, sir.”

The refusal landed harder than if she’d shouted it.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. Adam moved forward, boots quiet on the floorboards as he closed the distance between them. He stood there in front of her for a moment, tall and immovable, the way he did when he meant to be obeyed.

Beth didn’t move. She barely breathed. What she did do was briefly wonder if she’d lost her mind. Or left it on the roof.

“Would you care to try that again?” Though shaped like a question, it wasn’t one.

She swallowed, the sound loud in the sudden, ringing silence. “No, sir.” Her voice was quieter this time, but no less firm and carefully controlled. Her boots stayed planted.

Adam’s eyes narrowed, not in anger alone, but disbelief. “Elizabeth, I’m not asking.”

Her chin tilted up, a familiar, stubborn angle he’d seen a hundred times before; usually right before trouble.

“I know, Pa,” Beth admitted, her tone even. Then, deliberately: “And I’m not listening. Sir.”

That did it. Adam’s posture shifted, shoulders squaring as his full attention snapped into place. Both eyebrows rose high on his forehead. “This isn’t your place.”

The words were sharp, but she didn’t flinch. Beth was certain that it was. She knew Nora just as well as she knew herself—knew how sharp the loss felt, how unfair it was, how it hollowed you out and left nothing but questions echoing around inside. Right now, Nora wasn’t being stubborn or reckless; she was grieving something she’d never get the chance to understand.

If Papa went in there now with rules and consequences and reality lessons, Nora wouldn’t hear a word of it. It would all slide right past, swallowed by the ache in her chest. The message wouldn’t teach; it would just tangle itself up with the hurt and make it worse.

If only I can figure out how to tell Papa that before he loses his mind!

“It is today.”

“I am not going to stand here and argue with you, Elizabeth.” The words came out clipped and authoritative, but even as he said them, Adam was keenly aware of how absurd they sounded—because that was exactly what was happening. A full-blown argument, in his own hallway, with his own daughter, who had somehow decided that this was the hill she was willing to plant herself on.

He exhaled through his nose, reining himself in. He had no intention of dragging Beth to her room like a toddler throwing a fit and slam the door behind her. She was old enough to understand. Old enough to obey. And Adam was going to insist, firmly, that she do so.

“You have exactly three seconds to reconsider your position,” he said, voice low and edged with steel. “Do I need to start counting?”

Every instinct of self-preservation screamed at her to apologize. To step aside. To retreat quickly while she still could. Counting meant she’d pushed him past warnings and explanations and into the realm of action. Action that never ended well for her. Beth knew that. She felt it in the tight knot forming in her stomach, in the way her pulse jumped.

Somehow—stupidly, recklessly—she didn’t do any of those things.

“One,” she said instead, loudly.

Beth’s voice rang out down the hallway, steady and unmistakably deliberate, a clear challenge that bounced off the walls and left nowhere to hide. Adam froze.

“Two.” She didn’t hesitate; didn’t waver.

“Three.”

For a split second, pure, unfiltered shock crossed his face. It wasn’t anger, not yet. It was disbelief. He hadn’t expected that. He’d anticipated every other reaction: Beth bolting for her room; dissolving into tears; shouting back; even backing down with clenched fists and flashing eyes.

He had not expected her to take his countdown and claim it as her own.

The silence that followed felt heavier than the argument itself.

Then, reluctantly, a familiar realization crept in. Perhaps he should have expected it. Beth was his and Alta’s daughter. Stubborn, principled, and infuriatingly brave when she believed she was right.

Naturally, being their child, Beth wasn’t finished.

She held her ground, shoulders squared, eyes locked on his. Her heart was hammering now, loud enough that she was sure he could hear it, but she didn’t look away.

“You read her that story, Papa,” Beth said, her voice rising despite herself. The words came faster as the dam cracked. “About the balloonists—and how they persisted. How they kept going even when everyone said it couldn’t be done.” She gestured sharply toward the closed door behind her. “Nora lives in her head! You know that. I said it was a bad idea—I said it.”

She drew a breath, but it barely slowed her. “She doesn’t hear stories the way other people do. She hears instructions. That’s how Nora works, and you know that!”

The hallway seemed to shrink around them.

Adam’s voice cut in, low and dangerous. “Are you saying this is my fault?”

“Yes!”

The word burst out of her before she could stop it; before sense, caution, or fear could catch up. It landed between them like a dropped plate, sharp and irretrievable. Beth felt the instant it was spoken that she’d crossed a line she couldn’t uncross.

She’d lost her temper completely. Worse, she’d now committed the greatest transgressions in the Cartwright household; defiance, disobedience, and, disrespect.

The fire that had fueled her challenge sputtered and died, leaving behind a cold, hollow dread. Beth wanted to snatch the word back, to swallow it, to rewind the last ten seconds and make herself disappear.

Or maybe the last few minutes even.

Definitely the last few minutes.

But it was out there, all of it. The defiance and disrespect, wrapped in an angry delivery. What had started as a zealous effort to ensure that he knew Nora needed to grieve before she was ready for consequences had turned into a shouting match. Well, that wasn’t strictly true. She was the only one shouting; Pa’s voice was firm, serious, but not raised.

————–

The words she’d flung at him still rang in his ears—hot, disrespectful, reckless in their delivery. Already worn thin from the danger they’d only just avoided on the barn, Adam’s first instinct leant towards being immediate and sharp: a swift consequence, delivered right there in the hall. It was more than justified by her behavior.

He could have done it and very nearly did.

Then he saw Beth’s face as horror dawned. Not in a dramatic gasp or burst of tears, but creeping over her features in stages. Adam watched every one of them appear.

The flare of anger faded first. The sharp lift of her chin faltered. Her mouth, still parted from the last heated word she’d thrown at him, closed sharply as if she might be able to pull it back in.

The brightness of her eyes, which had sparked with a fierce sense of certainty, disappeared. The intensity of emotion drained from them as something fragile flickered there now instead. Adam could see the exact instant the comprehension truly dawned, her pupils widening with awareness and alarm.

Then understanding settled in. Not of him, but of herself. Of the words themselves, the way they’d been thrown, and the fact that she couldn’t take them back. No matter how much she might want to do so, her outburst—every part of it—had been said and heard.

Pale and stricken, Beth’s eyes found his, searching for something. A measurement of anger and disappointment potentially too deep to comprehend, but more than that; for damage. Proof that she’d broken something beyond repair.

Adam’s chest tightened. What he saw wasn’t defiance anymore. It was horror at a mistake that felt too big and awful, driven by emotions that had been stretched too far by the day’s events. He was no stranger to that feeling. He remembered it from his own youth—pride or conviction burning hot, then cooling into regret so sharp it hurt. With it came the fear that irreparable harm had been caused.

Beth’s fingers curled into the fabric of her dress. The same nervous habit she’d had since she was tiny; the need to cling to something that she could feel was real when everything felt too big, too much.

“Pa…” she started, but the word faltered. Her hazel eyes shined bright with tears as she grappled with the enormity of her missteps, her utter disrespect, the loss of control.

What do I do now?

 

Chapter 12

She had no idea her father was wondering about the very same thing. Adam knew he had to respond; he couldn’t let her behavior stand. If he came down too hard, he ran the risk of shattering the beautiful, protective force that motivated Beth in the first place. The emotions and adrenaline from it all had been too much for her to hold gracefully. To share in the way she usually did, that he was used to. But if he softened too much, would it allow her to think the line didn’t matter?

