CHAPTER ONE

 

“I’m not going!”

“Oh, yes, you are!”

Joe Cartwright winced slightly then grinned to himself as he lounged on the front porch, waiting for supper to be called and avoiding the great room of the Ponderosa’s ranch house. He giggled and leaned back again in his chair, tipping it back a bit, resting on the two back legs. War had once again been declared on the Ponderosa, and he was making sure he was on the perimeter of the skirmishes. He was still young enough, at nearly twenty-four, to remember when he’d been on the receiving end of a lecture and was enjoying the freedom of hearing someone else chewed out for a change!

He remembered a similar battle a few years back, one involving Pa, Adam and windmills. That time, Adam had won. He had a feeling Adam’s winning streak wasn’t going to break, at least not on something that mattered as much to him as education.

“I don’t care what ya say! I ain’t goin’!”

“You keep a civil tongue in your head when you’re speaking to me, young man!”

Joe giggled again, shaking his head in amazement. You’d think his young nephew would learn. Fighting and arguing with Adam Cartwright wasn’t going to get him anywhere but sent to his room, and that was if he was lucky; Joe oughta know. When he was a youngster, Adam had been more like a second father than an older brother, and Joe had had his share of talking-tos from Adam. His oldest brother’s sharp words and cutting comments sometimes hurt as much as Pa’s infrequent but memorable tannings. There was nobody that could make a body feel more ashamed of himself than Adam when he was really wound up. As it was, with every angry retort Patrick was dunking himself deeper and deeper into water so hot he’d likely scald himself.

Joe allowed the chair to fall a little forward, frowning a moment as he listening, shivering a bit in the late February cold. He raised his head at the sound of pounding hoof beats, then grinned as he saw his father riding into the yard.

Ben Cartwright, patriarch of the Cartwright clan, dismounted his buckskin and drew his coat closer around his shoulders. Though in his late fifties, Ben was still a handsome, rugged, vibrant man, his hair luxuriant and now totally silver. He stared, curiously at his son, reins still in his hand.

“What in the world are you doing sitting out here in the cold?” he asked, surprised, studying his youngest son.

Before Joe could answer, Dave, their youngest ranch hand, jogged up with a smile. “Want me t’ put up Buck for ya, Mr. Cartwright?”

Ben hesitated; normally, he’d see to his own mount, and he had always been adamant that his sons do the same. He saw Joe’s impish grin, and made a stern face, shivering. Raising an eyebrow at his youngest, he set his mouth and handed over the reins. “Just this once. Thanks, Dave.”

“No problem, sir,” the boy responded cheerfully. “Bet you’re colder’n a polar bear’s nose after your ride.” He clicked his tongue at the horse and led him toward the barn.

Ben turned back to Joe. “You never answered. Why are you-”

As if on cue, the angry voices started again inside, and Joe grinned at his father.

Ben started as he heard a furious voice yelling, “That’s it! To your room, buster! And don’t you dare poke your nose out of it until I give you permission! Is that clear?!”

Ben turned in surprise toward Joe. “What the devil’s going on in there?” he demanded, pointing toward the house.

Joe shrugged, grinning. “Well, it’s either a re-enactment of Bull Run, or it’s Adam tellin’ Pat that he’s gotta start school on Monday.”[1]

Ben stared at his youngest son for a moment, then sighed, shaking his head with a sad smile. “Oh, I see,” he nodded, understanding. He and Joe both listened intently for a moment, then Ben shivered and frowned. “Well, I’m not standing out here freezing to death just because my stubborn grandson is getting a well-deserved talking-to!” he declared, striding to the front door. Joe figured there was safety in numbers and followed his father in.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Ben’s oldest son, Adam Cartwright, stood in front of the fireplace, every bit of his body language screaming that this man was angry. Ben glanced at his rigid back and sighed as he hung up his coat and hat and laid his gun belt on the sideboard. Joe did the same, eyeing his oldest brother cautiously.

Adam, a tall, handsome, black-haired man of thirty-five, was usually calm and sensible, thinking through his words and cautiously weighing the odds of his actions. But Joe knew, only too well, that when he was riled he was one hell of a force to reckon with. And ever since Adam’s young son, Patrick, arrived last summer from New York, Adam had spent an inordinate amount of time being riled.

Joe’s impetuous nature had, over the years, given him first-hand knowledge of Adam in that mood, and he was determined to stay on the periphery; if Pat was reckless enough to let Adam come down on him like a duck on a June bug, let him. Joe wanted no part of it.

Adam had heard the steps entering the house but was still too angry from his confrontation with his son to turn around just yet. He fought to get his temper back under control, closing his eyes in frustration. The boy is simply being unreasonable, he told himself, and it’s just going to take a little time to settle him down and make him see the necessity of my decision.

Adam sincerely hoped he’d be able to accomplish it by Monday.

Drawing in a deep breath, Adam turned around. “Hi, Pa,” he said quietly, hands in his pockets as he walked slowly from the fireplace over to his father and youngest brother.

“I take it Patrick didn’t find the news pleasant?” smiled Ben, knowingly.

“Now, there’s an understatement,” sighed Adam.

When Pat arrived in August of last year, a skinny, hard-nosed, closed-mouthed, defiant thirteen-year-old, it had taken nearly a month for Adam to discover that his son had never been to school, or learned to read or write. When Adam had suggested school, the boy flew off the handle, threatening to run away if his father forced him to attend. Adam had defused the situation at that time by teaching him at home.

Pat proved to be a bright pupil, and Adam enjoyed his mornings and evenings of helping the boy over the hurdles of reading, writing and arithmetic. Pat certainly enjoyed learning but remained adamant about school. He wanted no part of it.

The past winter had been a particularly difficult one on the Ponderosa and throughout the territory, causing more winter damage than usual to the infrastructure of the ranch, and more loss of livestock to the bitter cold and never-ending snows. Adam simply had way too much work to do with his share of maintaining the ranch to continue to teach Pat here at home. Like it or not, the boy would have to start attending school.

“I don’t know, Adam,” mused Joe, “why can’t he just stay home and do his lessons here, like he did all winter long? He was doing fine.”

“He was doing fine, Joe, because I was here to get him started and keep him on track,” said Adam, frowning as he leaned against the settee, crossing his arms across his broad chest. “I can’t be sure about that for the next several months. You know how much work is waiting for us out there.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” sighed Joe in agreement, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Besides, he’s got to go sometime, and he might as well accept it now,” said Adam, firmly.

“But you did promise him he wouldn’t have to go until fall,” reminded Joe, with a grin.

“Do you really think another seven months is going to make a big difference in his attitude?” asked Adam, cocking an eyebrow. “No, he might as well get used to the idea now and learn to do as he’s told.”

“Right,” mocked his youngest brother, only too aware of how far from reality that little statement was.

Ben smiled slightly, secretly agreeing with his youngest about how well Adam’s dictum would go down. Ben adored and doted on his young grandson, and was filled with pride at his intelligence, capability and kindness. But rarely had Ben ever come across a youngster as stubborn as a mule, proud as Lucifer or as loud as a braying jackass when feeling the need to voice his disapproval of a situation. Since young Pat’s arrival, he’d watched his oldest son grow as he accepted the challenges of fatherhood. The older man had a feeling that another growth spurt was coming for his eldest son.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Upstairs in his room, the adolescent challenge was stretched out on his bed on his back, his fingers laced behind his neck, fuming.

Patrick Riordan Cartwright, all five feet eight inches of him, was spitting mad. His black hair was tousled, mostly from Pat running his fingers through it in frustration, and his blue eyes snapped in anger.

Patrick was the spit and image of his father, from his handsome face, snubbed nose, stubborn chin and tall, strong body to his inordinately obstinate nature. This fight over school was nowhere near being over, as far as he was concerned!

Restlessly, Pat got to his feet and paced. He promised! His father had promised he could spend his first year studying at home! Leave it to an Orangeman to go back on his word! As soon as he thought the angry words, the youngster faltered in his pacing and grew a bit ashamed of himself.

Sighing miserably, Pat sank down onto his bed.

Orangeman…he hadn’t thought of his Dad in that derogatory way in a long time, not since they’d first come to understand each other, months ago.

The boy had always known he was product of a torrid college love affair between his mother, Siobhan Riordan, a beautiful, fiery Irish saloon hostess with a family history of insurrection, and Adam Cartwright, a Harvard student from far West in Utah territory. She’d been barely seventeen, and he just turned twenty.

Pat now knew that his father had loved his mother with all his heart and soul, wanting to bring her home as his wife, but Siobhan had, for some reason, refused to allow their happiness to take shape. The story she’d put forth – that the problem rested in her Irish heritage and Adam’s English one proving too high a hurdle for Siobhan to surmount despite her intense love for him – just didn’t ring true to the boy.

Even learning she carried his child couldn’t shake her belief that she and her college cowboy had no future together.

As a result, she’d run off to New York City, leaving no trail, though Adam struggled for weeks to find her. Pat learned his father had risked his college scholarship, falling into a despair that, more and more, found its outlet in excessive drinking. But finally, the tempered Cartwright steel of his resolve managed to find its way back to the surface and Adam had slowly and painfully pulled himself together.

He had finished his college career with honors but came home as a different person. Over the last several months here in Nevada, Pat’s uncles and his grandfather had painted a very different portrait of Adam as a carefree boy before leaving for college from the man that Pat was learning to know as his father. The fun-loving, audacious, and youthful Adam Cartwright of the past was gone, replaced by a serious, exacting and wounded one. Over the fifteen years since, Adam had managed to regain some of that spirit he’d had as a youngster, but never truly or completely. And while Adam had enjoyed the company of many women, none captivated him as Siobhan had. None came close to raising in him the passion she did.

And he remained single.

When Pat first met him last year, the boy had indulged the anger of abandonment and rejection he’d always felt as a child when contemplating this man, this Protestant, who was his father. His mother had always insisted that it had been her choice to leave Adam. Now Patrick found that hard to believe. It took several months of talking and listening for Adam and Patrick to find their common ground and build a mutual respect that forged an affectionate bond neither would have imagined possible at their first meeting. It had been a hard-won battle, but father and son were able to overcome their problems and disagreements and forge a strong, loving relationship.

Now, lying here in his spacious bedroom – nearly as large as the entire flat he and his mother had shared in Hell’s Kitchen – with his current anger and bad temper simmering over the perceived injustice, Pat still didn’t feel as though that bond was crumbling. He knew his father loved him and was only doing what he believed was best for him, but it didn’t stop him from being angry about it.

His black brows knitted together in a furious scowl and the boy vowed then and there that no matter what, he wouldn’t give in on this one…

Ben and Joe watched for the next three days as Adam and Patrick danced a bizarre ballet of stubborn insistence and equally obstinate refusal to comply. Adam first tried gently to make his point, then sternly, then loudly, but each attempt was met with a brick wall of resistance from his recalcitrant young son.

Pat silently completed his chores, silently attended family meals, and silently made his presence and hurt feelings known through artfully contrived glares. Finally, after seventy-two hours of this nonsense, Adam had had enough.

“Pat, this is going to stop, right now,” he said, after yet another attempted angry two-step to avoid coming into contact with each other in the great room. Adam firmly took his son’s arm and plunked him firmly onto the settee.

Pat sulked, crossing his arms over his chest, stubbornly refusing to look at his father. Adam sighed and sat himself down on the oak table directly in front of his son. “Now, I’m sorry you feel I’m being unfair but I’m afraid that’s just the way it’s going to be and you might as well accept it, because I won’t change my mind.”

Patrick slowly picked his head up and glared at his father. “Yeah? Well, me neither!” he snapped, uttering his first words to his father in three days. Adam eyed him; at least he was talking again. If he could just get the boy to voice what was bothering him most about this, maybe he’d be able to get this straightened out.

“Well, you’re the one that’s going to suffer for it, son,” said Adam, gently. Pat harrumphed, and looked down again, but Adam saw a slight shift, as though his gentleness caused Pat to alter a bit in his resolve to be difficult.

“What’s got you so upset about this?” asked Adam, reasonably. “You’ve worked very hard on your lessons the last few months, so you shouldn’t be far behind your classmates. In fact, in some subjects I’d venture a guess that you’ll be ahead of them. Your reading is just slightly below your class level, and that’s only because your spelling leaves a bit to be desired. But your arithmetic and other subjects are fine.”

Pat dipped his head, sulking. “I just don’t wanna go,” he muttered.

“Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not a good enough reason,” sighed Adam, sliding over and sitting down on the settee beside his son. He put an arm around him, just to have it angrily shaken off, as Pat struggled to rise off the settee. “I’m not finished with you, yet,” countered Adam. Calmly but firmly, he pushed his son back down, and once again seated himself on the table across from Pat. “Look at me.”

Stubbornly, Pat stared at the tips of his boots. Adam put out a hand and tilted Pat’s chin up to force eye contact. “I said look at me,” he said very seriously. Pat blinked; he’d seen that look a couple of times in the last six months. He knew that his father was absolutely serious, and if he valued his hide, he’d better change his attitude. Sighing, Pat obeyed.

“Patrick, there are hundreds of thousands of things in this world you can have, either just for the asking, or through hard work, or as a gift. On the other hand, there are probably several hundred million things you can’t have, for whatever reason. Now, it’s no fun learning to face that, but until you do, you’ll be miserable, always searching for ways to get at those inaccessible things and ignoring those that are right there, ready for the taking if you’d only reach for them.”

Pat studied his father, uncomfortably. In the last few months, he’d enjoyed long talks of this nature about philosophy and ideas. Now, here they were coming back to bite him in the butt. Dad knows exactly how to get to me, dammit!

“Learning to accept that is part of growing up. So is learning to accept that sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do just because they must be done. And not just doing them, but putting your best effort into them. A lot of men never learn that. They’re the people who brag they don’t do anything they don’t want to do. Well, that’s fine for a child, not a man. You’ll note they’re the ones filling the saloons and gaming tables, living life from one successful gambling pot or silver strike to the next. Life is filled with situations like this. You want to be treated with more respect and more like a grown up?” Adam eyed his son.

Thinking over his behavior in the last few days, Pat flushed uncomfortably and shifted on the settee, unable to meet his father’s eyes, and shrugged.

“Then you need to start behaving like one. Accept the things you can’t change and do your best to see them through. Do you understand?” Adam asked gently.

Pat remained silent for a moment, then closed his eyes, his shoulders rigid with his internal struggles. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

“Good,” nodded his father. “Now, are we going to have a problem on Monday?”

Pat bit his lower lip, then shook his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “No, sir.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Adam said. He put out a hand and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “Pat, give it a chance, all right? That’s all I’m asking. Give it a chance. This is a great opportunity for you.”

“I ain’t makin’ no promises,” he warned his father, recovering some of his spunk.

Adam smiled and tousled his hair. “I couldn’t imagine it any other way,” he said with a grin.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

The following day was Sunday, and after services, Adam cornered Miss Elizabeth Masterson, the new schoolteacher hired just a few months back. She was young and enthusiastic, and thus far had done a remarkable job in raising the educational standards of the school. Her students were the best readers in the area and had the best grasp of the basics of arithmetic. As a member of the school board, Adam had taken great pride in knowing he’d helped to make such a good choice.

“Miss Masterson, may I introduce a new student of yours?” he smiled, pulling Patrick forward a bit.

Liz Masterson immediately noted the remarkable likeness between Adam and this boy and figured this must be the notorious Patrick Cartwright. In his blue-gray suit and gray hat, Pat was a handsome boy, tall for his age and powerfully built, but his attitude was one of discomfort; a typical adolescent being introduced to an adult, she smiled to herself.

Pat Cartwright was considered to be a god-like hero to the younger boys in Virginia City area for his part in the early winter rescue of two damsels in distress from a drunken, lecherous suitor. Liz had often wondered why this young son of an active member of the school board didn’t attend school; maybe she’d finally find out.

“This is my son, Patrick. He’ll be joining your class tomorrow.”

“Oh, really?” she smiled, offering a warm welcome to the youngster. He was withdrawn and a little sullen, though he knew better than to be rude. “Well, it will be a great pleasure to have you join us, Patrick! What’s your favorite subject?”