He hated that parenting was so often this narrow bridge between the two and that he had to make the choice alone.

Adam exhaled slowly, carefully. He folded his arms, not defensive, not aggressive, thinking. “I wasn’t shouting at you, was I?”

Miserably, Beth shook her head. Even when Papa was clearly frustrated with her, he hadn’t raised his voice.

“You’re right, about Nora. She’s different from you,” Adam acknowledged. “But I’m her pa same as I’m yours. I know her just as well as I know you. You’re not the only one who sees how she views the world.” The number of conversations with Nora that had revolved around describing the personalities of clouds and choosing places to fish based on how ‘friendly’ the water looked in a spot were many.

Beth’s heart gave a hopeful leap—and then stalled when he added, “The fact that she’s grieving doesn’t erase what she did. But I do understand.”

Her shoulders sagged. “I wasn’t trying to be disrespectful,” she whispered, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her hands worried at the hem of her sleeve, twisting the fabric tight. “I wasn’t.”

Adam didn’t answer right away. He watched her with that measured steadiness that always made her feel as though he saw more than she said.

“No,” he agreed at last. “You weren’t.”

Relief flickered, brief and fragile.

“You were trying to protect your sister.”

The words landed with far more force than a sharp reprimand ever could have.

He understood.

That was what made it hurt. Pa knew exactly what she had been doing and she had still chosen to lash out at him in the process.

Beth’s throat tightened painfully. “You were being so—so calm,” she burst out, frustration flaring again in a weak echo of what had been blazing moments ago. “It sounded like you’d already decided everything and it didn’t matter what I said.”

“It did matter,” Adam replied immediately, his voice firm.

She looked up, feeling compelled to meet his eyes.

“It always matters what you say,” he continued. “Words aren’t small things. They carry weight. But how you say them,” he paused, letting the quiet stretch between them, “—that can change everything.”

There it was. Not anger. Something quieter and far worse.

Disappointment.

It settled over her like a January frost on the Ponderosa, thin and impossible to shake off. The hollow dread in her stomach sank heavier, solid as a stone.

“I shouldn’t have yelled,” she whispered, the fight draining out of her all at once. He’d have listened if she’d told him how worried she was about Nora’s tender heart in a quiet, respectful voice. Beth realized that now.

Adam studied her for a long moment. He wasn’t towering now; he wasn’t looming. He was simply there—solid, steady, and clear in his expectations.

“No,” he agreed quietly. “You shouldn’t have.”

The simplicity of it undid her more completely than a sharp reprimand would have. If he had raised his voice, she might have braced against it. But this calm certainty left no place to hide.

“I expect better from you, Elizabeth Frances.”

It wasn’t condemnation or rejection. And that, somehow, made it heavier. It was belief.

He wasn’t telling her she had failed beyond repair. Pa was telling her he knew she was better than this—that the girl who’s temper had snapped was not who she really was. The faith in that expectation pressed against her chest until it hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the words small but honest. Tears started to slide quietly down her cheeks and Beth ducked her head to hide them. She was too old to cry over a scolding!

Adam stepped forward then, closing the distance between them and pulling her into his arms. “You don’t stop being my daughter when you disagree with me,” he said. “Not even when you shout and act disrespectful.” His words were warm and forgiving, accompanied by a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re always my moonbeam.”

He gave her a tight squeeze. “We’ll talk more later if you need to. Nora needs me right now,” Adam reminded her gently. “I have to draw a line for her that she won’t find otherwise.” The unspoken before it’s too late hung in the air.

Beth nodded against his chest, swallowing hard. She understood what he wasn’t saying. Nora was fearless in a way that frightened them all—too quick to climb, to leap, to test the world as if it would always catch her. Someone had to be the line that kept her from the edge.

He eased back, his hands resting on Beth’s shoulders for a moment longer than necessary. Tipping her chin up with a gentle finger, he brushed away the tears she hadn’t managed to hide.

“Think you’re too old to cry?” he murmured, one eyebrow lifting in that familiar way.

She let out a shaky breath, something between a sniff and a laugh. “Maybe.”

Adam was about to reassure her otherwise, when on the other side of the door, the angst of Nora’s tears shifted. His jaw tightened just slightly at the sound.

“She’s so sad,” Beth said softly. “I was trying to help.”

His gaze returned to her, serious and steady. “Helping doesn’t mean standing against me in front of her. When you do that, she thinks the line can move.”

The words stung but not like before. This time they made sense.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you,” Beth whispered.

“I know.” He squeezed her shoulders once more, then let his hands fall. “You’ve got a heart that burns bright,” Adam said softly. “That’s not something I ever want to dim. We just have to make sure it’s pointed in the right direction.”

He exhaled slowly, glancing back towards Nora’s door. For a split second, Beth saw not just her pa, but someone carrying the weight of keeping everyone safe and whole.

She squared her shoulders as he stepped past her toward the door. This time, she didn’t stop him. Beth simply watched as he quietly entered and shut the door behind him, her heart filled with a new and weighty understanding.

 

Chapter 13

Adam opened the door quietly and shut it just as gently after stepping inside. The light that spilled in the window was thinned as the sun slowly descended, shadows edging around the room. Somehow, it made the small figure weeping on the bed appear much more tragic.

Nora lay half across and half off her bed. Her left arm dangled toward the floor, one cheek pressed against the mattress, hair wild. Her legs were twisted under the blanket as though she’d tried to burrow beneath it and given up partway, simply choosing to lie just as she was. It looked uncomfortable. Unnatural even.

And enough like her awkward landing position after she’d jumped from the railing to make him shiver.

For one terrible instant, his mind betrayed him. He could see her splayed on the ground beside the barn instead of here—limbs flung wide, dress crumpled wrong, far too still. The image came unbidden and sharp, stealing the air from his lungs.

He closed his eyes briefly and forced it away.

Then he heard that same sound he’d caught outside the door a moment ago. Not the broken cries from earlier, but muffled, weary sobs forced into the mattress beneath her. It almost appeared as though Nora was trying to disappear into it; exhausted, grief-stricken, folded in on herself.

He crossed the room without a word and knelt beside the bed. Up close he could see how tightly her fingers were knotted in the quilt, how her shoulders trembled with each breath.

“Nora,” he said softly.

She flinched at the sound of his voice but didn’t lift her head. “It was my last idea,” she choked into the mattress. “It was the last one. I don’t have any more.”

Adam’s hand hovered for a second before resting carefully between her shoulders. He felt the shudder run through her. His palm stayed there, warm, and steady, moving in slow, grounding circles for a moment, then two, letting her settle a bit before attempting to move her.

Carefully, he slid his arm underneath Nora and eased her upright. She resisted weakly at first, but he guided her patiently until she was sitting. The blanket slipped from her legs, and she swayed toward him without meaning to.

He caught her easily and drew her against his chest. Nora crumpled against him, burying her face in his shirt as her tears seeped through the cloth.

“I’ll never know if I was close,” she whispered.

Adam rested his cheek against the crown of her head. The fading light traced the edge of her profile, fragile and young and heartbreakingly earnest. She was so small, and he could still picture her on that roof—even tinier against the sky, as the wind pulled at her.

He shifted back against the headboard and drew her fully into his lap, one arm wrapped securely around her back, the other cradling the back of her head. For a long time, Adam did nothing but rock her gently and let Nora cry her sorrows out in his arms. The motion was slow and steady, a rhythm he was well versed in—forward, back, forward, back.

Words weren’t needed; his strong, comforting hold was. To ground her. To give her the safety to fall apart, knowing she was still loved, and that all her hurts mattered to him—even the ones stemming from actions that had scared the hell out of him.

Adam could still see her on that roof every time he blinked. Still feel the sharp spike of fear that had gone clean through him. But that didn’t change what she needed right now. So, he held her.

Gradually, the sharp sobs softened into heavy, shuddering breaths. Nora’s weight settled more trustingly against him instead of clinging in desperation.

He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head and brushed some of her tangled hair back from her damp face. The wind had done a number on it. Knots pulled tight, strands snarled in every direction.

That is going to be a bear to brush later.

The ordinary thought grounded him as surely as being held grounded her.

“That was a very big cry,” Adam observed, his tone gentle.

Nora sniffed and rubbed her wet cheeks against his shirt.

“You’re grieving a dream, aren’t you?” he asked.

Her green eyes blinked up at him, brow furrowing with confusion.

Adam clarified, choosing simpler words. “You’re very sad about not being able to test your idea. And I understand that. I do. It hurts to lose something you believed in.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Especially when you don’t know whether it might have worked.”

Nora’s lower lip wobbled again.

“I was so close, Papa.” She looked at him then, searching. For what, Nora wasn’t sure—but something to make it all make sense. Something to ease the aching, hollow place inside her chest.

Adam saw the question in her eyes. She was looking for an explanation for the impossible—why a small girl couldn’t figure out how to fly. And, more importantly, shouldn’t risk her life with further efforts to do so.

He cupped her cheek gently. “Nora, wanting to know if you were right—that’s a good thing. But you can’t fly,” Adam told her quietly. “Not because you aren’t clever enough. Not because you didn’t try hard enough. But because people aren’t built for it. Not without learning first. Not without understanding how and why things work.”

Nora’s brows furrowed again as she considered this, sniffing hard and dragging the back of her hand beneath her nose. “Birds don’t have to learn.”

There was a faint spark of argument in it—fragile, but present. The part of her that still wanted to be right. That needed to know.

“Oh, yes they do,” Adam countered.

She blinked up at him, disbelieving.

“They fall out of nests,” he continued. “They flap and fail. They spend days wobbling on branches, hopping instead of soaring. The first time they leave the nest, it isn’t graceful. It’s clumsy. It’s frightening.”

He brushed a loose curl back from her forehead. “But they’re made for it. Their bones are light. Their wings are shaped just so. Even the way their feathers catch the wind—it’s all part of how they were built.”

Adam tapped lightly over her heart. “You were made for something else.”

Her eyes searched his face again, wide, and still damp. “For what?” Nora whispered.

“For thinking,” he answered without hesitation. “For building. For asking questions no one’s asked before.”

His eyes warmed, pride softening the lingering edge of fear there. “You look at the sky and don’t just admire it—you wonder how it works. That’s not something to lose, Nora. That’s something to protect. You want to fly?” he asked.

Nora nodded, small and miserable. The dream still flickered inside of her, a tiny flame not yet fully extinguished.

“All right,” he said.

The word surprised her enough that she looked up again.

“All right,” Adam repeated, steady and calm. “Then we treat it like something worth doing properly. We don’t start by jumping,” he said. “We start by learning. By studying birds. By studying wind. By understanding why your ideas didn’t hold.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Inventors don’t begin by climbing roofs. They begin by asking why something works. And why it doesn’t.”

She was quiet now, thinking.

“You weren’t wrong to dream,” he added gently. “But you were wrong to risk yourself like that.” The softness in his tone didn’t dull the firmness beneath it. “Dreams aren’t wrong,” he murmured. “But they don’t get to cost you your life.”

For a long moment, the room was quiet. The sharp edge of her grief began to soften into something steadier. Sadness, yes, but no longer the wild, desperate kind.

“I really thought it would work,” she said faintly, shoulders drooping. “I didn’t think about… falling.”

“I know.” Adam brushed his thumb lightly along her temple. “That’s why I have to help you remember to think about those things. Gravity won’t stop because you want it to, Nora. There are lines, hard ones, that you can’t cross. Ones that Papa draws until you’re old enough to do that for yourself.”

He could feel her go still in his arms, thinking about his words and what they meant.

Nora’s mouth formed a small ‘o’ as she recalled his words outside, and the swats that had accompanied them.

A necessary talking-to.

Adam drew back just enough to look at her, though his hands stayed steady on her shoulders. His expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even stern. It was pale, serious, and still carrying the shadow of fear.

“When I saw you up there…” His voice was quieter now than it had been all evening, “I didn’t see an inventor. I didn’t see a grand idea.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her tear-streaked face.

“I saw my little girl,” he continued, the words careful and deliberate, “standing high enough to fall where I couldn’t catch her.”

The words weren’t sharp. They weren’t loud. But they carried the echo of that fear.

“You might see a challenge,” he went on. “You might see possibility. But I see you. And I see how easily you could be hurt.”

Green eyes dropped, shame and understanding mingling there.

He lifted her chin with careful fingers, making sure she met his eyes. “It doesn’t mean you have to give up wondering,” he said softly. “Or stop imagining. It just means that while you’re still figuring things out, it’s my job to keep you safe.” His tone gentled even more. “I know today feels like something was taken from you. Maybe it was. But if you had fallen…” He paused, swallowing before he could finish the thought. “That’s a chance I can’t take. Not for a test. Not for anything at all.”

She leaned into him then, more carefully this time, as if newly aware of the height he’d described. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. “I didn’t think about that.”

“I know,” he said softly, his thumb brushing a stray tear from her cheek.

Then Adam’s expression shifted; not angry or harsh, but firmer. The gentleness remained in his eyes, but the tension in his posture hinted at something immovable: that some lines were drawn for her safety, and they could not be crossed.

“But this is what you must understand, Nora. The barn roof,” he continued, his voice steady and resolute, “is not a workshop. It isn’t a proving ground for ideas. It isn’t a place for chasing dreams. It’s high enough to do damage to you that can’t be undone.”

His voice tightened at the edge of that last sentence. He did not paint the picture for her—but he had seen it clearly enough in his own mind.

“I wasn’t going to fall,” she said, but the words came thinner now, as if she were trying to convince herself as much as him.

“I know you didn’t mean to,” he replied, gentler but no less firm. “No one ever means to. That’s the trouble. Anything that requires you to climb up to it,” he went on, “is not a safe place to test something. Height doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

Silence settled between them, heavy but not unkind.

Nora swallowed. “I didn’t think it was that high.”

He did not raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The quiet certainty in it was enough. “From the ground, it’s just a roof,” he continued. “From up there, it’s just a step away from the sky. But in between—” He let the sentence trail off, his jaw tightening briefly before he mastered it. “In between is a long way down.”

The words landed, and she went very still.

Adam shifted her slightly so he could look her in the eye. “Now. Because you made a choice that could have ended very differently, we’re going to have that necessary talk.”

Her shoulders tensed, though she didn’t pull away.

“But I need you to know that isn’t about punishing you for dreaming,” he clarified. “It’s about teaching you that there are consequences for dangerous—unsafe—choices.”

“Yes, Papa,” she whispered, chin wobbling.