Pat sighed, looking at the ground. “Lunch,” he said glumly, making Adam blush and glare at him. But Liz laughed.

“I don’t blame you,” she chuckled, enjoying his sense of humor. There was definitely a story here, and she wanted to know more about this intense, surprising young man. “What grade are you in, Patrick?”

Frowning, not understanding, Pat shrugged, and glanced questioningly at his father.

“I’ve been teaching Pat at home, Miss Masterson.”

“What’s his reading level?

“About seventh grade,” Adam answered. “He’s been reading a lot of Twain, Dickens, Alcott, even Hugo, and not having any trouble with it. His spelling is a problem, though.”

“What about mathematics?”

Adam thought a moment, hesitating, then – glancing at his boy – took the plunge. “Would it be helpful for you to come out to the Ponderosa and take a look at the work he’s done in the last several months and gauge for yourself where he stands?”

She eyed Adam thoughtfully and studied Pat, who was feeling miserable, being talked about as though he wasn’t even there. She swung her head back to Adam. “I think that’s a marvelous idea, Mr. Cartwright,” she smiled. She looked at Patrick. “Maybe, if you’re willing, I can take a little of your time to talk with you. I’d like to get to know you a little better.”

Pat looked at her; she was being very nice, really. He managed a small smile and nod. She beamed at the transformation in that face when the corners of his mouth lifted.

“Well, then, ma’am, I would be most honored to invite you to share dinner with us this evening,” smiled Adam gallantly.

Her eyes shone. “That would be most welcome, Mr. Cartwright,” she smiled.

“Adam, please.”

“Very well, but only if you call me Liz.”

Patrick rolled his eyes, wishing these two would hurry up… it was cold out here! “Hey, Dad?” he prodded. “Can I go ahead home?”

Adam smiled at his son. “I’ll be right there. Go get my horse, too, okay?”

Pat nodded and jogged off to the hitching rails.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Pat sat before the fireplace with his father and talked with Miss Masterson for an hour or so as she gently probed to learn where his strengths and weaknesses lay. He found her easy to talk to, which made him think school just might be bearable, though he wasn’t willing to give up the battle yet.

“Pat, thank you for taking the time to talk with me,” she said warmly. “I appreciate this. It will help me plan out your lessons far better than if I had no idea where you stood academically.”

“Sure,” he sighed, getting to his feet. “I’ve got to get the chores started. ‘Scuse me, please.”

Over in the office area, Ben diligently worked at his desk, though keeping more than half an ear open to the conversation going on in the great room. Likewise, Joe picked up a book and sat beside the stove and bookcase, paying no attention to the printed page but put his big ears to work eavesdropping fervently.

Liz watched Pat shrug into his coat and head out the door, then tapped a finger to her lips and shifted in the red leather chair to face Adam, standing against the hearth.

Adam nervously waited for the verdict. He sincerely hoped he hadn’t misjudged Pat. If he was going to be forced into a much lower grade level, he’d balk attending school until the cows came home, and Adam might as well give up the campaign right now. He watched as she seemed to struggle with the words to choose.

“I’m amazed,” she said finally, throwing her hands out and getting to her feet, walking toward him, her head down, thinking.

“Amazed,” Adam repeated, his heart sinking.

She stopped and glanced at him. “He had never read before September?”

“Nope. Never.”

“He was completely illiterate?”

“Yes,” nodded Adam, his spirits lifting a little.

“Mr. Cartwright, Patrick is a bright boy,” she said, chuckling to herself and shaking her head. “Granted, there are some rather glaring gaps in his education, but to have come so far in only five months! He should be really proud of himself.”

“Once he learned to read, I couldn’t keep enough books in the house,” said Adam, smiling.

“It’s not just his rapid accessibility of the skills, Mr. Cartwright,” she said, shaking her head, and then stopping her pacing enough to look at him. “It’s obvious that he’s a very calculating young man. He has a truly logical mind for a youngster his age. His natural affinity for mathematics is a manifestation of that. He should succeed very well in school. That is, if he can get over his loathing of the idea,” she smiled.

Adam leaned back and relaxed. “Thank God, you had me worried for a moment,” he chuckled.

Joe slammed his book shut and rose with alacrity as Hop Sing came in to announce supper being served.

 

Supper that evening was a pleasant meal. Joe found himself gravitating towards this lovely young woman with the honey-blond hair and brown eyes, intelligent face and sensitive fingers. Boy, they didn’t make schoolteachers like that when I was a kid, he thought, looking across the table at her. She was so different than any of the other young ladies he’d been seeing lately. To be honest, he was rather surprised at his interest. What was it about her that seemed to be stirring him so? Finally, Joe stopped worrying about it, smiled and just continued to let it happen.

Elizabeth tried to mention interesting lessons she had planned, but Pat wasn’t biting. He sat and ate his supper quietly, still pretty blue over having lost the battle.

To cover the unnatural quiet, Joe offered, “I sure wish there had been interesting teachers like you around when I went to school!”

Everyone chuckled at the table but Pat, and Liz flushed slightly.

“Did you enjoy school, Joe?”

“Oh, yeah,” he lied boldly, “loved it!”

Ben nearly choked on his wine, and Adam closed his eyes, willing himself not to chuckle. If Hoss hadn’t been in San Francisco on business for the family, Joe’s cover would have been completely blown.

When the meal was finished and she mentioned that she really should be getting back to Virginia City to prepare for tomorrow, Joe grinned and offered to drive her back to town.

“Why, Joe, that would be delightful! It’s quite a ways in the dark, and I’m still new enough that I’m always afraid I’ll take a wrong turn somehow and end up in Carson City by accident!” she laughed.

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Miss Elizabeth,” he grinned, “I’ll go upstairs and get a jacket and be out to meet you in five minutes.”

Joe was up and back down the stairs so fast his father’s neck ached trying to follow him. Adam was still mulling over the words of the young schoolteacher, and viewed his brother’s potential love life with amusement, but Pat had a sour look on his face as Joe pelted toward the door.

“Joe! Whaddya want to be with her for?” he hissed at him angrily, to avoid being heard by his father or grandfather.

“So I can keep a better eye on you!” Joe kidded him as he sped out the door, leaving it open.

Troubled, Pat slowly shut the door. That statement hit a little too close to home to be comfortable.

 

[1] A small homage to a line from “The Savage,” Season 2, Episode 12, written by Joseph Stone, Paul King and David Dortort, directed by James Neilson.

---

 

CHAPTER TWO

 

The amber liquid in the glass glistened in the sparkling light of the chandelier, almost casting a glow on the crisp white linen tablecloth. As he held the glass in his hand, swirling it in a circular motion, the man gazed into its depths, thinking hard.

He was a big man, several inches more than six feet tall, with bright blue eyes, a shock of faded red hair and age lines crisscrossing his pleasant, rugged face. He was lean and muscular, the tell-tale signs of a laborer’s trade still etched into his features and build; the long, strong legs; the burly, well-developed forearms; the slightly hunched back, still stooped though he’d left the back-breaking labor of a croppy in Ireland more than thirty years ago. Under the handsomely cut suit, his back bore other tell-tale signs of his past in Ireland.  The lash marks from his stay at the expense of the Crown in one of their many prisons, interrogated for his role in a small, local uprising in the mid-1850s in his home village of Ballylynch in Ireland’s County Armagh.

Eamon Corrigan had been a grandson and follower of one of the original United Irishmen of the 1790s. Liam Corrigan had lost his home, his freedom and ultimately his life in his pursuit of armed resistance to the British military and political occupation of his beloved Ireland, along with so many other brave, doomed men. Inspired by the example of the American war for Independence and by the democratic ideals of the French Revolution, the United Irishmen sought to unite the people of Ireland in a common effort to achieve equality and freedom. At first, they chose non-violent means to win their aims, but they were met, time after time after time, with a repressive response from the British government. It was then they exercised what they considered their right to defend their liberty, as the Americans had done, as the French had done, through the use of arms. Nearly one hundred years, several rebellions and hundreds of dead young men and women later, that use of arms and the rebellion continued.

These days, those were the memories that seemed to remain constant, blocking out the sweeter ones of the Ireland of Eamon’s youth.  The memories of his beautiful young wife, his handsome and vibrant son, Sean, both gone now, as well.

“Eamon! Eamon Corrigan!”

Corrigan was jolted from his thoughts by the familiar voice and turned. “Larkin! Willie Larkin, by all that’s holy!” he grinned, putting out a big, meaty hand. “ ‘Tis grand it ‘tis to be seein’ ye, lad, grand!”

“Aye, Eamon,” nodded the other Irishman, slipping into the seat beside him. “And when did ye get in?”

“A week hence,” sighed Corrigan, sipping his whiskey.

“And what d’ye think of our fair city, then?” grinned the smaller man, gesturing to the bartender for service. “Quite the place, is it not?”

“The jewel of the West, this blessed city of San Francisco, provided ye have wealth and influence. If not, ye’re welcome ta yer own heartache in the slums. Give all those on the Barbary Coast a brogue and it could be Derry, it could.”

Larkin snorted and accepted the shot glass full of whiskey the bartender handed him with a familiar nod and smile.

Corrigan downed the rest of his drink in one swallow and sighed. “So, was it successful, then, this mission o’ yours?”

“Aye,” nodded Larkin, pouring himself another shot, and glancing at Corrigan. “There’ll be eight of us this evening. And some interesting leads for ye in the Comstock, lad…. very interesting leads.”

“Did ye follow up, then? Glad to hear it. Did ye find Mackay?”

“Aye. In Virginia City, just as ye thought.”

Corrigan smiled to himself. Just as he’d thought. He hauled himself to his feet. “It’s nigh on the hour. The usual place, lad?”

“Aye, Betsey’s back room.”

= = = =

Corrigan and Larkin walked slowly through the Barbary Coast district, heading for a bar known to all the Irish in the city as a regular meeting place of Sinn Fein, the last vestiges of the Fenian Brotherhood. When many of the Fenians fled Ireland seeking refuge from the hangman’s rope or the Orangeman’s jail cells, a large number journeyed further West. In 1849, with the discovery of gold in California, the Brotherhood believed that the financing of the next major insurrection just might be found there.

Many of the Irish who’d fled to America during the Great Hunger – the potato famine, between 1845-52 – had found no help in the major cities of the East. They found themselves treated as poorly there as in their native Ireland. Unwilling to remain where they felt as enslaved as they had been in their homeland, they pushed further West to find the freedom they desperately craved.

Now, in San Francisco, there numbered many displaced Hibernians, all remembering the “auld sod.” And many were willing to do what they could to help the fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters left behind on that tiny island so rife with dispute.

Corrigan and Larkin entered a waterfront dive that, from the outside, had seen better days. The main room wasn’t much better, littered with the dregs of the waterfront; drunks and prostitutes, shanghai men and sailors. But in a back room, the illusion shattered.

This room was richly furnished with velvet portières on sham windows, comfortable padded chairs, well-kept gaming tables and a top-shelf stocked bar. All of the appointments were the finest. It was a secret gentleman’s club catering to the wealthy and powerful Irish of San Francisco.

Betsey Malloy ran the place, a Fenian herself, wealthy now, and always a generous donor to the Movement. Betsey was getting more than a little long in the tooth, nearing sixty, but still a vibrant, interesting woman. Her games of chance were honest, her whiskey unwatered, and her hospitality legion. Tonight was no exception.

Corrigan cast his eye around the room and smiled. Green was the predominant color, from the velvet appointments to the greenbacks on the gaming tables. There weren’t many in the room that night; it was a private party, just for the guests of Willie Larkin.

“Gentlemen, may I be introducin’ to ye Mr. Eamon Corrigan,” Larkin himself smiled as he waved Corrigan in the door. The six other men in the room smiled and came forward, hands outstretched. Introductions pointed out a banker, a hotelier, the owner of several livery stables, the respected owner of two general stores, and two investors in bonds, silver and gold. Irishmen all. Betsey sat in the background, her deep red gown jewel-studded, her face painted and her red hair as faded as Corrigan’s.

After the introductions Corrigan smiled and deliberately walked over to his hostess and lifted her outstretched hand to his lips. “Ah, Bets, it’s grand to see ye again.”

“And you, Eamon,” she smiled warmly. “It’s been ten years.”

“Aye. They’ve been kind to ye, lass.”

“Blarney it ‘tis, Eamon Corrigan!” she laughed. “But pleasant to me ears, none the less.” She turned to the bartender. “Jimmy, lad, a cognac for our guest.

Corrigan cocked an eyebrow, in surprise. “Ye remembered.”

“There’s much I remember, Eamon,” she grinned devilishly as she rose. “Gentlemen, shall we get started? There’s not much time.”

The men seated themselves around the large poker table, the bartender delivering the drinks, and offering cigars to each man.

“Eamon, lad, we’ve come across a young man here, from Virginia City itself, son a wealthy rancher,” began Larkin, with no preamble. “It’s said this lad’s family is well-connected, knows many of the mine owners. We’ve checked it out. In fact, his family’s holdings include a prosperous mine called the Bristlecone. He’s in San Francisco on family business, but it ‘twould appear, it would, that this man isn’t what ye’d call the brains of the family.”

Derisive laughter met this last comment, and Corrigan cocked an eyebrow. “A half-wit it ‘tis ye’ve saddled me with, Willie?” he asked with a grim smile, his blue eyes cold.

“Not a’tall, not a’tall,” protested one of the other men, younger than the rest and a little annoyed. “The man’s no eejit! Simply not the money man of the family, he isn’t. The spread his family owns is primarily a cattle ranch, some of the finest beef in the Nevada territory. From my talks with him, it ‘twould appear his heart’s in the land and the beasts, not the mines.”

“But he knows those whose hearts are, I take it?” asked Corrigan sipping his cognac.

“Aye,” nodded the youngster, one Brendan Flaherty.

“Does he know Mackay? That’s the one I’m truly after. And did ye talk with Flood and O’Brien?”

“Aye. They think he’ll be willing, they do indeed. But they agree that ‘twould be best to go through someone known in Virginia City itself. They thought Mackay might even allow a vote of the Bonanza Firm to sequester a portion of their development of the Comstock Lode to go to Sinn Fein.”

Corrigan’s eyebrow cocked again. “Truly? Well, that may prove to be a godsend, that,” he mused, leaning back in his seat. “What about the fourth partner?”

“What, Slippery Jim Fair?” grinned another man. “Ye might be wise to avoid him altogether, Corrigan. A mean sonofabitch, that one. Dublin-born, and the only thing he supports are the brothels and his habit for a pint!” The chuckles around the table made Corrigan think. He’d have to know more before he’d proceed.

“Small Irish miners out there, ye said?”

“Aye, several. And several wealthy grubstakers who’ve done well for themselves, including Mrs. Annie Lundberg.”

“Lundberg, is it?!” laughed Corrigan. “A daughter of the auld sod, that one, I’ll bet!”

“If ye did bet, ye’d win, lad,” grinned Larkin. “Annie O’Toole Lundberg, I’ll have ye know, and one of the wealthiest women in the territory. A partner, shareholder, whatever ye’d like ta call it, in the Lucky Stiff, one of the richest silver strikes on the Comstock.”

Corrigan’s face registered his surprise, and Larkin’s grin widened.  “Her husband, Swede Lundberg, staked the claim awhile back, and she and her father, Kevin O’Toole, moved out there to work the stake and make their fortune. Himself died as soon as he reached Nevada, and through sheer grit and cunning she managed to reap a fortune by grubstakin’ damned near every two-bit miner in Washoe Diggings! Not the least of whom was Trapdoor Gregory Spain,”

“Spain!” Corrigan sputtered, nearly choking on his drink.  “That sleazy devil?!”

“Aye!  He bought her claim…for a hefty price. She demanded quite a bit out of Spain since Himself was buried on the site.”

“Buried on it?” gaped Corrigan, amazed.

“Aye! It cost Spain a pretty penny to move him, too, I’ll have ye know!” laughed Larkin. “She gets an annual five percent of the gross take!” The table shared the laughter, and Corrigan shook his head, chuckling.

“Aye, and our man’s family is friendly with the Lundbergs…seems they helped her get her start, they did,” put in Flaherty.