The consequences had seemed almost distant a moment ago, wrapped up in words like lines and safety. Now they felt very real.

Adam studied her for a long second, making sure she truly understood why this was happening. Not because she had dreamed or because she had failed. But because she had climbed where a fall could have taken far more than her idea.

“Eleanor,” he said quietly, “you made a choice that wasn’t safe and you were warned about taking more leaps, weren’t you? We’re going to handle that, right now, so you make a better choice next time.”

Her throat tightened. She nodded again.

Slowly, she leaned forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. It wasn’t a delaying tactic. It wasn’t bargaining. It was instinct; the need to confirm Papa loved her one last time before accepting the consequences.

Adam’s arms came around her at once. “I love you,” he murmured into her wind-tangled hair.

“I love you too, Papa,” she said, her voice small but steady.

He held her for another long breath, feeling the rise and fall of her chest against his, the slow easing of tension in her tiny shoulders. Then, carefully, he shifted on the bed, and guided her across his lap.

 

Chapter 14

The lesson was measured; enough to make the point, and nothing more.

When it was over, Nora was back in his arms as Adam rocked her gently again, that same slow forward-and-back motion that had steadied her earlier. The firmness was gone from his posture now. What remained was a warmth that enveloped the child in his arms and took the edge off the distress that lingered in his chest. His hand moved in a calm, familiar rhythm between her shoulders as Nora cried, face pressed against him. The line was firmly drawn now, and he began to murmur comfortingly to her.

“It’s all done now,” Adam assured her gently.

Nora’s sobs came in tired waves now, not sharp, or frantic. Each one loosened something inside her, as though the grief was slowly draining away. The plan for future inventing with Papa and being held to account allowed it to do so.

His palm traced the familiar, slow rhythm up and down her back. “Papa’s got you, firefly,” he murmured. The nickname felt more fitting than ever; his little girl, always alight with sudden sparks of bright, uncontainable ideas.

Her breathing hitched, then broke into another tired sob.

“That’s it,” he soothed. “Easy now. Just breathe.”

The room had gone dim, the last of the daylight fading into evening blue. Adam shifted slightly so she was tucked more securely against him, his chin resting lightly atop her head.

“Do you know how much I love you? Far more than anything you could even dream up,” he continued softly. “As big and wide as the sky. As far as a bird can fly. As deep as the lake.”

The steady rocking continued until her breathing slowed and her body grew heavy with exhaustion instead of grief. His quiet reassurances wrapped around her like a blanket—soft, warm, comforting. Nora’s tears faded, and for a moment, the only sound in the room was her breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he continued to rock her.

After another long moment, he eased back just enough to look at her. Her cheeks were blotchy, lashes damp, eyes wet.

“Does your heart hurt a little less?” Adam asked.

Nora sniffled and pressed her cheek harder against his chest, thinking. “A little,” she admitted, her voice small. “But it still aches.”

Adam nodded, understanding. “That’s all right. It will for a little while. Dreams are wonderful, powerful things. And the world is wide enough for your questions and ideas. We just have to make sure you’re here to ask them.”

“I’m sorry, Papa,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

He pressed another kiss into her hair. The strands were rough from the wind, damp from tears, but he didn’t mind; he never did. “I know you are. I forgive you.”

Her mouth wobbled, but this time it wasn’t entirely from sorrow. The dream still hurt. But it no longer felt like it had died. It felt… redirected. And in the warm, safe circle of her father’s arms, that seemed almost possible to bear.

Nora glanced up at Adam, intending to share her feelings, but caught the furrow in his brow, and mirrored it with a small frown of her own.

“What?” she asked cautiously.

He gave a faint, wry shake of his head. “I’m trying to decide whether it’s worth the trouble to brush all this out…” Adam gave a curl a gentle tug. “Or if we should just cut it all off.”

Her eyes widened, and for a second, the weight of the day—the grief, the fear, the consequences—flickered behind a tiny, incredulous laugh. “Cut it off? Papa!”

“I’m serious,” he said, but his lips twitched with amusement. “Look at it. The wind and the tears have turned it into a nest of knots. I’m worried it’s going to take the better part of the evening to make it smooth again.”

Nora’s shoulders lifted in a reluctant shrug. “I guess it’s kind of… bad.”

Adam brushed a loose curl from her forehead. “Bad doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he murmured, teasing gently now. “But bad can be fixed. And we don’t have to resort to scissors just yet.”

Her small laugh returned, more real this time, and the tension that had clung to her shoulders loosened slightly.

“Let’s tackle it together,” he suggested, carefully parting the worst tangles with his fingers. “One knot at a time. Like we’ll tackle your ideas together—slow, steady, and with plenty of patience.”

Her grin returned, faint but stubborn, and for the first time since the barn roof, she felt a bit lighter. Her dashed flight attempt and hard lessons were now softened by future plans, shared laughter, and Papa doing what he always did.

Adam put Nora down so he could light the lamp, casting a soft light in the room. He then reached for the brush on the bedside table and sat down on the bed once more. He ran his fingers lightly through her tangled hair first, loosening the knots where he could, murmuring soothingly. “All right, firefly… let’s see what we can do here,” he said softly.

He began gently, brushing a section of hair free. “Have I ever told you about some of my experiments when I was young? I never attempted flight, but your grandpa would argue some of my efforts were just as dangerous.”

Nora let out a soft hum of skeptical interest, brows knitted together in thought. Tugging lightly at a loose curl as Adam brushed through her hair, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“Papa,” she said, her voice small but firm. “Don’t make up stories.”

Adam paused, fingers frozen in her hair, and looked down at her. “Stories?”

“Yes,” she said, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Stories.”

His child didn’t believe that he’d ever been young, curious, and reckless. Nora probably didn’t think he ever was a child.

Well, I’ll just have to show her.

————-

It took far longer than it should have to get his older girls into bed that night.

Some of that delay was entirely his doing. Adam lingered after the last story had been read, after the final question had been asked and answered, after Nora’s eyelids had grown heavy. Even then, he didn’t set her down right away. He held her close, listening to the regular rhythm of her breathing.

He told himself he was only making sure she was settled. Making certain the day’s troubles had loosened their grip on her. That she wasn’t lying there in the dark, wide awake and worrying.

But the truth was simpler—and harder to admit.

He needed this as much as she did.

There was something steadying in the familiar ritual: the warmth of her small body tucked against his chest, the faint scent of soap and sun in her hair, the soft hitch and sigh of her breathing as sleep finally claimed her. The nightly routine was an anchor, proof that whatever storms the day had carried in, they had not blown away the most important thing—that she was safe, that she was loved, that she was his.

That wild, reckless spark in her had shaken him more than he had allowed anyone to see that afternoon. Even now, hours later, that fear had not released him. It lingered in the tightness across his shoulders, in the way his fingers refused to loosen their hold. The longer he kept his arms around her, the more it ebbed away, draining slowly with each steady beat of her heart.

She still astounded him—by the depth of her conviction, the fierce certainty that burned in such a small frame. A child her age should not carry beliefs so strongly she would risk herself proving them. And yet she had, without hesitation.

Then again, perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him at all. He had taken his share of foolish chances once; no barn roofs, but enough hair-brained experiments to turn Pa’s hair gray and had waded into scrapes with more pride than sense.