Corrigan eyed the group before him, musing, then leaned back in his seat. “Lads, here we are in the year of our lord eighteen hundred and seventy-two. ‘Tis nearly one hundred years since the United Irishman began the battle to free Ireland from her oppressive masters. ‘Tis sure I am that the silver from Nevada would grease the wheels of the machine to break that oppression. I propose a toast to the efforts of Sinn Fein in the blessedly silver-lined borough of Virginia City.” He rose to his feet, raising his glass, and they all drank. “Now, then. Will someone be tellin’ me where will I find this scion of a wealthy cattle baron, eh? And what might his name be?”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Hoss! Hoss Cartwright!”

The big young man looked up from the beer he was nursing in surprise. He looked uncomfortable in his suit, and slightly like a fish out of water. It was his last night in San Francisco and while he’d been here in town for nearly a week, he hadn’t gone out of his way to become great friends with many residents. Though his given name was Erik, he’d nearly forgotten it having been called Hoss since he was a small child, a name foisted upon him by his Uncle Gunnar and his older brother Adam, then only six.

‘Hoss’ was Smokey Mountain hill vernacular for a big, friendly man. And Hoss Cartwright lived up to that name. At six feet four inches tall, nearly two hundred and sixty pounds, Hoss had a jovial, kindly nature, was slow to anger and slower still to mistrust someone. He was a gentle man; he didn’t seek trouble. The fact that it often found him, due to his size or the frequent influence of his cocky younger brother, was beside the point.

Now, as he raised his head at the greeting, he beamed at Brendan Flaherty and nodded politely to the older man with him.

“I was hopin’ I’d be seein’ ye, lad!” grinned Flaherty, accepting a beer from the bartender.

“Well, ya almost missed me, Mr. Flaherty,” Hoss grinned, sipping his beer. “I gotta make an early start in the mornin’. Stage leaves at eight, and there’s a bed up yonder callin’ my name.”

Flaherty laughed and gestured forward his companion. “And isn’t that exactly what I’m wantin’ to talk with ye about? Hoss, let me be introducin’ ye to Eamon Corrigan. He’s going to be ridin’ the same stage with ye’ to Virginia City.”

“A pleasure to meet ya, Mr. Corrigan,” smiled the large young man. Corrigan wasn’t more than an inch  shorter than he was, and he noted the grip that held his big, meaty hand was as strong as his own.

“Indeed a pleasure it ‘tis, Mr….Cartwright, is it?” smiled Corrigan.

“Yes, sir. Hoss Cartwright,” grinned Hoss, accepting Brendan’s suggestion of them moving to a table.

“Horse?” asked Corrigan, curiously.

“No, sir, not ‘horse’,” he corrected amiably, “just plain Hoss.”

“Well, just plain Hoss, ‘tis proud I am to know ye,” the older man smiled.

“What’ll you be doin’ in Virginia City, sir? You got kin there?” asked Hoss pleasantly.

“No, lad, I’m to be there on business. Hopin’ to be meetin’ some of the mine owners.”

“No kiddin’!” grinned Hoss, settling back with his beer. “Which ones?”

“Well, the wealthy ones, don’t ye know?” grinned Corrigan. “Lookin’ for investments from those less than successful would be a waste of me time, don’t ye agree?”

“Yep, I guess it would be at that,” laughed Hoss. “You might want ta talk to my Pa and my brother, Adam, then. We got us a mine, the Bristlecone, that’s doin’ real well. Adam says the assay reports’re comin’ in real good these days.”

“Truly? ‘Tis grand, that,” nodded Corrigan. He noted the gentle friendliness of this big simple man and sighed inwardly. ‘Twill be like takin’ candy from a baby….

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Breakfast Monday morning was a strained, uncomfortable meal at the Ponderosa. Ben, Joe and Adam tried to keep the conversation light and pleasant, but Patrick was silent and subdued, his nerves wound tight.

Adam watched sadly as Pat picked at his breakfast, pushing the food around his plate and resting his chin dejectedly on his fist.

“Pat, take your elbows off the table, son,” he said gently. Heaving a gargantuan sigh, Patrick obeyed and laid down his fork, leaning back in his seat.

“I ain’t hungry,” he said, quietly, not looking at his father. “May I please be excused?”

Ben and Joe glanced at each other, Joe with a wicked grin on his face and Ben with a tender, understanding smile.

Adam sighed and laid his own fork down. “Pat, you’ve got to eat. It’s going to be a long day, and -”

“You’re tellin’ me,” he muttered, his lower lip thrust out slightly.

Adam was about to retort when he caught his father’s eye; Ben gently shook his head, and Adam exhaled in frustration. “All right. You may be excused.”

Silently, Pat got to his feet and walked upstairs, shoulders drooping as though he was walking back to a jail cell. Joe giggled and shook his head.

“Joseph,” warned his father. Joe wiped the grin off his face and put his attention back to his ham and eggs.

“If he doesn’t change his attitude, he’s going to have a miserable day,” worried Adam, pushing his plate away, his own appetite suddenly gone, too.

“He’ll be all right once he gets there. He’s just like you were. It simply takes him a little time to get used to change and new situations. Try not to be too concerned,” reassured Ben, sipping his coffee.

“I don’t know, Pa,” sighed Adam, rubbing the back of his neck. “He’s not looking angry as much as defeated. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

“He lost a battle he wanted to win very badly,” said Ben simply, reaching for another slice of toast from the rack. “It’s understandable, son.”

“Well, he’s lost before but I’ve never seen him quite this…this…I don’t know, quite this miserable and for this long. I thought after meeting Elizabeth yesterday he’d feel better about the whole thing.”

“Adam, you gotta remember, he hasn’t been too lucky with the other kids in town, except for Micah and Cassie,” said Joe seriously, buttering his own slice of toast.

“That’s gotta be on his mind.”

Adam frowned and drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. He turned as he heard Pat come back downstairs.  His son’s hair was combed and he was dressed in his school clothes, his face pale and his whole demeanor one of tension and discomfort. The boy said nothing but sat down on the settee to wait. Adam’s heart ached at the unhappiness he saw in his son, and hoped he was doing the right thing, that his boy would be all right once he got into class and began to adjust to the new situation. Adam got to his feet.

“Well, let’s go on into town and get you registered, all right?” he said, trying to be positive and buoyant. Pat wasn’t buying it.  He obeyed; he dressed warmly in his coat, gloves and hat, but he said nothing and remained downcast. Adam shrugged into his own coat. “Why don’t you go and saddle the horses? I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Pat nodded, trudging out the door.

Adam watched him go and jumped as he realized his father had come up beside him. God, my nerves are as bad as Pat’s.

‘He’ll be all right, Adam,” smiled Ben, putting an arm around his worried son’s shoulders.

“I certainly hope so, Pa,” mused Adam.

---

 

CHAPTER THREE

 

The schoolyard was filled with children. A small corral near the school building held the horses of the children that rode to school from the outlying areas, and under a nearby lean-to, several long boards on sawhorses held their saddles. Swallowing hard as he took in the scene before him, Patrick leaned down and patted Black Jack’s neck, comforting himself as much as the two-year-old.

The last snow had left a good, two-inch thick ground cover and the children were having a snowball fight in the yard. Adam glanced toward his son and saw the familiar closed and skeptical expression on his face as he watched the other kids. Adam shook his head and dismounted slapping his horse’s reins around the hitching post. “Pat, why don’t you get the saddle off Jack and turn him into the corral with the others.”

The boy was sure anyone within four feet of him would be able to hear his heart hammering like a steam engine. Pat turned Jack, walking the horse up close alongside his father, and looked down at him, a desperate, pleading expression in his eyes. “Please, Dad…” he implored softly, begging him to change his mind.

Steeling himself, Adam reached out and comfortingly rubbed his son’s knee. “C’mon, son, hurry up or you’ll be late,” he said firmly.

Pat’s shoulders slumped, and his eyes closed. His jaw set stubbornly, Pat angrily wheeled Black Jack around and trotted him over to the corral.

“How is he?”

Adam turned, and saw Elizabeth, wrapped in a shawl, standing beside him. “Nervous, worried, upset,” he shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Mr. Cartwright,” she said kindly. “He’ll be fine. Why don’t you let me handle it from here? I’ve already registered him, so you don’t need to stay.”

Adam glanced back toward Pat as he slapped Jack’s rump to move him into the corral and shut the gates, then turned toward the schoolhouse and trudged their way.

“If he sees how concerned you are, he’ll be even more nervous,” she said gently.

Adam glanced at her, startled, then smiled guiltily. “It shows that much?”

She nodded, wryly.

“All right,” he chuckled. As Pat approached, Adam turned to him and smiled, his eyes warm. “I’ll be heading out, son. I’ll see you tonight at home, all right?”

Pat’s eyes widened a little in dismay. I thought you was gonna be with me for a few minutes, at least! He felt his throat close up in fear, as though he was facing a fist fight in the Tenderloin instead of just walking into a schoolhouse. He felt his body fall into old familiar patterns: a hostile, closed expression, tight shoulders, and a raised, belligerent chin. He nodded at his father, not trusting his voice.

Adam’s heart went out to his boy, trying so hard to keep his composure! He wanted so badly to just hug him and reassure him, “You can do this, kid, I believe in you.” But the man knew Pat had to do this on his own. Swallowing his own misgivings at the situation, Adam smiled at him and reached out to squeeze his shoulder, leaning close. “You’ll survive,” he said with a smile, “I promise.”

Pat shrugged off the hand, glancing back at the group of kids, hoping no one saw. “Daaaad!” Pat protested through his teeth, flushing in embarrassment.

Grinning, Adam touched his hat to Liz Masterson and turned away.

Patrick watched as his father mounted Sport and trot off. Well, that’s it. I’m on my own now. He felt a gentle hand on his arm and glanced at Miss Masterson.

“Why don’t we go on inside, Patrick? I can show you your desk and help you get settled in,” she encouraged, firmly guiding him into the schoolhouse.

= = = =

“Children, I’d like you to meet a new classmate, Patrick Cartwright,” said Miss Masterson evenly.

Pat, who’d been focusing on the back wall of the room, slowly brought his eyes up warily to look out over the rest of the class. His mother had chided him once, dryly, that when he was nervous or scared, his fallback expression managed to make him look “as forbidding as a priest in a brothel.” She’d advised him to try his best to try to keep his face at least neutral, if not actually smiling. Had he remembered that advice, his day might have gone quite a bit easier.

“I know you’ll all make him feel welcome, won’t you?” Miss Masterson was saying.

Cassie Yates, one of the few to accept him when he’d first arrived last summer, bastard or not, was seated on the other side of the room, watching him in concern. What’s the matter with him? she wondered. Where’s the big, easy smile, the grin that always makes me feel good just being around him? Who is this sullen, silent boy glaring around the room at everybody? This isn’t the Pat I know…

The other children studied him quietly. This was the Pat Cartwright, the bastard son of one of richest men in the territory. They remembered stories of his abilities as a street fighter, card player and his godlike status as a hero of endangered women.[1] It was like having a dime novel hero standing right there in front of them. What would he be like as a classmate? A few tentative smiles went out to him, but poor Pat’s nerves wouldn’t let him do more than coolly look out over the classroom.

“He’s awful stand-offish, ain’t he?” whispered a little girl beside Cassie, uneasily.

“He’s … he’s just nervous, is all!” she hissed back, but she worried as she saw Pat continue to withdraw into his shell, and then suddenly he changed.  And she shivered.

Miss Masterson pointed out the different things in the room from the water bucket to the woodbox that each of the boys would help fill each day. But her explanation of the layout of the room and why things were where they were, stalled slightly as she saw Pat’s eyes meet with her three trouble-makers.

Pat’s eyes narrowed as his eyes lit on Tommy Sanders, Drew Norbert and Rob Shepherd. Now, these three he knew. For a week afterward, he’d worn the bruises and knuckle-marks they’d inflicted in a fight outside the church just three or four days after his arrival on the Ponderosa; even at three-to-one, Pat had managed to give as good as he got. His eyes turned ice cold as he surveyed the three of them; his eyes didn’t waver, back straight and his head high. All of the uneasiness was gone, replaced with a cold, ruthless imperturbability. This was his turf; he understood the dynamic here with no problem. He held their gaze; they dropped their eyes first.

The exchange wasn’t lost on the rest of the class, or on Elizabeth; she made a note to keep an eye on these four boys. Neither Tom nor Drew, especially, appreciated being shown up by other boys.

Finally, she guided him to his desk, where she placed him – thank God! – beside Micah Devlin.

After placing a hand encouragingly on Pat’s shoulder with a smile, Elizabeth clapped her hands and got the school day underway.

= = = = =

It was an absolutely awful morning.

Even though Elizabeth had thoughtfully placed Patrick beside Micah, hoping Mike would ease Pat’s discomfort, Pat’s worries numbered in the thousands. He felt like a fool, ignorant of any of the rules of how things worked here, rules that even the smallest children seemed to be aware of.  He tried to simply remain quiet and observe, searching for clues to unlock the mysteries of the hierarchy, the politics. He found himself shifting between staring in discomfort at the scarred wooden top of the desk and occasionally stealing glances at the other children to try to glean what was acceptable and what was not.

Micah, beside him, could see his friend was tense, but also knew they weren’t supposed to chat in class while Miss Masterson was teaching.  He noticed Pat alternate between surreptitiously watching the other children and dropping his eyes to the desktop as though all his answers rested in the grain of the wood.

“You okay?” Mike whispered, worriedly.

White-faced, Pat abruptly shook his head.

Helplessly, Mike tried to draw him out whenever he could sneak a question, but finally gave up, shrugged and let him be.

Pat made note of the fact that when people want to say something or do something they raised their hand; he wondered why? Damned silly, if you ask me. Like sittin’ at the supper table all day long! Can’t be excused without permission.

He was a little relieved to note that the first lesson was arithmetic, a subject he had no trouble following. Miss Masterson was working on algebraic equations with the six or seven older children, including Cassie, Patrick, and Micah. Since Pat enjoyed puzzles involving logic, he and Adam had rapidly worked through the skills for this kind of work, and the boy felt a little more at ease. While he never opened his mouth to answer a question, and Elizabeth didn’t force him into it, she noted his intelligent expression, and nearly chuckled when he stared in amazement at someone’s particularly severe blunder but said nothing. Miss Masterson taught the lesson, then put several problems on the board, having students come up to solve them. She decided this was the chance for Pat to take the plunge.

“All right, children, let’s see…Micah, Cassie, Andrew, and Patrick, go to the board and work out these four problems, please?”

Pat went pale, then gulped. Slowly he got to his feet and followed the other three, two his friends and one his enemy, up to the front of the room. His stomach cramped in a knot and sweat beaded his forehead despite the February chill. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the others pick up pieces of chalk from the wooden trough under the blackboard. His hand shaking slightly, he reached out and did the same. He drew in a deep breath and looked up at the problem on the board.

He let the breath out with a smile as he realized this was an easy problem, one he could do in his sleep. He brought up the chalk and started to write. He’d never used chalk on a chalkboard before, just a slate pencil and slate.  The entire room squealed and groaned, shivers running up and down their spines, as the chalk screeched across the board. After the groans, the class erupted in titters of laughter.

“Class!” admonished Miss Masterson.

Beet red with embarrassment, he glanced back at her, and she smiled at him encouragingly, and gently adjusted his hand to a different slant. “Go ahead, Patrick, just don’t press quite so hard on the chalk, and try to keep your hand at an angle.”

Returning his eyes to the board, Pat pulled in another deep breath, trying to get his nerves back under control and focused on the numbers.  Numbers made sense.  They obeyed and did what you told them to do.  He mentally calculated and then rapidly wrote out the steps of the problem, finishing well ahead of the others. He glanced beside him, where Mike stood, struggling with his equation. Pat looked over Mike’s work, saw the error and smiled amiably, leaning over to him.

“Hey, Mike, here’s where you got your problem,” he started in a soft and friendly voice, reaching out with his fingertips to erase an error. To his surprise, Micah stared at him in shock.

“Pat, no!” hissed Cassie, worried, glancing back at the teacher

“What?” Pat asked, looking beyond Mike to her, confused. The class erupted in laughter again, and Pat flushed again as he realized that, somehow, he’d made another blunder, though he had no idea what it could be.

“It’s all right, Pat,” reassured Miss Masterson as she walked up beside him. “I’m pleased you were willing to help Micah, but the purpose of this exercise is to see just how well all of you understand the problems, individually. If Micah is having difficulty and you solve the problem for him, how will I know where he needs extra help?”

“But I wasn’t doin’ it for him,” protested Pat, upset, his cheeks still uncomfortably warm. “I was just showin’ him where the mistake was.”

“Again, Patrick, if you did that I wouldn’t know where his error was, would I?”

The class tittered again, getting Pat angry. He looked at her, confused and irritated. “You woulda showed him yerself where the mistake was, right?” he demanded, his tone becoming dangerously insolent.

“Pat, it’s all right,” muttered Mike, a hand on his friend’s arm, worriedly glancing at the teacher.

Startled, Miss Masterson nodded. “Yes, I would have.”

“Well, what’s the difference, if I show ‘im or you show ‘im, long as he ends up understandin’ the problem?” Pat cocked an eyebrow at her.

Elizabeth was taken aback.  At face value, Patrick was right; it shouldn’t matter.  But she needed to establish the hierarchy in this classroom quickly before things got out of hand.  She drew in a breath, careful to modulate her tone.  “The difference is that, like it or not, this is an exercise that requires each of you to do your own work,” she said gently but firmly.

Actually, she thought about what he’d said and decided that she’d put that idea into his lessons and those of all the older children. Peer support might make good sense. And she should probably keep Pat after class to explain some of the rules, mentally chiding herself for having been sidetracked by the bit of aggressive masculinity demonstrated at the beginning of the day.

Pat, yet to learn the lesson of discretion being the better part of valor, stared at her for a moment, then sighed shaking his head, muttering a bit insolently under his breath as he turned back to his own equation, double checking his work. “So, what yer sayin’ is that if I got my work done, and I got all the time in the world, and there’s somebody right next to me strugglin’ with it, I gotta stand there, twiddlin’ my thumbs and watch ‘em struggle.”

Every eye in the classroom rested on teacher and student, and the silence was deafening. And in that silence, Pat realized he should have kept his mouth shut. This wasn’t home, and this woman wasn’t his dad. Once again, he’d stepped in it.

Miss Masterson’s eyes and voice were very firm. “Patrick, I’m not going to argue with you, and I certainly do not have to explain myself to you. This is your first day of school, and as such I will overlook some things. Insolence is not one of them, nor are arrogance or rudeness.”

Pat swallowed hard, noticing that the classroom was absolutely silent, and that all the children were staring at him. He flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears and dropped his eyes. “Sorry,” he said softly.

“Apology accepted.” Miss Masterson glanced at his work on the board and nodded. “Excellent work, Patrick. You may return to your seat.”

Without a word, a red-faced and humiliated Patrick Cartwright walked back to his desk, sat down, and closed his eyes. Nice move, idiot.

 

= = = = =

The bit of ease he’d felt through the first part of the arithmetic lesson was short-lived; next came spelling. Pat groaned inwardly; the one thing that would find him having to do extra studying or writing extra practice drills at home was spelling. After a disastrous spelling bee (for Pat, anyway; he had to return to his seat after only his second word), Miss Masterson put the spelling lists for each grade on the blackboard and had everyone copy onto their slates the spelling words they’d need to study for the week.

Pat’s handwriting always left a lot to be desired, something his father had been after him to take his time with and do carefully, so he made the extra effort to copy the words neatly. By the time he finished, Miss Masterson had finished a reading lesson with the littlest ones and smiled at the class.

“All right, children. You may be excused for recess,” she nodded. Eyes wide in surprise, Pat watched as the entire class erupted from the classroom like a herd of wild horses.

“C’mon!” urged Mike, with a grin. “We got fifteen minutes to go outside!”

“Are you cracked? It’s cold out there!” Pat said, in shock.

“Aw, get yer coat an’ come on!” laughed Mike, dragging his friend to the cloak room.

= = = = =

Outside, Pat relaxed a little and listened as Cassie and Mike drilled him in some of the rules.

NO talking out loud.

NO getting up and walking around without permission.

NO talking out of turn.

NO passing notes back and forth.

Pat’s head was spinning. “Why in the heck don’t they just chain us to the desks and get it over with?” he asked, in wonder.

“Aw, it ain’t that bad, Pat,” grinned Mike. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Yeah, they say ya can get used ta anything, even bein’ hung,” snorted Pat, hunching his shoulders in his coat. While they were talking, they didn’t see the three troublemakers coming around behind them. But suddenly, Pat felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise…slowly, he turned around, consciously aware they were being watched.

“Hey, city boy.”

Aw, hell…what is it Dad was always saying? History repeats itself…

Pat eyed the three toughs, and blandly sighed. “You’d better be gone,” he sneered disdainfully.

Tommy Sanders cocked his head to one side. “Your old man ain’t here to save you this time.”

His eyes blue steel, Pat cleared his hands from his pockets, coming to his feet and slowly cocking his fists. He was done.  After the day he’d had so far, if he was pushed into a fight, he’d give it everything he had. He almost wished for it, just to have the relief of blowing off some steam.

Nervous, Cassie looked to Micah. He nodded at her, and stepped up beside Pat.

“Pat, c’mon…you’ll just get into trouble,” urged Mike, taking his arm and knowing his friend.

Suddenly, a sharp peal of a bell sounded, making Pat jump and turn his head in alarm. The three bullies started laughing and sauntered past him.

“The bell. Recess is over,” sighed Cassie, relieved. Mike nodded and pushed Pat toward the door.

“By the way, one more rule…NO fighting, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“You don’t wanna know,” responded Mike, grimly, pulling his friend up the school steps.

= = = = =

Pat managed to get through the rest of the morning without further incident, though sitting still for so long was wearisome. He stifled a yawn through a history lesson that he already knew all about; he enjoyed the geography lesson, exposed for the first time to maps of European countries and finding them fascinating. Dad had a globe in his room that Pat loved to study and dream over.  To see the names of countries, cities, and towns he knew from stories and books he’d read, alone and with his father, had been wonderful, placing the visual imagery of their locations firmly in his head, the way he always first learned things.  London, in the southern part of the island of England, from Oliver Twist.  Paris, France from The Three Musketeers and Les Misérables.  Islands off the coast of Venezuela for Robinson Crusoe.

He was surprised to find himself feeling emotional about one map in particular that Miss Masterson was sharing with them.  A detailed map of Ireland.  His heart caught painfully when he spotted County Armagh and Belfast, though not seeing a Ballylynch nearby. Musta been too small a village. It made him think of his mother, of Hell’s Kitchen… of home.

Finally, it was time for lunch, and Pat gratefully ran for the outhouse. He had struggled for nearly an hour trying to figure out how to get around that situation. Miss Masterson usually asked why a kid wanted to be excused. He wasn’t about to stand up and say, “Golly gee, Miss Masterson, I gotta take a leak!” So, miserably, he’d squirmed a bit until the lunch bell rang.

While Pat, Mike and Cassie ate their lunches, five or six other children around their age joined them, trying to be friendly.  Pat did his best to try to relax but was still wary of opening up to these unknown children.  Knowledge was power; giving up too much information to the wrong people could cost you; he remembered that well from Hell’s Kitchen.  So, he remained quiet, which sadly came off to the others as aloof. Still, he enjoyed the break and listening to the conversation of the other kids. This was something he hadn’t enjoyed in months, hearing the talk of people his own age.  The young voices, laughing and chattering made him wistful and lonely for Jack and Seamus, wee Rory and, of course, Su Chang.[2]  He kept the three troublemakers in sight as much as possible out of the corner of his eye and was grateful to note they were keeping their distance.

When the bell rang, Pat rose with the others and headed in, hanging up his coat and returning to his seat, unconsciously falling into the routine.

The afternoon wasn’t as bad, and Pat was able to remember all the rules. When Miss Masterson was seeking someone to read aloud, he tentatively raised his hand and she beamed at him and nodded. He got through the assigned passage from The Fifth McGuffey Reader easily, using proper emphasis and pronunciation, even if with a New York nasal accent.

“Very nicely done, Patrick.”

Pat blushed and ducked his head a little, a first shy smile finding its way to the corners of his mouth.

“All right, children, the weather looks a little nasty, as though it might snow again, so I’m going to release you a little bit early. Class dismissed.”

Pat let out a relieved sigh and got to his feet. He’d done it! He’d gotten through the day! He was talking over the desks to Micah as they filed down the aisles toward the cloak room and didn’t see the foot stuck out in the aisle in front of him. One moment he was cheerfully talking about tobogganing that coming Saturday, and the next he was sprawled on the floor, his ribs aching from having glanced painfully off a desk on his way down.

He scrambled to his feet and whirled around. Sitting there, with insolent grins on their faces were Tommy and Drew, their feet still stuck out in the aisle.

Pat saw red.  Instantly, he launched at them, his eyes snapping, and the fight was on.

“Boys! That’s enough!” cried Miss Masterson, trying to pull them apart. “Patrick, I said that’s enough!”

Micah hurriedly pulled his friend off Tommy, who was fighting back in shocked surprise. Somehow, the bully hadn’t expected Pat to come at him like that. Jeez, everybody knows  ya can’t fight inside school!

“Thomas, Andrew and Patrick, you will remain after school with me,” Miss Masterson ordered, her voice sharp and firm. “The rest of you children go on home.”

Micah and Cassie gazed at Pat in sorrowful sympathy as they filed out with the rest of the students. Miss Masterson watched the others go, then marched to the front of the classroom and picked up the cane from its position on the wall. She turned, angrily, and stood beside her desk. “The three of you, come here.”

Tom and Drew glanced uneasily at each other, then reluctantly shuffled to the front of the room. Pat hung back a moment, trying to figure out what was going on. With one glance at the cane, he imagined he had a pretty good idea. Brows lowered, he, too, followed.

“Gentlemen, we are going to start this session with some very, very clear guidelines,” she said coldly. “There will be no fighting in my classroom. If there is, you will be punished immediately. That rule has always stood in this classroom, ever since my first day here, but apparently you seem to have forgotten. We’ll reinforce the memory. Thomas, your hand.”

Taking a deep breath, Tom slowly put out his left hand, palm up and looked away. He flinched as the cane cracked down on his palm, first causing a white furrow, then a rapidly reddening welt to be raised. The cane cracked down twice more, making Tommy yelp on the last one. He grimaced and shook his hand to ease the soreness as Drew nervously faced Miss Masterson. He couldn’t manage to be as stoic as Tom and yipped his way through his caning. When it was over and it appeared to be his turn, Pat swallowed hard and stepped up, but Miss Masterson, stopped him and faced the other two boys.

“Boys, I believe you owe Patrick an apology.”

His eyes wide, Pat stared. He glanced at the other two boys. They offered grudging “sorrys”, uncomfortably flexing their hands. Pat sighed in relief, his heartbeat slowing down a little then his heart stopped altogether as he heard the next statement from Miss Masterson.

“Patrick, I want to make it very clear that I will not tolerate fighting. As such I cannot absolve you completely; you did throw the first punch. Hold out your left hand, palm up.”

His shocked eyes met hers, then his grit kicked in.  Lowering his black brows, he resolutely shoved his hand straight out at her, steeling himself and staring straight into her face, his chin raised in defiance.

He flinched in shocked pain as the cane cracked down on his palm, and it took every ounce of grit he could muster to not pull his hand away. Son of a …..that hurts! He waited, scowling and seething with resentment, but there was no further blow.

“All right, Patrick. In the future, if there is any recurrence, you will receive three strokes. Is that understood?” she said very sternly.

“Yeah,” he grunted, gritting his teeth against the sting in his hand as he allowed it to drop to his side, fighting the urge to shake it

“I beg your pardon?”

He glanced at her angry face and exhaled in frustration. “Yes, ma’am,” he muttered. He squirmed a bit under her severe gaze, grateful when she finally turned to the other two.

“Andrew, Thomas, you may be dismissed. Patrick, have a seat. I want to talk to you.”

Pat watched in envy as the other two gathered their books and coats and left, smirking at him as they trooped out the door. He turned back to Miss Masterson and stubbornly remained standing.

“I asked you to sit down,” she said sternly.

Pat’s jaw jutted out obstinately and he stood still.

“Do you need another lesson, young man?” she asked with quiet but very clear firmness.

Pat reddened, still keenly aware of the sting in his left hand, and after a moment, plopped himself, sullenly, into the desk in front of her. Sighing, she sat down at the desk across the aisle from him. “Now, what was all that about?” she asked, gesturing back to the aisle where the fight had occurred.

“They tripped me,” he said, refusing to meet her eyes, staring at the desktop.

“And that was reason enough to start a fight?”

“Enough for me!” he snapped, raising his head and glaring at her.

“Mind your tone of voice, Patrick,” she warned.

He bit back a retort, and stared at the desktop, still irked. She could see that he was upset and angry, and realized this probably wasn’t a good time, but she knew he had to be made to understand what acceptable behavior in the classroom was and what was not.

“There will be no fighting in this classroom. I don’t care what you think provoked it. If you have a problem with one of the other children, you will either handle it in a civilized manner, or you may come to me.”

“I can fight my own battles,” he retorted hotly, stung.

“Not in my classroom!” she snapped back.

“Well, I ain’t gonna let nobody walk all over me!” he hollered, clambering to his feet.

“Perhaps not, but apparently you will allow them to make you lose your temper and get exactly what they want!”

“What’sat supposed ta mean?” demanded Pat, stung, feeling confused and more attacked and at a disadvantage than ever.

“They wanted you in trouble, and that’s what they got,” she reasoned coldly. “You walked right into it, didn’t you?”

He started to bite back a reply, then thought about what she said. She was right. They’d gotten the reaction they wanted; they’d gotten him mad. And into trouble. She watched as he wrestled with this, then rose to her feet and moved in front of him. She reached out and gently grasped his forearm.

“Pat, I know this is hard. I know you don’t want to be here, and I realize that getting along with those boys is going to be awfully difficult. But you might as well accept it. There are going to be many times you’ll have to live and work with people you might not like or have trouble getting along with.  But it’s time you learned some self-control. You’re a very bright young man. I’m sure you can come up with a better way to solve your problems than with your fists.”

Pat struggled for a moment, wishing he could let down his guard and confide in her all his fears and worries, her obvious caring and kindness cracking his protective emotional shell. But his temper was still too hot, and his pride too bruised. He knew she was waiting for a response, but all he could manage was a sulky nod.

She glanced at the window and saw the dark clouds gathering. She turned and looked at the boy. “You’d better get going. That sky doesn’t look good, and you have a long ride home,” she said. He nodded and followed her toward the door. She watched as he stopped at his desk, gathering his books and his slate, slipping the book strap around them while favoring his left hand. He looked so defeated, it just about broke her heart.

At the coat racks, she stopped him, turned him toward her and reached out, picking up his left hand. Startled, he looked at her, wondering what she was going to do. There was still an angry red welt across his palm. “Do you think you’ve learned your lesson? Is losing your temper worth this?” she questioned him seriously, tapping his palm, carefully avoiding the reddened streak.

“I dunno. I guess not,” Pat muttered, glumly, finding himself unable to look at her.

“Think you can figure a better way to handle it next time?” she asked kindly, patting and then releasing his hand.

He shrugged, uncomfortably.

“Will you try?”

He heard the gentleness in her voice, and it touched him. He swallowed hard, feeling a catch in his throat and his eyes burning. Sighing unhappily, he finally looked at her and saw her tender concern. “Yes, ma’am,” he admitted quietly, dropping his eyes.

She nodded, pleased, thinking perhaps she’d reached him, just a little. “Good. Don’t forget your homework: a paragraph on the battle of Bull Run. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she nodded, smiling.

Tomorrow. Another miserable day. Pat sighed, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, and trudged out the door. Liz watched him go, biting her lip in worry.