Adam’s mouth curved faintly in the dark as he remembered the look Nora gave him earlier, full of disbelief at the notion that he had ever been anything but steady, sensible, and fully grown. In her mind, he had sprung into the world already a papa, already certain and safe. The idea that he might once have been a boy with dangerous curiosities had struck her as absurd.

Firefly, you have no idea.

He lingered for a little longer, listening, counting the rise and fall of her small chest the way he had when she was an infant. At last, he bent and pressed a kiss to her warm brow, careful not to disturb the tumble of dark hair across her cheek. She stirred at the touch, gave a soft sigh. Adam eased her back against the pillows and drew the covers snug around her shoulders, tucking the edges in with practiced hands. She never woke.

In the hallway, the lamplight had been turned low, casting long, quiet shadows across the floorboards. Adam stepped out and pulled Nora’s door nearly closed, leaving it open just a fraction— enough for him to hear if she called. He never shut hers all the way.

Georgie’s door, next to hers, was another matter entirely. That one he secured firmly each night in what was, he suspected, a largely symbolic attempt to contain his smallest whirlwind. The effort rarely discouraged her for long; it merely slowed her down. Still, it offered him the illusion of order.

He could almost hear Hop Sing’s exasperated voice already. The cook had issued his warning in no uncertain terms after the last midnight expedition—bare feet, flour on the hem of her nightgown, and an alarming interest in whatever she could get her hands on. Should Georgie make one more daring escape to conduct a “culinary inspection” in the small hours, Hop Sing might truly pack his bags and declare himself bound for China by morning.

Adam suppressed a quiet chuckle. Reckless, indeed. It seemed some traits had a way of traveling straight down the line.

Moving quietly, he paused outside his toddler’s door and held his breath, listening. He waited for the familiar sounds that usually drifted through the wood at this hour; the soft, off-key singing to herself, the quick patter of small feet crossing from bed to toy chest and back again, the earnest little voice narrating some sweeping adventure to an audience of wooden animals and well-loved rag dolls.

There was nothing. Only stillness. Deep, complete, almost sacred silence. Relief loosened something tight in his chest.

I’ll have to thank Beth or Pa for putting her to bed.

The thought of Beth pulled his gaze across the hall to the door opposite. A thin blade of lamplight spilled across the floorboards from beneath it, flickering softly. She was still awake.

He wasn’t surprised. The day should have exhausted her—emotionally if not physically—but he couldn’t shake the memory of her face in the hallway earlier, just outside Nora’s door. The fear that she’d shattered something fundamental between them.

Her apology had been accepted; Adam had reassured Beth that he understood, and nothing could change how much he loved her. Yet all through supper she had watched him carefully, measuring his tone, studying his expression, as if testing whether the foundations of her world had shifted.

Adam stepped to her door and knocked gently.

“Beth?”

There was a brief pause before a not quite steady, “Come in,” was heard.

Beth was sitting up in bed, knees drawn close to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, back resting against the headboard. Her hair, freed from its usual braid, fell in a dark curtain over her shoulders.

Adam crossed the room, the floorboards barely creaking under his careful steps. He adjusted the lamp, lowering the flame just a little so the light softened.

“You don’t look like someone ready for sleep,” he said gently.

“I was,” she replied too quickly. Then her shoulders sank a fraction. “I tried to be.”

Taking the chair from her desk, he pulled it beside the bed and sat down, giving her space. For a time, Adam simply looked at her. The stubborn chin that had faced him down that afternoon was long gone; in its place was a child trying very hard to measure up.

“Beth,” he said quietly, “are you worried about something?”

Her fingers twisted into the edge of the quilt. “You were quiet at supper,” Beth began carefully. “I thought maybe… maybe you were still disappointed.”

He let out a slow breath. There it is.

“It felt,” she continued in a rush, as if afraid she might lose her courage, “like I really had broken something.”

Rising, he moved to sit on the bed beside her. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight. “Look at me.”

Beth did, though her eyes were uncertain.

“Nothing,” he said firmly, “nothing you could say or do in a moment of temper would make you less my daughter.”

Her brows knit. “I thought maybe you were disappointed in who I am.”

Expression softening, Adam put his hand on top of hers and squeezed softly. “Beth, who you are is brave. You are intelligent. And you are strong-willed.” A hint of warmth touched his tone. “Those are not flaws. They are gifts that simply need guiding. I don’t keep a ledger of wrongs,” he added. “You make a mistake, we deal with it, and then we move forward. And I certainly don’t measure you by your worst afternoon.”

Eyes growing suspiciously bright, Beth blinked quickly. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful.”

“I know you didn’t.” He studied her for a moment longer. “And even when you are stubborn and sharp-tongued and absolutely convinced you’re right—”

“I’m not always—”

He raised one eyebrow.

She huffed softly and looked down. “All right. Sometimes.”

The corner of his mouth curved. He slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her against him, resting his cheek briefly against the crown of her head. “Even then,” he finished, “you are my daughter. That is not something you can break. There is nothing you could do to undo that. Do you understand?”

Beth nodded against his shoulder, her breath evening out.

“If you ever doubt it,” Adam went on, his tone gentling further, “you come to me; always. Don’t lie awake and build worries in the dark.”

There was a quiet stretch of time before Beth spoke again.

“I don’t want to disappoint you,” she whispered.

Adam leaned back slightly so he could see her face again. “You will,” he said honestly. “From time to time. That’s part of growing up. And I will sometimes disappoint you.” He squeezed her hand. “What matters is that we face what’s wrong squarely and mend it together.”

He bent and kissed her forehead. “You are deeply loved, Beth. That does not shift with a single afternoon.”

A small breath left her, as though she had been holding it for hours.

“Now,” he said gently, easing back to his feet, “it is time to sleep. Tomorrow is a new day.”

Adam motioned for her to get into bed and waited while she slipped beneath the covers. Then he drew the blankets up beneath her chin with deliberate care, smoothing them flat and tucking the edges snugly along her sides, the way he had when she was smaller; so much smaller. He noticed the way her mouth curved despite herself.

“Listen to me, Beth.” One hand rested lightly atop the quilt. “Today is finished. It has been spoken through, understood, and set right. I am proud of you for that. Do you hear me?”

She nodded against the pillow.

He leaned down once more and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, letting it rest there just a moment longer than before.

“I love you, Papa,” she said, voice thick with sleep.

His throat tightened, but Adam’s answer was steady. “I love you too, moonbeam.”

————

He found Pa in the great room, seated in his red chair by the fireplace. On the coffee table stood a bottle of brandy and two small glasses, waiting for his arrival; knowing he’d need it.

Ben reached for the bottle, the movement unhurried, and poured into both glasses without asking. The quiet glug of the brandy seemed loud in the stillness. Only then did he lift his eyes and extend one glass.

The amber liquid caught the lamplight as Adam accepted it and lowered himself onto the settee with a heaviness that spoke of more than physical fatigue. For a fleeting second, he considered stretching his legs out and propping his boots on the table, something certain to earn a rebuke, but he lacked even the energy for that. Instead, he slumped back, shoulders bowed, staring into the flames as if they might offer an answer.

He took a slow swallow. The brandy burned warmly down his throat, settling into his chest.

The fire shifted, a log settling with a soft crack. Neither of them spoke at first, the shared silence carrying more weight than any reassurance could have managed.

“She thought she could fly,” Adam muttered at last. He stared into the amber swirl of his drink instead of at his father. “Honestly believed the wind would hold her up.” His jaw flexed.