~-oo0oo-~

Adam trotted into the yard one very tired man. He and Joe had worked hard moving some of the cattle down from the snow-bound north pasture into the flats, near the creek. They’d been scattered far and wide and it had taken a lot of time in the saddle. Adam ached from his hair to his toenails as he dismounted and walked Sport to the barn.

He was also mentally tired from worrying about how Pat’s day had gone; Joe had left him alone after getting snapped at for his first three tries at conversation. Adam felt a bit bad about that, and resolved to apologize to his younger brother when he got in.

He saw that Black Jack was in his stall and was grateful for that much at least; Pat hadn’t run off! That morning he hadn’t been too sure.

Joe entered the barn, nearly as weary and sore as his older brother, and frowned a bit as he saw Adam currying Sport. He didn’t want another repeat of this morning. Adam had had a burr under his saddle all day and Joe realized early on that giving him some space was the best route to take. But that hadn’t stopped his older brother from working him nearly every moment they were out there, raising a good amount of brotherly resentment.

Silently, Joe uncinched his saddle and removed it from Cochise’s back, hauling it over to the saddle racks. Adam glanced at him and sighed.

“Joe,” he said quietly, not looking at his younger brother. “I’m sorry I was so rough on you this morning. I guess I had things on my mind. It wasn’t fair of me to take that out on you.”

Surprised, Joe looked up at him. He could imagine what kind of ‘things!’ He sighed and nodded. “No problem, older brother.”

Adam nodded, and the tension eased. They were almost finished when the barn door opened and Ben entered, shivering. He’d hurried across the yard, not bothering to slip on his coat.

“Good, you’re back,” he smiled, swinging his arms. “Supper’s ready.”

“What about the chores?” asked Adam, surprised.

“Pat and I have already done them, boys, so just come on in and get washed up,” said Ben gruffly, not looking at his oldest son, and turned to leave.

“Hey, Pa,” called Adam, as he slapped Sport’s haunches to move him into his stall. “How is he?”

Ben turned back, sighing; he’d hoped to avoid this. “He’s had a difficult day, Adam.”

Adam closed his eyes and shook his head. “How bad?”

Ben set his mouth and started for the door, stopping with his hand on the latch. “I think you’d better let him tell you,” he answered quietly, then left the barn, leaving his oldest son standing there staring after him in dismay.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Pat sat at the dining room table, his books spread out before him, elbows on the table and his chin resting on his hands. His paper was blank, except for his name.

His mind was as far away from Manassas Junction, Virginia, as it could possibly be, whirling with memories of his old neighborhood, where he fervently wished he was right now.

Adam glanced up from his book as he sat in the great room, and sighed, studying his son. Pat was a picture of unhappiness. Not for the first time tonight, Adam wondered if he’d made the right decision in forcing him to go to school this year.

“Oh, yeah, I had a wonderful day,” Pat had muttered when his father asked him how school had gone, then reluctantly pushed his sore hand out for his father to see.

Adam had gently examined his hand. “Hurt much?”

“Whadda you think?” grunted Pat, flinching as Adam touched the welt.

“C’mon,” Adam sighed, walking him into the kitchen to apply some salve. He wished he had a healing salve for his boy’s wounded pride. It took some doing, but he finally wormed the full story out of Patrick. He decided that he wouldn’t lecture him. The boy wouldn’t have listened to a word of it, anyway. He merely asked if Pat was all right and if he understood why he’d been punished.

“I ain’t stupid,” the boy had grunted irritably, wincing as Adam gently rubbed the salve into the welt. “Ow…”

“Sorry.” Adam set the jar of salve down and replaced the lid, then looked seriously at his son. “Pat, I’m sorry you had such a rough day. But you can’t let those two get to you.”

Pat sullenly flexed his sore hand. “None o’ this woulda happened if you woulda just let me stay home!” he muttered.

Adam had nothing to reply to that and rose to his feet, walking to the pump. He got himself a glass of water, something to fill the silence between him and his son.

Stubbornly, Pat had refused to cut him any slack and kept still.

“Do you have much homework?” asked Adam.

Pat shrugged.

“I asked you a question, son, and I expect a decent answer,” said Adam, quietly.

Pat looked up slowly, his eyes full of hurt. “Yeah, I got some.”

“Do you need some help?

“No!” he snapped. Then he flushed a little, relented and with his head down, muttered, “…thank you.”

Adam gave up and set his water glass down next to the drain board. “You’d better get to work. It’ll be time for bed soon,” he said, walking out of the kitchen and into the living room.

Now, half an hour later, Patrick was no further along than he’d been when he first sat down. Adam quietly got to his feet and walked behind his son. Pat heard him coming and stiffened slightly. He expected a scolding. Instead, he was startled to feel his father’s large, strong hands gently massaging his shoulders. Pat closed his eyes and struggled to keep his anger in place but found it dissolving along with his tension as Adam kneaded the stiff, taut muscles, giving his son several quiet, gentle moments of silent support. When he finished rubbing, he squeezed his son’s shoulders in comfort.

“I know you can do this, Pat,” said Adam, gently, and again left him to his work.

Pat sighed. He picked up his pencil and began to write.

 

[1] From Patrick’s exploits in “As Ye Sow,” by Pat Thompson-Dumas

[2] ibid

---

 

CHAPTER FOUR

 

The bouncing and jostling of the stagecoach was lulling Hoss Cartwright into a doze, something he didn’t want to do as he knew – thanks to his brothers! – that he always snored pretty loudly. But it had been a long trip, and the big man was uncomfortable. He glanced over at his seat mate, Corrigan, who was staring out the window. Hoss was amazed at the man. He’d barely moved through the whole trip. He kept his energy contained, his movements to a minimum. He was nearly as tall as Hoss but didn’t seem to be exhibiting any of the same restlessness.

Sighing, Hoss leaned back again. His eyes fell on two perky green ones, making him grin.

“Kind of cramped in here, huh?”

She’s real cute!  He figured her to be around his nephew Patrick’s age, and pretty as a picture with her long, curly brown hair and those big green eyes. She was small-boned and delicate looking, but there was a certain amount of deviltry in those eyes that reminded Hoss of his little brother, Joe.

“Yep,” he nodded in response, “shore is. I guess it’s more cramped fer me than you, little lady.”

She grinned. “Yeah, I’d say,” she grinned, bobbing her head. “Why are you going to Virginia City?”

“Wendy!” chided the other passenger, a lovely dark-haired woman. Back at the time they’d all boarded, Hoss had noted her natural reserve, a trait that reminded him  a lot of his older brother.  But there also seemed to be something… well, something kinda sad about her, and he’d let her be beyond being respectful and polite as his Pa had taught him.

“But I’m just being friendly, Mama,” protested the young girl.

“Leave the gentleman alone,” the woman warned, her smile gentle but her tone firm.  Wendy glanced at Hoss and shrugged, flashing him a devilish grin.

Corrigan, too, had brought his eyes away from the countryside and smiled at the little girl, then caught the eyes of the woman. “Your daughter, ma’am?” he smiled softly. “A charming child, she is.”

The young girl beamed at him, innocently, but between the older man and the wee lass  passed a knowing look that tickled the older man; a hoyden, this one, was, to be sure!

“What’s your name, lass?”

“Wendy Carter, sir,” she grinned, managing a seated curtsey, to the older man’s delight. “What’s yours?”

He chuckled, smiling at her, and mirroring her curtsey with a mocked seated bow. “Eamon Corrigan, at yer service, ma’am. And is this yer sainted mother, Miss Carter?”

“Yes, sir,” she laughed.

“Wendy, honestly,” chided her mother, but with a trace of a smile.

“Aw, ma’am, she ain’t no trouble. Helps to pass the time to have a conversation,” offered Hoss, warmly.  “I’m Hoss Cartwright, ma’am.” He held out his big hand to the woman.

The woman sighed, and smiled, shaking his hand in return. “How do you do, Mr. Cartwright. I’m Veronica Carter,” she answered finally, a small smile lighting her face. With the sorrow-tinged expression gone, Mrs. Carter had a lovely face.

“And what might be bringin’ ye to Nevada, Mrs. Carter?”

“Family business, Mr. Corrigan,” she said quietly, the animation gone again from her countenance. Wendy glanced at her mother and grew quiet, too. But the irrepressible imp wasn’t quiet for long. Once she established that Hoss was from the Virginia City area, she peppered him with questions about everything under the sun, giving the young man little rest for the final two hours of the journey home.

Corrigan listened in as Hoss described his family: his father, obviously a strong-handed patriarch who apparently held the purse-strings; a younger brother, hot-headed and impetuous. Corrigan wondered if there might be some use for that one in his scheme somewhere.

And an older brother with a youthful son. The older brother concerned Corrigan; an educated, canny individual, smart as a whip and taken in by very little. Corrigan would have to be careful around that one.

“What’s your nephew’s name, Mr. Cartwright?”

“Patrick,” smiled Hoss, thinking fondly of his brother’s scapegrace son.

“A fine Irish name, that!” grinned Eamon, a bit surprised. How in the name o’ Brid had a Celtic name the like o’that filtered into a family so clearly Orange?

“Pat’s mother was Irish,” nodded Hoss, quietly.  The previously open and accessible personality of the big man seemed to draw in like shutters closing before a rainstorm.  The change in the big man’s jovial attitude kept Corrigan from asking further about the boy’s mother and cast a slight pall over the coach. On everyone but Wendy, that is.

“How old is he?” Wendy asked as they bounced along.

“He’s fourteen…fourteen goin’ on forty, his pa says.” Hoss brightened a little at the thought of his irrepressible nephew.

“That’s only a little older than me!” she grinned, excited, her eyes wide. “I’ll be fourteen in a few months.”

“Well, there ya go. A friend already!” chuckled Hoss. He resolved to remember to tell Pat about her;  they were two of a kind! They oughta get on like wildfire!

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Joe galloped into the outer Virginia City limits as though the devils of hell were chasing him, but the grin on his face made it clear that there was no trouble; he was merely enjoying this first break in the weather and letting Cochise have her head. He reined her in as he drew closer to the town’s streets where women and youngsters were walking, and drew in a deep breath of the cold, crisp air.

With Patrick in school now and Pa, Adam, and the hands hooking up with George Devlin’s crew to try to double-team a sweep of the canyons and pastures around both their spreads, he’d been allowed to stay home and do the yard chores and then come into town to gather the mail and order some supplies.

“I wish I’d thought to ask Pat to stop on his way to school this morning,” Ben grumbled as he slipped his gunbelt on and buckled it, “but he was already gone by the time it occurred to me.” He  picked up a fat envelope wrapped in string and handed it to Joe. “This has to be at the bank by 3:00 o’clock closing, Joseph, so see to it there’s no lollygagging today, clear?

“Sure, Pa,” sighed Joe. When will Pa see I’m not a kid anymore? He’d hoped that Pat’s presence might make his father realize that he had somehow become an adult in the last few years! Instead, Pa seemed to see the two youngest Cartwrights as contemporaries and Joe found it increasingly irritating.

“Adam left a list of supplies we need out in the barn next to the harness rack. And while you’re in town, get your hair cut. Three o’clock, mind,” Ben reminded him, one bushy grey-black brow raised at him, eyeing his abundant curls.  Joe managed to smile as his father went out the door. Rolling his eyes, Joe turned back to his breakfast and planned his day.

He’d finished the barn chores; split and stacked several logs for the house’s wood supply; repaired the tack waiting to be laced for nearly three weeks since Hoss had gone to San Francisco. He’d even managed to tidy his room. When all his chores were finished, a glance at the clock told Joe he had plenty of time to get into town for the three o’clock deadline hanging over his head. Maybe he’d finally shut up that smart-alecky Adam!

Looking around him, he saw that the townspeople were enjoying the pleasant weather, too, and were out in force. He went first to the bank and did his job there, then walked on over to the mercantile, conveniently turning his head away as he walked by the barbershop.  Pa’d been after him for a week to get a haircut.  Joe planned to put it off as long as humanly possible.

Once inside, he was greeted by Bill Jenkins, the owner of the mercantile, and a long-time friend of the family.

“Hey, Joe! What’s new?” grinned the man, easily lifting a huge case of canned peaches onto the shelf.  He smiled at is youngest son, Jeff, kindly asking the young man to unpack them.

“I’ll tell ya, this warm weather is the newest thing I’ve seen in a dog’s age,” observed  Joe, handing over the list Adam had made out. “Gotta order some supplies, Bill.”

“You got it.”

Joe grinned and looked around, figuring it would take about half an hour to get the list filled. He felt proud of himself; he’d accomplished everything and still had time to get a good look at the new shirts that Bill had gotten in from San Francisco. They were supposed to the be newest fashions for men, straight from New York, and before there, from Paris. Joe took great pride in being one of the best-dressed young men in Virginia City when he was dandied up, and it meant a lot to him, especially now. Elizabeth Masters was from Connecticut. Iin his mind, that was close enough to New York City to be near as nothing, and he decided that one way to her heart would be to dress debonairly when around her.

“Joe?”

He turned as he heard his name and smiled broadly as the lady in question stood beside him, her arms filled with books and papers. School must have just let out. His broad smile faded a bit as he saw her concerned expression. “What’s wrong, Liz?”

She sighed, frowning. “I’m not completely sure, but I wanted to see if you’d noticed anything …. oh, I don’t know, different lately about Patrick.”

His eyes widened a bit in surprise. “Different? How?”

She sighed. “He’s been having quite a bit of trouble the last day or two. I can’t quite put my finger on exactly why, though I have a pretty good suspicion.”

Joe thought about it for a moment and realized that Pat had been pretty quiet the last couple of days. He’d gone to his room early each evening, claiming he had homework to do; apparently, there were other things going on.

Joe glanced at Bill, who was still filling out his order. He turned back to Liz. “Would you like to go over to the café and talk about it over some coffee?”

She smiled in relief. “Yes, I think that would be a very good idea,” she nodded.

“Bill, I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes, okay?” he called over his shoulder as he headed toward the door.

“Sure. In fact, if you leave the buckboard out front —”

Joe’s eyes widened for a moment and then closed. He shook his head, irritated.  The buckboard… oh, hell! He smiled weakly. “Actually, Bill, just set ‘em aside and I’ll be back in the morning.”

He blushed his way out the door, Bill Jenkins’ laughter ringing in his ears.

= = = = =

“He’s failing?!”

Joe stared at Liz in amazement. “But how can he be failing? He’s been in school less than a week!”

“I said he’s in danger of failing, Joe,” she corrected him, playing with her spoon. She set it down and looked up at him, her soft brown eyes troubled. “He knows exactly how much work he has to do just to squeak by, and that’s all he’s doing. That doesn’t leave him much margin for error. He simply refuses to try.”

“I don’t understand,” breathed Joe, leaning back. “He was doing so well at home, it just doesn’t make sense!  Adam seemed to think he was pretty smart.”

“Oh, he’s smart all right,” she said wryly. She leaned forward. “Too smart for his own good. I think he’s deliberately holding back.”

“Why the heck would he do something like that? Adam’ll kill him!”

“I think …”  She hesitated, then glanced at the young man beside her, her eyes troubled.  “In addition to simply not wanting to be there, I believe he’s trying not to excel so that the other children will accept him,” she said softly.

Joe stared at her in surprise, then sobered. That makes sense, he had to admit to himself. He could remember, when he was in school, how everyone had hated the class brain, Grace Miller. She was always the best speller, always winning the arithmetic prize, always winning the history prize. No one could stand her.  It had never occurred to Joe that the kids might look at Pat that way.

“He’s having a hard time making friends. He’s even alienated young Micah Devlin, with whom he was friendly that first day. But what disturbs me most is that he simply won’t try. He’s not working anywhere near his potential.”

“He’s that bright?” he asked, thinking hard.

“If he worked at it, he could lead his class in a number of subjects,” she nodded. “I’d truly hoped we’d get off to a good start. On Monday, he struggled a bit, getting used to unfamiliar things, but he seemed to be settling into a routine by the end of the day. Then he got into a scuffle with a couple of the other boys, and I had to deal with him severely.”

“The caning,” remembered Joe, recalling Monday evening.

Elizabeth sighed. “Yes. Did that upset him so badly?”