“I don’t want to crush that part of her,” Adam admitted, his voice lower now. “The part that looks at the sky and thinks it’s reachable. The part that believes the world will rise to meet her if she’s brave enough.” He shook his head faintly. “But I can’t let her risk herself just to prove it.”

“No,” Ben agreed. “You can’t.” He set his own glass down with deliberate care. “That’s the balance, Adam. We spend their childhood urging them to be bold, to think for themselves, to trust their judgment. Then we spend the rest of our time teaching them which cliffs are higher than they look and which edges are real.”

Adam’s shoulders sagged, the weight of it plain in the line of his back. “I don’t know if I’m doing it right. Any of it. Every decision feels like it matters too much.”

“If you were certain you were doing it right, I’d be worried,” Ben responded with a warm smile.

He glanced up at that.

“Raising children,” Ben continued, “is the longest lesson in humility a man can have. You will lose your temper. You will speak in anger when you meant to speak in love. You will hold your tongue when you should have said more. And some nights you’ll lie awake staring at the ceiling, wondering if that was the moment you did permanent harm.”

Adam exhaled slowly, a sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “That’s… comforting, Pa. Thanks; I think.”

Ben’s eyes softened. “Here’s the comforting part: love covers a multitude of missteps. They know when they are loved. They feel it in the way you watch them, how  you set boundaries, and lose sleep over their safety. And you, son, make that impossible to doubt.”

The tightness that had been living between Adam’s shoulders all evening eased significantly. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I just want them safe.”

“Safe isn’t something we can guarantee,” Ben sighed. “The world won’t bargain with us, no matter how fiercely we love. All we can do is teach them good sense, give them roots deep enough to steady them, and pray their wings wait until they’re strong enough to carry them.” He winced slightly at his own metaphor, ignoring the look Adam shot him.

Instead, he glanced toward the staircase and lifted his glass in a small, solemn toast. “To children who dream.”

Adam hesitated only a second before raising his own.

“And to fathers who endure,” Ben finished.

Despite himself, Adam’s mouth curved. “God help us all.”

 

Chapter 15

Two Days Later

He crouched low, lifting a battered wooden chest with a grunt. It had to be the hundredth such chest he’d moved. Well, that might be an exaggeration, but it certainly felt as though there had been that many.

All Adam wanted to do was find some of his old journals to share with Nora. The ones he’d dreamed in.

They were scattered somewhere in the attic—thin leather books and stitched notebooks filled with sketches and plans, diagrams of improbable machines. In the margins he had scribbled calculations, observations, and half-finished theories. Some pages held careful drawings; others bore smudges of charcoal, or spilled ink.

He and Nora weren’t so vastly different.

Adam had never once looked at a bird and thought seriously about flying. But he understood the deeper thing behind her wondering. The urge to imagine something that didn’t yet exist and then try—however imperfectly—to make it real.

He understood building and trying; perhaps most of all, failing.

His childhood journals were full of failures—some quiet and forgettable, others spectacular enough that they should have ended his experimenting for good. Looking back on them now, Adam sometimes wondered with genuine astonishment how he had managed to survive to adulthood at all.

Frankly, any one of those experiments—or his rightfully infuriated father—should have ensured he never lived long enough to attend Harvard. Yet somehow, he’d persisted. Which was why Adam found himself in the attic: the quiet museum of the Cartwright past.

The room smelled of cedar and old paper. Trunks and wooden chests were stacked in careful rows, each one holding some fragments of family history—old ledgers, worn quilts, toys long outgrown, letters tied neatly with ribbon.

Aside from retrieving the Christmas decorations each winter, Adam generally avoided the attic.

Too much of Alta was here.

The things that had been hers but were no longer in use had been packed away with gentle practicality in the months after her death. Some of her belongings had remained downstairs, but the rest had found their way up here, into trunks and crates that sat quietly beneath gathering dust.

Two years had passed. Even so, the sight of it still caught at him. An entire life together, carefully folded and stored away. Seeing it all gathered here—silent, untouched—brought with it the familiar ache: thoughts of what they had shared, what they had planned, what might have been.

There was a quiet unfairness to it. That so much of their life now existed only in memory… and in trunks beneath the rafters.

Adam stood there a moment longer than he meant to, one hand resting on the lid of an old crate, letting the feeling pass the way he had learned to do. Then he drew a slow breath, brushed dust from his sleeve, and turned back to his search.

Somewhere in this attic were the journals of a young man who believed. And if he could find them, Nora wouldn’t feel alone in the loss of her dream to fly.

A tiny giggle from the far corner pulled Adam’s attention in that direction.

Georgie had discovered a basket, a shallow type used for sewing. The wicker vessel overflowed with ribbons in every color: cornflower blue, brilliant scarlet, soft cream, peachy pink, and more. There were even a few lengths of shiny satin that caught the light from the attic window.

The moment Adam looked over, Georgie let out a squeal of triumph.

With both small hands she plunged into the basket, scooped up a double handful of ribbons, and flung them high into the air. They fluttered down slowly, twisting and drifting like bright scraps of confetti.

“Beau’ful!” she declared proudly.

Why an entire basket of ribbons was in the attic, he couldn’t begin to explain. The old biscuit tin Georgie seized next made far more sense, heavy with the unmistakable rattle of buttons.

There’s always a need for a button.

Hop Sing said that often enough.

Georgie seemed delighted by the noise. She shook the tin enthusiastically, her curls bouncing with every vigorous rattle.

Adam opened his mouth. “Georgie—”

Too late.

The lid popped free with a cheerful metallic ping, and the contents burst out in every direction, buttons spilling across the attic floorboards. Bone and wood; brass and dull pewter; smooth discs of mother-of-pearl that flashed softly in the light. Some rolled in lazy circles before tipping over; others bounced sharply and skittered away into the dust beneath the trunks.

For a split second, Georgie froze. Then she clapped both hands over her mouth in astonished delight.

“Ooooo!”

Down she went onto her knees, dropping into the middle of the chaos like a small prospector striking gold. Her fingers darted everywhere, scooping up handfuls of buttons and dropping them back into the tin with loud, enthusiastic rattles.

Adam rubbed a hand slowly over his face and looked at the floor. The effort required to retrieve every button was more than he wanted to calculate.

Would anyone really notice if we just… left them?

The thought had barely formed before he winced.

If that tin belonged to Hop Sing by chance…

Adam lowered his hand and sighed the sigh of a man who knew exactly how this story would end.

Hop Sing would notice. Hop Sing always noticed. And Hop Sing possessed an almost supernatural awareness of the exact number of buttons currently existing in his household supply.

Adam crouched down beside Georgie.

“Well,” he said resignedly, reaching for a runaway brass button before it escaped beneath a trunk, “we’d better start gathering these before Hop Sing comes up here and decides we’re both hopeless.”

Georgie looked up at him and laughed. The sound filled the quiet space, banishing the melancholy from every corner of his mind. She scooped another exuberant handful and let them rain back into the tin with a triumphant clacking.

The task took a ridiculous amount of time to accomplish. Adam finally gathered the last wandering button and dropped it into the tin with a soft metallic clink. Georgie leaned over to peer inside as he snapped the lid firmly back into place.

“Gone,” she announced gravely.

“Yes,” Adam said, brushing dust from his hands onto his trousers. “Gone back where they belong.”