Joe nodded. “Yeah, he was pretty resentful. Adam sure had his hands full with him that night.”

She sighed and sagged in her seat. “Perhaps I handled that badly. I needed to make it clear that I wouldn’t tolerate nonsense like that in my classroom. I think I hurt his pride more than his hand. But I’m guessing his pride was already pretty bruised.”  She sat up straighter again, her pretty brow wrinkled as she worked to find the words to try to explain the situation to Joe.  “You see, the children were more than usually – oh, I don’t know, reserved, perhaps? – towards him on that first day.  They weren’t unkind to him, but they were…” She shrugged, helplessly. “It was almost like they were in awe of him.  But I don’t think he understood it and felt very unsure and out of place.”

Joe thought about that.  “I wonder why.”

She twisted her mouth, one eyebrow raised. “Well, I was chatting with the pastor the other day and when he asked about any new families or students, I mentioned Pat.  That’s when he told me the whole story about what happened last fall.  I think there was some kind of hero worship going on with the younger children. But when Pat didn’t respond, they saw him as being stand-offish and aloof.”

Joe whistled.  “That makes sense.  And it pretty much explains the fight with the older boys, too.”

She nodded, sadly.  “Well, the next day, everything really began to go downhill.  He walked in on Tuesday with a chip on his shoulder, almost daring anyone to talk to him.  That escalated to him being rude and sarcastic with the other children, mocking them when they do poorly. I’m sure he’s deliberately using the worst possible grammar. He hasn’t turned in a homework assignment in days. Yesterday, he rather nastily butchered one of the other boys when he mixed up a few historical facts making an admittedly ridiculous recitation in class.”

Joe winced, knowing exactly how devasting Pat’s tongue could be.

“And all the while, doing as poorly in his own work as he possibly can. So, the other children became angry. Now, he’s practically being shunned. I can tell his feelings are badly hurt.  He simply can’t understand what the problem is.” She thoughtfully shook her head. “He’s clearly not used to this kind of interaction with other children. Poor boy, he’s so confused, but he’s making everything so much worse.”

Joe sighed and leaned back in his chair sipping his coffee. “What do you think we ought to do?”

“Well, I was rather hoping you’d let your brother know about this recent change in his behavior. I sent a note home, but it would appear Patrick didn’t give it to his father. Perhaps you’d ask Adam to come by the school one afternoon soon? I really need to speak to him about this and see what we can work out together.”

“Well, sure, Liz. But what I was wonderin’, what could I do to help?” he murmured, leaning a little closer.

“Well, you could set Patrick a good example,” she said with a smile.

Joe’s eyes widened in surprise, and he sat back. “Whaddya mean?”

“Just that. Set a good example. ‘What do you mean,’ instead of ‘Whaddya mean?’ Make sure you use proper grammar when you’re around him. Make a point of doing your best when he’s around.” She sighed. “I don’t know if that will help, but at least it will let him see how he’s supposed to behave.”

Joe frowned, thinking. “You really think it’ll make a difference for me to do all that?”

“Well, if you don’t want to – “

“Oh, no! I’ll do whatever you think best,” he said seriously, inwardly wilting.

She beamed at him. “Oh, I’m so glad!”

Joe grinned back at her. How could he resist that pretty smile? “I’ll let Adam know what you’ve told me,” he said, choosing his words with care. “If you’d like, I’ll come by and give you a report every couple of days to let you know how he’s faring at home.”

Liz nodded, pleased he was already making an effort. “That would be wonderful, Joe! I’m so glad you realize that this is a serious problem for Pat. If we don’t get this straightened out soon, he’ll be too far behind to catch up. I don’t want to see him ruin his chances for success in school by mishandling this so early on.”

“Well, I’ll be happy to help any way I can. And who knows,” he grinned, laying some bills on the table, “maybe you’re right and some of it’ll end up rubbing off on him!”

She smiled gratefully. After a few more minutes of chatting, she glanced at the watch pinned to her lapel and rose, apologizing that she had another appointment. He watched her go and his expression grew serious. Watch my grammar, watch my behavior…Can I do this? Joe drew in a deep breath and set his jaw. If it keeps her smiling at me like that, I’ll do anything I have to do!

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Though Wendy chattered all the way into Virginia City, keeping them in stitches with her stories and questions, Hoss still was glad to see the town limits looming ahead. His back and legs ached from being cramped for so long, and he’d been awful homesick. He missed his father, brothers, and nephew something fierce…Hop Sing’s cooking, too!  He’d spent most of the morning wondering what might have happened in his absence.

Corrigan glanced at his watch as the driver halted the horses in front of the stage station; right on time. Hoss swung his big body out first, stretching a moment in relief before turning to help Mrs. Carter down.

“Could you use a hand with your luggage, ma’am?” he asked kindly, giving a hand to young Wendy as she stepped down too.

Veronica hesitated for a moment, then smiled, tiredly. “I would be most grateful, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Please, ma’am…Mr. Cartwright’s my Pa. I’m just Hoss,” he said, a little self-consciously. “I’d be happy to help ya. Do you have rooms arranged, ma’am?”

“Yes… Hoss. I’ve wired ahead to a Mrs. Hawkins, apparently she runs a boarding house nearby?”

His eyes widened a moment, then grinned. “Yes, ma’am, she sure does! The Widow Hawkins runs the best-kept boardin’ house in Virginia City. Most interestin’, too!”

“Hoss!”

Hoss turned as he saw the Ponderosa buckboard pull up with Ben at the reins, a big smile on his face. Ben pulled up, and hustled down, clapping his middle son on the arm fondly, then gripped his son’s hand, shaking it warmly.

“We’ve missed you, boy!” he said with a hearty smile. “It’s good to have you home!”

“Good to be home, Pa, I’ll tell you. I was beginning to wonder if my britches was ever gonna get disconnected from that stage!” Hoss colored suddenly as he remembered Veronica Carter standing beside him. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

Veronica laughed. “That’s quite all right. I believe I understand exactly what you mean!” Hoss politely introduced the young widow and her daughter to Ben, who made them welcome.

“Pa, you mind if I borrow the buckboard fer a minute to bring Miz Carter’s luggage over to the Widow Hawkins’s?” asked Hoss, tentatively.

“The Widow Hawkins’s?” asked Ben, paling a little. “Uh certainly not, you go right ahead.”

Hoss grinned a little at his father’s discomfort. Clementine Hawkins had been making plays for years to become the fourth Mrs. Cartwright, and Ben tended to do his best to shy away from any meetings with her. Hoss glanced up as the driver began to hand down luggage and remembered Corrigan.

“Oh, Pa, I plumb forgot,” Hoss said hastily, accepting his carpetbag, then gesturing to the tall older Irishman at his side. “Pa, this here’s Mr. Corrigan. He’s looking to talk to some of the mine owners here in Virginia City about some investments. I said we’d be glad to introduce him around.”

Ben eyed the man, sizing him up as he held out a hand. “Mr. Corrigan.”

“A pleasure it ‘tis, Mr. Cartwright,” smiled Corrigan, accepting Ben’s hand and shaking it warmly. “Yer son was kind, he was, very kind to offer his help in my meeting several of the citizens of your fine town.”

Ben nodded, shooting a quick glance at his friendly, heart-wide-open middle son.  “Hoss is, without a doubt, committed to making people feel welcome and at home,” he nodded, with a smile.  Sometimes to a fault.

Eamon sensed the wheels turning behind the dark eyes of the man before him and realized this Cartwright was no fool; he’d have to make sure he was well-prepared any time he chose to joust with this one.

“Ya know, Pa, you’d be even more of a help to Mr. Corrigan than me,” remarked Hoss, while loading Mrs. Carter’s baggage into the buckboard. “Why don’t you two go on over to the hotel and talk some while I haul this yonder to the Widow’s? I’ll catch up with ya there.”

Corrigan eyed the elder Cartwright. “Well, sure and I could be usin’ a cup of tea, Mr. Cartwright. That trip left me a mite parched, don’t ye know. Might I interest ye in some refreshment?”

Ben smiled, both grateful for the chance to further size up this man, as well as avoiding a trip to Clementine’s. “Not a bad idea, Mr. Corrigan. All right, Hoss, you go on ahead with Mrs. Carter and her daughter, and we’ll be waiting at the hotel restaurant.”

“Sure thing, Pa,” grinned Hoss as he handed Mrs. Carter up into the buckboard, then swung Wendy up beside her. “There you go, missy!”

Laughing, Wendy grinned at the big man as he got up beside her, flicked the reins and got the team going. Ben smiled fondly as he watched his son, then turned back to Corrigan, waving an arm in the other direction. “Shall we go, Mr. Corrigan?”

“To be sure, Mr. Cartwright, to be sure,” nodded Corrigan. He turned to one of several skinny youngsters waiting, hopefully, to earn a nickel carrying bags. He tossed a two-bit piece at a smaller, red-headed boy, whose eyes widened in shocked amazement at the coin. “Would ye be interested in carryin’ me bags to the International House, lad?” he winked.

“Yes, sir!” crowed the small boy, pocketing the money and manfully lugging the baggage behind him as he followed the two men down the street.

---

 

CHAPTER FIVE

 

A cold snap had descended again on the Nevada Territory, with an early March snow blanketing the ground from the Sierra Nevadas west to Lake Tahoe. When Pat sleepily hauled himself upright in bed that morning, he saw his breath in his bedroom, and groaned, snuggling back under the covers. He relaxed for a moment, content in the warmth of his cozy bed, then frowned.  The memory of the night before chilled him far worse than the tendrils of cold air seeping through the bedclothes.

Somehow, Dad learned about his poor performance the last few days at school. He couldn’t imagine how; Adam hadn’t been to town, and he was sure Miss Masterson hadn’t been out to the Ponderosa.  All Pat did know knew was that all through supper last night his father had been deeply preoccupied. Even so, those dark hazel eyes would still find themselves studying him at intervals, making the boy uneasy.  Even Uncle Hoss’ stories and talk of his trip to San Francisco couldn’t sidetrack the old man.  San Francisco; Pat yearned to see that city, to be there an experience once again the hustle of a busy, crowded place. Frankly, right now he yearned to be anywhere but Nevada.

Then, suddenly, after dessert was finished and Hop Sing began clearing the supper dishes, his family scattered.  His grandfather announced he was going upstairs to his room to read and Uncle Joe and Uncle Hoss simply disappeared. The boy’s uneasiness increased as his father made no move to rise. Pat drew in a breath, laid down his napkin and started to his feet until his father glanced up.

“Pat, sit down,” he said quietly. “We need to have a little talk.”

Pat looked at his father uncomfortably. ‘A talk.’  When Dad said ‘a talk’ with that quiet voice and kinda closed expression on his face, that ‘talk’ usually translated to a lecture. Reluctantly, Pat slid back down into his seat and peered at Adam, his heart beating a little faster.

“Pat, what’s going on?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“What’s going on at school?”

Patrick’s stomach lurched but hoped his face betrayed nothing. “Dad, I dunno what-”

Adam shot to his feet, bracing his fists against the table, leaning toward his young son. “Patrick!” His father’s eyes bored into him, two small spots of color staining his
cheekbones.  “Do not make this worse by lying to me.”

Pat squirmed a little, uneasily. How did he find out? he wondered. How in God’s name does Dad always seem to know?  Pat tried shooting for sympathy. “It’s too hard,” he said softly, trying to sound unhappy and confused, and was almost surprised to realize he didn’t have to fake them. He felt them. Deeply.

“Oh, please.”

Adam closed his eyes for a moment, then waved a hand derisively, walking around the table to come up beside his boy. “You’ve been working well beyond your grade level for a month. I know, I’ve watched you do it. Now, all of a sudden, you’re barely able to complete an assignment that you could have done in your sleep a week ago. Answer me, and this time I want the truth! What is going on?”

Obstinately, Pat sat staring at the tablecloth.

Equally as stubborn, Adam stood and studied him; implacable, immovable, waiting. But he could see the confusion, the discomfort.  He’s… if I didn’t know better, I’d say he looks trapped. Surely it can’t be just because he got caught in this lie?  Pat’s braver than that.  What on earth is this all about?

For several long moments there was silence at the table, and finally Pat raised his eyes, helplessly, at his father. Adam’s expression was sorrowful and disappointed. Flushing in shame, Pat dropped his eyes again and sighed. “I dunno,” he muttered.

“Not good enough, buddy,” said Adam quietly.

Uncomfortably, Pat shifted in his seat. “I toldja I didn’t want to go!” he ground out, irritably.

“And I told you that you were going, like it or not,” retorted Adam, leaning forward steepling his fingers. “I also thought we had an agreement that you’d do your best, even though you didn’t want to.”

“Yeah, well that’s easy to say. It ain’t easy to do,” muttered Pat, his arms tightly crossed over his chest.

“Why not?”

“Because everybody hates me!” the boy snapped, finally looking up and glaring at his father.

“Oh, Pat, c’mon,” sighed Adam, shaking his head.

“Well, they do! And I hate them, too! I ain’t goin’ back!!” growled Pat, starting to rise to his feet.

Adam’s hand shot out and gripped his son’s arm tightly.

“Sit down.”

Pat glared at him and was met with a very firm expression.

“I said, sit down.”

Defiantly, Pat tried to pull away, but Adam gripped him harder, until Pat winced. Adam slowly and steadily increased the force of his grip until Pat gave in and reluctantly sat back down. Finally, Adam released him, and Pat sullenly rubbed his arm.

“Suppose you tell me what, exactly, doing as poorly as you possibly can in your lessons has to do with the other kids hating you,” requested Adam, quietly. There was neither derision in his voice, nor anger. It was a simple question and the tone caught Pat off-guard. He looked up at his dad again, and seeing a benign expression rather than sternness or anger, he sighed and slumped in his seat.

“Dad, I hate school.” Pat’s voice was barely above a whisper. The face that a moment ago had been white with passion, was now red with embarrassment and shame. “Nobody likes me, I – I don’t fit in. Everythin’ I do is wrong. Like… like when I know answers to stuff, they think I’m bein’ a show-off.  So, I thought…” Pat’s voice trailed off his voice cracking in betrayal.  He pressed his lips together, trying to keep them steady, and shook his head.

And there it is, Adam winced, closing his eyes at memories of his own struggles as a youngster.  Oh, Pat…

“I don’t  – I can’t figure out to make ‘em like me,” the boy finished, in pained perplexity.

Startled, Adam looked up at that and studied the youngster. Now that’s an interesting choice of words. “Son, you don’t make friends by trying to ‘make’ people like you,” he began, reasonably.

“Always worked before,” sniffed Pat, frowning, his arms crossed stubbornly and blinking hard, trying to regain his composure.

Adam pursed his lips and studied his boy, then pulled out the chair beside him.  He eased into it, elbows on the table, and stroked his mouth a moment, thinking. “Tell me. Precisely how did you go about trying to make them like you? Your campaign apparently wasn’t as successful as you’d hoped.”

Pat winced a little under his father’s light sarcasm, and he bristled.  “I already toldja, it don’t matter.  They just don’t like me.”

“Son, they don’t even know you.  Chances are it wasn’t so much you they didn’t like as what it was you did.”  Adam tipped his head, encouragingly. “So, how about sharing that?”

Pat winced at the memories of the barbs from his classmates, especially Mike and Cassie, and shrugged, flushing again. “Said I was makin’ fun of ‘em,” he grumbled.

Uncomfortably, Pat shifted in his seat. Painful memories of the hurt looks on his classmates’ faces as he made his cutting remarks and his arrogant expressions came back to haunt him, and his face grew hot.

“Were you?” asked Adam, calmly.

Squirming, he shrugged. “I didn’t mean to,” the boy finally answered defensively, though his tongue burned slightly at the lie that had just passed over it.  He’d known exactly what he was doing.  He was using the tactics he’d always used in New York to gain the respect and command that had been so hard won and even more fiercely sustained. The tactics of verbal jousting and warfare he’d watched his mother and the Fenians use regularly, jockeying for position and political weight.  When something important was at stake, something as deeply important as one’s position and status, that impenetrable façade was more than a tool, it was armor!  It was what kept weakness and vulnerability from putting someone at another’s mercy. And it was the only way he knew.