He set the tin on top of the nearby crate, just out of immediate toddler reach. Georgie watched him do it, calculating, her bright eyes following the motion with suspicious interest. Adam knew that look. It meant the tin would need to be moved again before they left the attic.

Georgie’s attention, as usual, shifted without warning. One moment she was scooping buttons with intense concentration. The next she had wandered across the attic and discovered a hatbox sitting half-open beside a trunk.

Adam recognized the hat the moment she lifted it out. It had belonged to Marie.

The hat was extravagantly wide brimmed, the sort that had never been meant for practicality. A soft sweep of pale feathers curled around the crown, and a ribbon band—once elegant, now slightly faded—trailed down one side. Marie had worn it on bright afternoons when the family went to town, tilting it just so with effortless grace.

In Georgie’s small hands, however, it looked enormous. She plopped it onto her head crookedly. The brim sank almost to her shoulders, the feathers wobbling wildly as she moved. For a moment she practically disappeared inside it, only a pair of bright eyes and the tip of her nose peeking out beneath the shadow of the brim.

“Hat,” she announced proudly. She promptly gave a satisfied little spin, the feathers bobbing as if they approved of the arrangement.

Grinning, Adam turned back toward the line of trunks and crates stacked along the far wall. Somewhere among them were the journals he was looking for. He was almost certain they’d been packed into one of the smaller wooden crates years ago, along with some old school papers and loose notebooks he hadn’t had the heart to throw away. He studied the stacks for a moment, trying to remember which one might hold them.

The third crate from the top looked promising. He stepped closer and reached up to pull it down—

Crash.

The sharp clatter behind him snapped his attention around instantly.

Adam crossed the attic in three long strides.

Georgie stood in the middle of the floor, still wearing the enormous, feathered hat, kicking enthusiastically at a box that had tumbled off a nearby trunk.

Inside it, something rattled. Not softly, either. A hard, delicate clink. The unmistakable sound of something breakable being jostled repeatedly across wooden floorboards.

Georgie lifted her foot again.

“Georgie—no!”

The tot froze, looking up at him with wide, innocent eyes beneath the enormous brim of Marie’s hat.

Adam crouched quickly and scooped up the box before it could suffer another enthusiastic kick.

“I help,” Georgie informed him with great seriousness. She pointed at the box. “Noise!” The hat drooped further over one ear, and she wrestled with it for a moment, the broken item and its sounds completely forgotten. Once the hat was righted as much as she could manage, her attention turned to something new: the dust.

Her kicking and stomping had stirred up a fine gray cloud across the attic floorboards, and the surface now held the clear outline of her tiny shoe prints.

Georgie stared at them in wonder. Then she lifted one foot and stomped again. Another print appeared beside the first.

Her face lit up. “Feet!” she announced, delighted. “Make feet!”

She began marching in enthusiastic little circles, lifting her shoe high and slamming them down again, giggling each time a fresh print appeared on the dusty floor. With every step, more dust puffed up around her ankles.

Adam watched her for a moment, shaking his head faintly.

At least she’s not kicking anything.

Keeping one eye on his industrious two-year-old, he lifted and slid the box—broken item and all—carefully back against the slanted wall where it had presumably been stacked. The wood rasped softly against the floorboards as he pushed it into place. As he did, something behind it caught his eye.

A crate.

He paused, leaning slightly to see around the stack. It sat pushed back against the rafters, half-hidden in shadow. Adam frowned faintly. Reaching past the boxes, he dragged the crate forward across the boards. It scraped loudly through the dust, which puffed as it pried the lid off.

Inside, piled neatly but unmistakably familiar, were the leather-bound journals he’d been looking for. Their scuffed edges, frayed pages, and the scent of old paper greeted him. Pulling one out, Adam opened it reverently, carefully, and saw the handwriting of his younger self there. A sense of nostalgia for his recorded dreams and lessons learned, some harsher than others, filled him.

“Books,” Georgie stated.

She had appeared at his elbow so suddenly it was as if she’d been summoned there by the word itself. One moment Adam was alone beside the crate; the next she peered into it with intense interest, the enormous, feathered hat now sliding down slowly over one eye.

“Yes,” Adam replied quietly.

He set the journal carefully aside for the moment and reached back to lower the lid over the rest of them. The wood settled into place with a soft thunk, sealing the others inside for now.

————-

He found Nora sitting at the coffee table in the great room. She was sketching with deep concentration, the pencil moving in quick, careful strokes. Every now and then she paused, tilting her head slightly as if listening to something only she could hear, then added another line. A small collection of drawings lay scattered beside her. Nora was so absorbed she didn’t notice him at first.

“Firefly,” he greeted softly. He set the worn leather journal on the table beside her sketch paper and lowered himself to sit on the hearth.

Nora blinked up at him, her dreamy focus clearing as she noticed the book. Her eyes—wide, thoughtful things that always were wondering about something—fell on the journal immediately.

“What’s that?” she asked, curiosity already brightening her voice.

“Something I thought you might like.” Adam slid the journal closer to her, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s… well, it’s a journal from when I was young. Full of ideas, plans, and experiments—some that worked, some that… didn’t.” He chuckled quietly, shaking his head.

Nora’s eyes widened. “Can I see?”

Adam opened the cover, revealing the first page: sketches of strange contraptions, notes scribbled in careful handwriting, diagrams of things that looked impossibly complicated. He handed it to her gently.

Nora leaned over it, tracing the lines with her finger, her gaze shifting through the pages with fascination. “You drew all these?”

“I did,” Adam said. “I used to dream about building anything I could imagine. Some of it… well, it got me into trouble more than once.” He paused, letting a faint smile linger. “But I learned a lot along the way. Thought you might like to see how ideas can start small—and sometimes fail—before they become something real.”

She studied another page, this one full of gears and arrows and notes crammed into the corners. Her brow furrowed in deep thought, the way it always did when her imagination started turning. “They look like… thinking pictures.”

Adam’s smile widened just a little. “That,” he said gently, “is exactly what they are.”

Eyes sparkling, she pointed at a sketch of a strange machine on another page. “What is that?!”

The design of a steam engine stared back at him. Though many years had passed, Adam winced at the sight of it. That disaster had earned him a very memorable tanning.

“That,” he said quietly, his voice tinged with both embarrassment and amusement, “is one of my biggest failures.” He tapped the page lightly with a finger. “It’s a steam engine. It… worked, in a way. But not very well.” He gave a rueful shake of his head. “I—well, I set the school on fire testing it.”

Nora’s head snapped up so suddenly that her braids swung around and smacked him lightly across the chest. Her wide eyes, sparkling with a mix of shock and delight, were fixed on him.

“You what?” she gasped, a laugh threatening at the edge of her voice. Her fingers hovered over the journal, hesitant to touch the page, as if she could feel the trouble embedded in the drawing itself.

Adam rubbed the back of his neck, the faintest color touching his ears. “Accidentally,” he said carefully.

Her eyes widened even further, if such a thing were possible. “The whole school?”

“No,” he said quickly. “And it wasn’t exactly on purpose. The, uh, fuel spilled across the floor and a desk and caught on fire. I put it out quickly. You should never play with fire. Ever.”

Nora stared at him for a long moment, searching his face as though trying to decide whether this might be a joke. Papa’s expression remained solemn enough to convince her it wasn’t.

“What kind of fuel?!” Her voice shot out, a mixture of disbelief and fascination. Her fingers still hovered over the page as the story unfolded.

“My brandy,” Ben answered, his tone sharp and precise. Seated in his red leather chair, he set aside his newspaper with a distinctly crisp snap and fixed Adam with a stern, unwavering gaze. The mere mention of that long-ago incident still made him cross.

Nora’s mouth fell open in a slow, theatrical gasp. She turned her head from her father to her grandfather, braids swinging over her shoulder, her voice barely above a whisper: “Your brandy?”

Ben gave a single, firm nod, his jaw tight and eyes serious.

She blinked rapidly, processing this new, almost scandalous information. Her gaze slid back to the drawing of the machine, then up to Adam again. The seriousness of the confession only made it more astonishing.

“You burned a building down with Grandpa’s brandy?” Nora asked again, her voice high with disbelief.

He shook his head gently, a patient smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I did not burn a building down,” he said evenly. “I only… scorched small portions of it.”

Ben cleared his throat loudly from his chair, the sound cutting through the room like a warning bell.

Adam held up a hand, trying to soften the tension. “Which,” he added hurriedly, “is more of a school than should ever be scorched.” He felt a flicker of regret. Of all the journals in the crate, why had he chosen this one—the one that recorded his most combustible failure?

Nora’s eyes sparkled as she pointed a finger at the page. “With Grandpa’s brandy,” she said, emphasizing it like it was the most important detail.

Her finger traced the carefully scribbled notes, the little calculations and diagrams that had been rendered almost useless by the disaster. She leaned back slightly, peering at Adam with a small furrow in her brow, curiosity warring with amazement.

“Did Grandpa know you took his brandy?” she asked, voice low and serious, as if the answer might rewrite the history of the entire room.

From the red leather chair came a dry, almost amused voice. “How could I not, after he set the school on fire?” Ben picked up the folded newspaper again and opening it with a sharp, deliberate snap. The rustle of the pages punctuated the story like a drumbeat.

Nora gasped softly. She leaned closer to Adam, whispering, “Did you get in terrible trouble?” She studied Adam’s face, tilting her head slightly, expecting a dramatic revelation.

Adam exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the memory. “Yes,” he admitted, his voice quiet, almost conspiratorial.

“How much trouble?” Nora pressed, her voice urgent, eyes shining with anticipation.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the red leather chair. Ben’s sharp eyes peeked over the top of the newspaper; one eyebrow raised in silent judgment.

Adam rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the familiar warmth of embarrassment creeping into his cheeks. “Well,” he said carefully, choosing his words like steppingstones over a river, “Papa got a… spanking.” That wasn’t entirely accurate, but he wasn’t going to sit and explain the difference between that and a tanning to her!

Nora’s mouth fell open slightly, the word trembling on her lips. “A spanking?” she repeated. Her small hands now rested on the journal, but her attention had shifted entirely to Adam, her young mind struggling to grasp the very idea of it. Her papa, not only doing something dangerous, but being spanked for it; just as she’d been.

Adam nodded once, solemnly, the gesture carrying the weight of a grave truth, and his eyes held hers steadily.

Hers widened even further, pupils dilated with awe, and she leaned closer to him, fascination written across every feature of her face. “From Grandpa?” she whispered, a hint of disbelief in her voice.

“Yes,” Adam confirmed quietly, a faint, rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Her gaze slid slowly toward Ben, taking in the tall, imposing figure in the red leather chair as though seeing him for the first time. She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a reverent hush.

“You… spanked Papa?”

This time, Ben folded his newspaper with deliberate care and rested it in his lap, intending to leave it there for the duration of the conversation. “I did,” he said, his tone flat, but carrying a heavy finality.

Nora’s gaze shot back to Adam, her astonishment now doubled, as if two impossible truths had collided in her young mind. “But… you’re so big!” she exclaimed, gesturing helplessly at him. Tall, broad shouldered, strong; that just couldn’t be true.

Adam’s mouth twitched in a small, knowing smile. “I was smaller then,” he said, shrugging slightly, the memory of that long-ago reprimand softening the moment with humor.

She peered up at him as though trying to picture a younger, smaller papa. Eyes squinting, head tilted, she could almost imagine it. Yet it was hard to get past the fact that Papa was so big!

Noticing the intensity of her inspection, Adam cleared his throat and flipped ahead a few pages in the journal, hoping to land on something less incriminating—and embarrassing—than steam engines fueled with stolen brandy.

“That wasn’t really the point of the story,” he explained, easing the journal back toward her. His tone softened, becoming more thoughtful. “The point I was trying to make is that I understand.”

Nora’s attention shifted from imagining tiny-papa to listening again.

“The desire, the need, to know things,” he continued. “To find answers. To try things just to see what happens.” His mouth curved in a small, reflective smile. “I know that feeling very well.”

He tapped the page lightly. “And I know what it feels like when those ideas don’t quite work the way you hoped.” Adam leaned forward a little. “And I think,” he said gently, “that you and I should start a journal like this together.”

Her head lifted immediately.

“A place where we write down all your wonderful thoughts and ideas,” he went on. “Where we draw things you imagine, think up experiments we might try, and then write down what happens when we try them.”

He reached forward and tapped her lightly on the nose.

“Then,” he added with a grin, “when you’re my age, you can show it to your child and be asked a great many embarrassing questions.”

Nora blinked at him, the idea settling into her mind like a spark catching dry tinder.

“My own journal?” she said slowly.

“Your own journal,” Adam confirmed.

She looked down at the battered book, full of sketches and notes and boyhood ambition. Then she looked back up at him, her eyes suddenly shining with bright, eager excitement.

“For experiments?” she asked.

Adam nodded.

“And drawings?” she pressed quickly, leaning forward a little.

“Yes.”

“And ideas?”

“Especially ideas,” Adam said warmly.

Nora sat very still for a moment, absorbing the possibilities. Her mind was clearly already racing ahead—full of half-formed inventions, curious questions, and the sorts of plans that only made perfect sense to her. And, perhaps, Papa, too.

“We could test things,” she said eagerly. “Like… like how long a beetle can pull a leaf. Or if soap makes bigger bubbles when you whisper to them.”

Adam’s eyebrow lifted slightly, but he nodded with proper seriousness. “Both sound like important scientific inquiries.”

“And we could build things,” she continued, warming to the subject. “But not with brandy.”

Ben coughed pointedly.

“When do we start?”

Adam lifted her onto his lap, hugging her close. “How about tomorrow?”

Nora beamed, the kind of bright, wholehearted smile that seemed to light up the entire room.

“Our first test will be the beetles,” she declared. “We have to sketch them, so we know which beetle. And we should name it. So, we know each one from each other. And then…”

Her voice ran on eagerly as she began outlining what was clearly an extensive plan involving jars, pencils, field observations, and what sounded suspiciously like a small laboratory in the yard.

Adam listened, nodding now and then while she spoke, though she hardly seemed to notice. The journal lay open between them; its pages filled with the careful handwriting and ambitious sketches of a boy who had once believed the world was nothing but puzzles waiting to be solved.

THE END

Author’s Note: Vicki C graciously granted me permission to reference the steam engine and its fallout in The Solitary Way for this story. I am grateful to her for this, as it provided the perfect parallel of experimental madness between Adam and our one and only Nora.

Many thanks to JC* (and Louisa May Alcott) for the series title.