Pat saw his father was still waiting, and he erupted, frustrated beyond bearing with having to explain what he didn’t and couldn’t understand himself. “None of it matters anyhow! No matter what I do, it ain’t right! I say the wrong things, I do the wrong things.” He looked up at his father, beseechingly. “Dad, I just don’t fit in there. Just let me come home!”

“Pat, you can’t hide here on the ranch forever,” said Adam gently, hitching his chair a little closer to his son’s, leaning forward on his elbows on his knees beside his boy. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to learn how to get along with kids your own age.”

“Why?” demanded Pat, looking up angrily, his eyes shining, chin up self-protectively.

As Adam perceived the deeply entrenched pain in his son’s blue eyes, he grew alarmed to see this was a far more serious situation than he’d realized. Scratching his ear, Adam frowned and tried again to find the words to help the boy understand. “Pat, you’re a bright kid, smart as turpentine,” he said seriously. “But from what you’re telling me, you don’t seem to have compassion for people who aren’t as quick to learn as you. Do you know what compassion is?”

Pat rolled his eyes and refused to look at his father.

Adam adopted a stern tone of voice and delivered his next sentences very firmly. “Compassion, Pat, is that ability to show mercy, and understanding, and forgiveness. Without it, I don’t care how smart you are, how bright, how talented, you’re less than half a person.”

“Oh, yeah, and you’re just loaded with it, ain’t ya?” snapped Pat, lashing out nastily in his hurt, angry mood.

Adam’s eyes narrowed as his son’s dig hit its mark. It was true that for many years, particularly when he was younger, Adam had been guilty of the same kind of behavior, and even today many of the people he knew accused him of being holier-than-thou…a know-it-all…high and mighty, always putting on airs. Adam, too, had been older when he started school, but only because he and Hoss and Pa had never lived near a settlement that had one.

Hearing Patrick’s troubles reminded him of his own at that age; he, too, had been accused the same attitudes and had the same troubles making friends. His natural reticence and reserve was often misinterpreted as aloofness. Pat’s cutting comment hit closer to home than he liked, but he refused to allow the boy to see it.

“I’m not even going to rise to that, buster. It’s unworthy of you. But it does give me a clearer understanding of the way you treat classmates. No wonder you’re having trouble getting along with the other kids,” he said coldly.

Pat flushed, angrily. Verbal jousting with his father was a dangerous game to play; losing could be devastating. Pat had always been proud of his ability to tear an opponent to shreds with his words. Since arriving here on the Ponderosa, he had rarely engaged his father in a battle of words; the man was simply too good at it. Pat was losing again, and he didn’t like it.

Peevishly, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the table.

“Patrick, from now on, you’ll do your best in your lessons, or I’ll want to know the reason why.” Adam’s voice was stern.

He studied his son and sighed. Remember, Cartwright, he’s confused and facing something he’s never had to deal with before. He’s feeling defeated and awfully alone. Yelling at him isn’t going to help, any more than it did when Pa yelled at me.  Adam breathed in, willing himself to be calm and tried a gentler tone, working hard to get through the mule-stubborn head with the face that looked so much like his own.

“You want people to like you? Be a friend, not a competitor. Keep your belittling comments and your arrogant little glances to yourself. Stop trying to prove you’re tougher than everyone else. Just relax and be yourself. You’re the new kid. It’s understandable that it’s going to take a little time for them to get to know you, and for you to know them.  That happens by talking, by letting down your
guard and being someone you’d want for a friend.”

Adam watched the brows on the boy’s face crease – the only indication that any of his words were filtering through his son’s outrage – as he struggled to maintain his ‘don’t
care’ attitude.  Everything else about the youngster’s body was so tense, so tightly compressed, as though trying to ward off the perceived sharks in these dark, impenetrable and unknown waters that surrounded him. That’s a familiar feeling… so, work with what you’ve got, Cartwright.

“Look, Pat, I’ve been where you are more times than you have any idea. I spent my childhood in a wagon, remember?  Traveling across the country.  Sometimes we stayed in a town long enough for me to go to school for a few weeks.  And that meant being the ‘new kid’ each and every time.  Learning who was at the top of the picking order; who to avoid; who was a nice person; who liked the same things I did.  Being scared of making mistakes or looking foolish.  But the only way I could find that out which of those kids could possibly become a friend was by swallowing my fears and actually talking to them.”

Troubled, Pat continued to sulk, but his father’s words pricked at his conscience. Dad was right; he had been trying hard to control the situation, not blend into the group that already existed there. He was just too used to running the pack. Back in Hell’s Kitchen, he’d been the leader of his group of friends for too many years to easily give that up and just be a follower like everyone else. It meant changing everything about himself, and he wasn’t sure he could do it …or if he even wanted to.

“Kids are pretty much kids no matter where you go,” his father said reasonably.  “Yes, there are going to be the Tommy Sanders and Drew Norberts.  Bullies exist in all walks of life, school’s no different. But there are also going to be the Micahs and the Cassies,” he smiled.  “They’re good friends to you.  And you are to them… or used to be,” he added, an eyebrow raised.

Pat squirmed uncomfortably.

“It sounds as though you have some bridges to repair there.  But I believe you can do it you’re honest with yourself and with them.  After all, you’re a likeable person, you know, when you allow yourself to be.”

Adam finally sat back, figuring he’d gotten as far as he could for this round. “What kind of homework do you have tonight?”

Pat glanced at his father, toying with the idea of lying and saying he didn’t have any. But if his father knew all about the stuff going on at school, it was likely he already knew he had a mountain of homework to do and was just testing him.

“History, arithmetic, spelling,” he bellyached, fidgeting.

“Then I suggest you go get your books and sit down, right here, and get the job done where I can keep an eye on you.”

“It’ll take forever!” protested Pat. He hadn’t planned to do his homework at all; if he started now, just two hours before it was time for bed, he’d never get it finished in time.

“Young man, you’ll sit here and do your work to the best of your ability until you’re through. I don’t care if it takes until midnight! And then you’ll get your sorry backside to bed, and you’ll get up at the usual time tomorrow to do your chores. If you’re overtired, you’ve only got yourself to blame. Do I make myself clear?”

Pat met his father’s angry hazel eyes, and considered defying him again, then shook his head in frustration. “Yes, sir,” he grumbled, shoving himself to his feet and trudging upstairs to fetch his saddlebags with his books from his room.

After retrieving them, he noisily stomped back down the stairs, dropped his books on the dining room table and angrily slammed himself into his chair. And worked. Hard.

Adam sat in his chair, reading the newspaper, and watched him. Every once in a while, Pat picked up his head and glanced his way and found his father’s stern eye on him. By the end of the evening, close to ten thirty, Pat was unspeakably weary, but his homework was finished. After Adam had checked his work, he nodded and jerked his thumb toward the stairs. “Get to bed.”

In angry silence, Patrick obeyed.

 

Now, in the cold of the morning, Pat groaned to himself and sighed. Well, that little plan went ta hell in a handbasket damn fast. Now what? For a good hour after going up to bed, as sleepy as he was, his father’s words had haunted him. Was it true? Was he really that hard to get along with?

He thought back to all his years growing up in Hell’s Kitchen, and how you had to act to survive in one piece. There, you had to be toughest, or you were ground into powder. Once you’d established your superiority, you had to battle tooth and nail to keep it. He’d never known peer relations to be any other way. He had his friends, sure: Jack, his lieutenant, a quieter, less vocal boy, but just as steely and determined as Pat. Jack had been content to let Pat be the mouthpiece of the group; he’d handled the troops himself.

And Seamus, the cheeky little bantam rooster who defied boys twice his size by sheer grit and willpower… he was always quick to see weakness, and he’d nail Pat’s hide to the wall every single time it appeared he was letting things slide. Patrick’s saber-sharp tongue had been his greatest weapon, even beyond his fists; once he’d physically conquered an opponent, he rarely had to do it again, mostly because of the implied threat present whenever he addressed someone.

It also worked sometimes if you allied yourself to power, but Pat Riordan didn’t bow down to nobody. Allying himself to someone else meant giving them potential to rule over him, or exposing a vulnerability that could take him down, and he simply could not let that happen.  The way to stay safest was to permit no one – no one! – to dictate your movements, your actions, your rights. Ma had taught him that from the time he was in dresses.

Were things really so different here? Troubled, the boy gazed in the flickering firelight at his bedroom ceiling, mentally tracing the patterns of plastering.  Allowing his eye to follow the swirls and brushstrokes helped him calm his mind most nights, but not tonight. Huffing in frustration, Pat turn on his side, squeezing his eyes trying to shut to block out these uneasy thoughts and worries, to no avail. Wearily his eyes popped open once more as he mentally tangled with the situation. He thought of the few people he could call his friends.

Can’t count Lafe, over t’ the livery; he ain’t a classmate, just a poker partner.  Mike acted like a friend at first, makin’ me believe like what I came from didn’t matter, but now he was angry at me like everybody else. How is that my fault!?  And Cassie…Cassie won’t even look at me.

Pat miserably shut his eyes and sighed, thinking back over the behavior he’d exhibited the past few days while struggling to find his place.

Yeah…it is my own fault.

 

Now, in the cold gray morning light he hauled himself, disheartened, out of bed and rubbed his tired eyes. He’d better get his chores done or he wouldn’t have time for breakfast. As he dressed, his depression turned once again to resentment. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for his father being so stubborn and unyielding about letting him study at home!

He found it easier to simply hang the blame for his situation right on the shoulders of the man who’d carried his hatred and resentment for thirteen years: Adam Bloody Cartwright.

 

At the breakfast table, Pat sleepily sipped his coffee and mechanically ate his breakfast, avoiding his father’s glances.

“Hoss, I’d like you to ride up to that canyon beyond the old Marquette place, and see how many cattle you can round up, all right?” directed Ben, wiping his mouth with his napkin and reaching for his coffee cup. “The hands have seen nearly twenty head around there.”

“Yeah, sure, Pa,” grinned Hoss. “It’ll be good to be out again…been cooped up there in San Francisco so long, I wonder if I’ll remember how to mount my horse!”

“I’ll bet Chub’s enjoyed the vacation. Or at least his back has,” grinned Joe. Hoss threw a biscuit at him and earned himself a stern glance from his father. Embarrassed, he put his attention back to his ham and eggs.

“Joseph, when you ride into town this morning, try to remember the buckboard this time, will you?” reminded his father, teasing him slightly. Joe flushed in embarrassment, remember his gaffe yesterday, then chuckled to himself.

“Yeah, I’ll do that, Pa,” he grinned

“What do you have planned, Adam?”

Adam set his knife and fork in his plate, and sighed. “Jake hauled in the pump from the reservoir. Apparently no one pulled it before the freeze hit and it’s got some ice damage. I’m hoping I can repair it without having to buy a new one,” he replied, frowning. It was going to be cold work out in the barn in this weather, but it had to be done.

Ben nodded, and wiped his mouth on his napkin setting it aside. “Well, I’ll be in Virginia City, introducing Mr. Corrigan to Andrew Holloway at the Ophir, and possibly Jim Mackay, if he’s around, several others. It might take the better part of the day, so don’t expect me until at least supper time. Go ahead without me if I’m not back in time.”

Adam glanced at Patrick, who still hadn’t said a word all morning. As though feeling the gaze, Pat put down his fork, and eyes still down, muttered, “I gotta get going or I’ll be late. Can I be excused?”

Adam sighed. “May I…”

Pat picked his head up slowly, and stared, for the first time that day, directly at his father. “May I be excused?” he asked icily.

Adam forced himself meet the glance unwaveringly – this kid’s got more guts than sense sometimes – and nodded. Pat got to his feet and walked upstairs to his room to gather his things.

Joe and Hoss glanced at each other. “Brrr…it’s just ‘bout as cold in here as it is outside,” observed Hoss, glancing at his older brother. “What’s got into him?”

Adam shrugged, scowling and refused to reply.

“School,” Joe confided, with a sigh. “He hates it.”

Hoss nodded, understanding; Pa had filled him in last night on Pat’s current gripe. Poor kid, he thought, and grinned. He and Joe shared a glance and a chuckle, remembering their school days. Ben smiled, too. Adam had been the only one of the boys that had enjoyed attending school. “Well, can’t say as I blame him. I weren’t none too fond of school, either.”

Adam raised his head, annoyed. “It’s talk like that that keeps this situation in the state it’s in, Hoss!” he snapped.

Ben and Joe looked up from their breakfasts surprised by the anger in Adam’s voice.

“What’d I do?” asked Hoss, startled. “All I said was -”

“I heard what you said! And I’m asking you to knock it off!” Adam slapped his napkin down on the table, angrily.

“Adam,” said Ben quietly, “there’s no call to take your frustration with Patrick out on your brother.”

Adam started to retort, then stopped himself, and shut his mouth. He picked up his coffee and silently finished drinking it.

Uncomfortably, Hoss lowered his head and focused his attention on his plate. Boy! People sure are touchy around here this morning!

The rest of the meal proceeded in uncomfortable silence. Adam glanced in annoyance at the clock. Where the devil is that kid? If he doesn’t hurry he is going to be late! Just as he was about to irritably get to his feet and call to him, he heard a clatter of boots hurrying down the stairs; Pat was nearly at a run, his saddlebags over his shoulder, his coat and hat on, but a piece of paper and a pencil in his hand.

“Dad, I gotta have you sign this before I go. Can ya hurry? I’m gonna be late,” he said hurriedly, thrusting the paper at his father and placing the pencil in his hand.

“What’s this?”

“C’mon Dad, just sign it, okay? I gotta go!” implored Pat, glancing at the clock.

Adam slowly set the paper down and glared at his son. Pat flushed, head down a little and peered up at his father through his fringe of thick, black eyelashes. Damn! Another ploy that hadn’t worked.

Adam looked at the paper before him, and an angry expression fell over his face. He glowered up at his son. “An ‘F’? In arithmetic?!”

Pat shifted his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, but really glancing at the clock now in some urgency. “I promise it won’t happen again, Dad, wouldja just please sign it so’s I can go?”

Silently Adam signed it and held the test paper out to his son. As Pat reached for it, Adam pulled it away again slightly, startling the boy into looking up at him. “For this little piece of scholarly effort and for that attempt at deception you’re confined to the ranch for a week.”

Pat stared at him, his mouth dropping open. “What?!” he gasped.

Hoss and Joe glanced at each other again, worried. Ben closed his eyes and shook his head. This was beginning to become ridiculous. They hadn’t had a pleasant meal in this house in a week!

“You heard me. And you’ll spend every evening of that week in your room practicing your math. Maybe you’ll come up with a better plan next time for hiding poor grades from me or trying to slip them by me.” Adam handed his son his paper, coldly.

“But I already promised that I wouldn’t do it again!” protested Pat hotly, throwing caution to the winds.

“Good. Because if you ever do try to deceive me like that again, it’ll be two weeks,” said Adam, glaring at his son.

“That ain’t fair!” shouted Pat, hurling his saddlebags to the floor, just a heartbeat short of stamping his foot in a temper.

Adam glanced down at the flung items, then stared icily at his son. “Pick up those saddlebags, right now,” he ordered, his voice ominously quiet.

However, his young son was too upset to notice or care. “Pick ‘em up yourself!” snapped Pat, out of control, turning to stalk off.

Adam shot to his feet and gripped his son’s wrist, hauling him up short. His dark eyes smoldering, Adam’s strong right hand painfully forced Pat’s wrist and hand down to the floor. Pat struggled but his wiry strength was no match for his father’s muscular power as Adam inexorably forced the boy’s hand down to pick up the saddlebags.

Tears of frustration made the youngster’s blue eyes shine as he reluctantly gripped his them; once the bags were in his grasp, he was hauled unceremoniously upright and yanked up closed to his father’s chest His father forced him to look at him, and when he spoke, Pat’s stomach quaked. It had been months since he’d seen an expression that furious on his father’s face. An unpleasant session with his father’s belt had followed that time.

“How dare you defy me like that! Another demonstration like that, young man, and big as you are, I’ll put you over my knee and give you the sound spanking you seem to be begging for! Act like a six-year-old and I’ll treat you like one!” declared his father, his eyes burning in Pat’s. “Now get yourself to school. And there had better be an improved attitude, young man, or you’ll find out just how serious I am about that spanking! Understood?”

“Yes,” Pat muttered, red-faced with outrage and embarrassment. Adam roughly released him. Without another word, the boy gathered his things and turned toward the door.  He yelped in surprised pain when he was “helped” toward the door with a stinging smack on the rear end from the flat of his father’s broad, hard hand.

The rest of the Cartwrights uneasily looked at each other as Adam, hands on his hips and a glower on his face, watched his son storm out of the house. He then turned on his heel and stalked upstairs. All three flinched as Adam slammed his bedroom door hard enough to shake the rafters.

“Feel good to be home, Hoss?” asked Joe dryly, pushing his half-eaten plate away. That little scene had destroyed any appetite he had. Glumly, Hoss sipped his coffee and glanced at their father.

Ben sighed, sadly, rubbing his forehead. He had developed a headache. The turbulence of Patrick’s adolescence was going to churn an unpleasant wake of events that he feared nothing would be able to waylay.  As a father, he’d been through this three times. He just hoped that Adam and Patrick would survive it.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Pat angrily galloped Black Jack toward Virginia City, his pride still smarting from the harsh lesson in physical supremacy he’d been given this morning. Rarely had he been overpowered in his short lifetime, and he resented it. Badly. His conscience told him he’d been wrong, but his pride was bruised and his feelings tender.

Stubbornly, he considered a number of options. He thought about continuing his “I-hate-school” campaign but decided that wasn’t going to get him anywhere. Playing hooky was another option, but he knew exactly what his father would do to him and he wasn’t about to take for granted the ability to sit comfortably.

Spank me!  The sonuvabitch said he’d spank me, like I’m some snot-nosed little kid!

Fuming, the boy slowed down a bit as he and Black Jack approached a grove of trees, forcing himself to have to reduce their pace and pay attention to the terrain.

As it always did, time on Jack, riding on his own and letting his mind work through his problems, went a long way to soothe his frustrated nerves. The cold air was invigorating, breaking up the weariness from his late night of studying. It also helped to cool off his hot temper. As Pat rode, the overwhelmingly logical side of his mind began to take control, allowing him to examine the situation from a less angry perspective.

Okay. He’d been acting like a jerk. That was a given. He’d gotten into yet another fight with his father. There was another given. He would now have to work extra hard in school to catch up where he’d been slacking off. That was yet another unpleasant given. Pat shook his head, and sighed. What was it his mother always used to say? “Patrick, me lad, ye’re yer own worst enemy!” Wearily, he had to admit she’d been right.

In fact, as he thought about this morning’s mess, he knew he’d got off a lot easier than if he’d been sparring with Ma.  Okay, Dad, I admit it.  I shouldn’t’a done what I did with the saddlebags.  Ma woulda slapped me into next week if I’d so much as made a noise towards actin’ like that to her. I guess I was actin’ like a spoiled brat. His shoulders drooped a bit to realize that that meant another apology and atonement that had to be made.

Pat noticed that his trip was nearly over and he was close to town. As stubborn as he was, he was too bright to allow himself to get into deeper trouble just because of his obstinacy. Maybe if he behaved himself his father would cool off and they’d be able to work this out.

As the schoolhouse belltower came into view, Pat’s mood slipped from anger into sadness.  His shoulders drooped as he accepted that much of his currently unpleasant situation was his own, stubborn fault. He was just so angry lately and it seemed as though that anger had no safe place he could let it go. He was confused, and he felt so helpless, and nothing made him more irritable than that.  He shook his head in defeat; his father would win again.

Most of the kids were already at school as he trotted into the corral. Mike Devlin was just dismounting his horse as he rode alongside. Uncomfortably, Pat decided that was one fence he’d better mend quickly. He didn’t like feeling at odds with his best friend.

Mike looked up as he approached on horseback, then his face closed angrily and he turned away. Pat rolled his eyes; okay, extra effort gonna be needed here.

They put their saddles side by side on the long rafters, and Pat reached out to gently take Mike’s arm.

“Mike, wait a minute…please?” he said softly.

Mike’s face was cold, but he heard the tone of supplication in his friend’s voice and reluctantly turned back.

“What?” he demanded, belligerently.

“Look, I’ve been mean, and I know it. I just wanted to say I was sorry,” Pat said quietly. “I kinda miss havin’ a friend.”

“Yeah, well you shoulda thought o’ that before you tried to make an idiot outta me,” snapped Mike, still smarting badly from the dig he’d suffered a couple of days prior.

“Mike, c’mon,” pleaded Pat, turning his friend around. “I’m sorry, honest. I didn’t mean it.”

Mike just glared first at him, then down at the hand gripping his arm.  Pat squirmed a little, releasing Mike’s arm; he was disturbed to see just how much he’d truly hurt his friend.

“Mike, I know I did it, but I didn’t really mean to hurt your feelings,” he said softly, flushing scarlet.

Apologies didn’t come easily to him, and Micah knew it. He realized what this was costing his friend. “Well…”

“I’ll make it up to you, Mike, I promise,” assured Pat, a swaggering grin on his face. It was absolutely the wrong move.

Mike exhaled in exasperation. “You don’t have to ‘make it up to me,’ you jackass!” he snapped. “All I want you to do is stop acting like somethin’ you’re not! Ever since you started school, you been actin’ like – like – I dunno, like some outlaw! Mr. Tough, never turn a hair! Bein’ as mean and as difficult as you can be! Dammit, that ain’t you, Pat. I don’t know who it is, but it ain’t you! I mean, I always knew you were kinda spoiled, and used ta getting’ your own way, but I chalked that up t’ not havin’ any brothers around to knock sense into your damn skull.  But you never were mean! That is, unless you been putting a line over on me all these months. Maybe I don’t really know you at all!”

Mike started to stalk off, but Pat stopped him, stung, putting his hand again on his arm. “Wait a minute! You’ve had your say, now it’s my turn!” he snapped.

Surprised, Mike glared at his ‘former friend,’ shoulders set and chin raised belligerently.

“You have any idea what it’s been like for me? I’m sorry I hurt your feelings! I didn’t mean to do it, and I didn’t plan to do it! But no one around here cares about my feelings! Nobody cares if things they said or done hurt me! I show up and no one’ll talk to me, and the tough guys pick a fight the very first day! I can’t win!” he shouted, throwing his hands in his air. “What’s a person gotta do to make friends in this one-horse town?!”

“Look, you idiot! You wanna make friends with these kids? Then try being one!” Mike yelled back. “Quit treatin’ ‘em like they’re less than you are! I dunno what’s got into you! Just cause you’re a Cartwright don’t make you any better’n the rest of us! Makin’ friends’s got everything to do with the way you talk to people, like not treatin’ ‘em like dirt under your feet!” he retorted, bluntly. “You think we ain’t already figured out you’re smart?”

Pat was totally surprised by that one.  His jaw dropped.

“Actin’ up the way you been ain’t hiding it, Pat! For crying out loud, we all know it! I always did know it, ever since I met ya!”  Mike started to walk away, then whirled back, his dark brown eyes searing with hurt. “I just don’t know when you decided that you had ta rub everybody’s noses in it!”

Pat winced at that, stung. “But I -” he started, feeling guiltier by the minute.

“No, Pat! That’s just the way you’ve been treatin’ us all, like – like stupid yokels that need you around to survive! Well, lemme tell ya something, Mr. New York High and Mighty!”

Pat winced; Mike was really wound up, now.

“We been here a lot longer’n you! Maybe that’s the way they act back East, but that ain’t the way friends here treat each other. So, if you wanna be my friend, buddy, you better change your tune. You got that?” he demanded, jabbing his taller friend in the chest with a stubby forefinger.

Sheepishly, Pat glanced down at the finger. “Yeah, I got it,” he said softly, flushing in discomfort. Mike saw the look on his buddy’s face and nodded emphatically.

“Good! And you better watch your step! I know your Pa, and if he gets wind of the way you been actin’, he’ll have your hide!” snapped Micah, reaching into his saddlebags for his books.

Pat nervously glanced at him. Drawing in a deep breath, Pat blushed harder and took the plunge, having a hard time looking his friend in the eye. “He knows.  And he already went up one side o’ me and down the other.   Please forgive me, Mike. I … well, I miss havin’ you for a friend. If it’ll make ya feel any better, you can kick me one in the shins when I act up and maybe I’ll learn, huh?”

Mike tried to keep his anger intact, but Pat’s sheepish, sincerely sorry expression got to him and he sighed, frustrated, then glanced up and grinned.

“Yeah, well, your shins are gonna be black and blue!” he grunted. Pat smiled in relief and gently punched his friend’s arm.

 

It felt a lot better to have a friend again as Pat slipped into his desk beside Micah. He halted, mid-chat, as a shadow fell over his desk. He swallowed hard and looked up at a very stern-faced Miss Masterson.

“Should I assume you’ve chosen not to do your homework again, Patrick?” she asked dryly.

“No, ma’am,” he replied, meekly, digging into his saddlebags and pulling out a sheaf of papers; three days’ worth of homework. He handed the papers over, without making eye contact.

“And your arithmetic test paper?”

“It’s in there, ma’am. Signed.”

“I’m glad to hear it, young man. I might have had to do something about it, otherwise,” she said seriously. He looked down at the top of his desk, embarrassed. She didn’t say another word, not wishing to add to his discomfort, and continued on to her desk, asking the other children to pass forward their homework papers.

Pat ducked his head a little and hoped that the other kids had missed that little exchange. He then thought uncomfortably about what Mike had said. Oh, well; maybe I got a little embarrassment comin’. He glanced around, and his eye settled in surprise on a new face. And what a face it was!

There was a new girl, a few seats ahead of him and on the right, and, boy, was she beautiful! Burnished brown curls cascading down her back and drawn back at the top in a big red bow, fair-skinned with incongruously dark brows and eyelashes. She was small and delicate, not too tall, at least she didn’t seem to be sitting next to Mary Logan, one of the tallest girls in the school. Her red gingham dress and white pinafore were crisp and clean. He was suddenly nudged by Mike and, startled, came back to earth.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” Mike grinned.

“Who’s she?” Pat breathed, turning his gaze back on this Aphrodite.

“Dunno…she must be new.”

Their answer came a few moments later when Miss Masterson introduced her to the class. Facing the rest of the class, Pat saw her eyes were a beautiful celadon green and sighed. Holy moley….

“Children, let’s welcome Wendy Anne Carter to the class, shall we? She’s just arrived in Virginia City, and though she may not be here long, we’d like to make her feel welcome.”

Pat’s face had lost all traces of the cold, closed tough guy as he gazed at her with a silly grin.  He noted that though her demeanor was quiet and well-behaved her eyes were full of mischief. So, this was Wendy Carter, the girl Uncle Hoss had been talking about last night at supper! Yeah. After looking at the deviltry in those eyes, he could see exactly what Uncle Hoss was talking about.  He had a feeling he was gonna like this girl!

Miss Masterson sat Wendy back down next to Mary and turned to the class. “John and Miranda, you may start working on the math problems on the board. You older children, open your history books to page 72, please. Micah? Will you please read beginning at the heading, ‘The Battle of Gettysburg, Day Two?’”

Across the room, another pair of green eyes were filled with hurt and studying Patrick as he struggled to turn his attention away from the new girl and onto his books. Cassie could almost feel herself slipping out of his thoughts… and, it appeared, his heart. She sniffled as she looked down at her textbook.

 

---

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

 

Ben Cartwright trotted Buck into Virginia City, grateful he’d reached town earlier than expected. He’d noticed more and more lately that the cold bothered him. His knees were aching from the chill by the time he dropped off Buck at the livery stable, giving old Lafe instructions to feed and water Buck for the day.  He warmed his hands briefly at the wood stove Lafe kept going, annoyed with himself.

Am I getting old?  He’d certainly wondered when Patrick had first arrived; a grandson, and a half-grown one at that! Adam would be thirty-six on his next birthday. Ben realized he was certainly no spring chicken anymore! Sighing, he drew his coat closer around himself and then headed out toward the hotel.

As he walked along the wooden sidewalk he was surprised to note the new businesses popping up all over Virginia City. It had been weeks since he’d been to town with enough time to simply walk around and look at was there to be seen. There was a new haberdasher’s; he figured both Adam and Joe would find that out soon. Adam was a meticulous dresser, Joe an opulent one. Both his oldest and youngest sons liked to look their best, especially when courting a lady. And Joe’s interest in the pretty new schoolteacher hadn’t escaped his father’s eye.

Come to think of it, Ben pondered as he walked along, tipping his hat absently at the ladies he met, other things hadn’t escaped his eye lately either, including Joe’s distinct effort last night and this morning at proper grammar; Ben hadn’t heard an ‘ain’t’ from the boy all day! Ben chuckled and shook his head; well, if sparking Elizabeth Masterson could provoke such a change in his son, more power to her!

He was at the International House before he knew it. He’d agreed to meet Eamon Corrigan here to have a cup of coffee, then head out to Bonanza Firm, where Jim Flood, Jim Fair, William O’Brien and John Mackay had offices. He wanted to stop at Andrew Holloway’s office as well.  There was a Ponderosa contract pending with the Ophir, anyway, that needed to be signed. Timber from the Ponderosa was shoring up most of the Comstock mines, and Ben and Adam worked hard to make sure that they kept on top of the opportunities presented. Ben would talk a bit with Holloway and then introduce Corrigan.

Corrigan … Ben shook his head a bit as he entered the Hotel’s lobby. An interesting man. Seemed to be friendly enough, and open to answering Ben’s questions. But it was clear there was a side of him that was shut to the rest of the world. He glanced at the clock: just on nine. He was right on time. He entered the restaurant and saw Corrigan seated at the table finishing his breakfast and reading The Territorial Enterprise.

“Good morning,” Ben smiled, approaching the table. Corrigan looked up, and beamed in return, half-rising. “No, no, sit down and finish your breakfast.”

“Ah, no, Mr. Cartwright,” assured the big Irishman, “I’m through, t’be sure. It’s kind of you to have come. ‘Twas a bit cold; I thought ye might prefer to stay close to the warmth of yer home today.”

“Nonsense.” Ben settled into the chair and accepted the cup of coffee offered by the Chinese waiter. “Thank you, son. No, no milk. So, Mr. Corrigan, have you decided whom you’d like to call on first?”

“The decision was taken from me,” chuckled Corrigan. “Mr. James Fair stopped in to have his breakfast and was kindly pointed out to me by the waiter. He and I chatted a bit and mentioned that Mr. Mackay was out of town until Monday. I would say that makes your friend, Mr. Holloway, our contact this morning.”

Ben stared at Corrigan. Jim Fair actually talked to this man? Here?! Fair was known to be an incorrigible reprobate, hardly a friendly sort. And he certainly tended to shun the dining room of the International Hotel. Though a wealthy man, Fair refused to acknowledge it in his dress, or his manners.

Corrigan noted his surprise and grinned. “Mr. Fair was in the company of a charmin’ young lady, apparently hungry for her breakfast,” he grinned knowingly. “Mr. Fair was quite put out at bein’ disturbed, but when he heard me to be a son of Eire, he managed to grunt out a few sentences with some information.”

Ben laughed and shook his head. “Now, THAT sounds more like the Jim Fair I know! I’m simply surprised he was even in here. Tell me, was he wearing his usual work clothes, or did he manage to  dress appropriately for the occasion?”

“Well, he wasn’t a fashion plate, to be sure, but he was clean,” remarked Corrigan, with a chuckle. Ben smirked and sipped his coffee.  “Well, sor, when you’re finished your coffee, we can be on our way. I’ve set up a number of other appointments this afternoon, so I’d rather like to be finished by noon.”

Ben smiled. That meant he could have a quiet afternoon at home before Patrick arrived home from school and the boys came in from work. Hallelujah! “That sounds like a good plan.”

= = = = =

The two men walked from the International House to Andrew Holloway’s office at the Ophir. The fifteen-minute amble from one end of town to the other allowed Ben to point out  the other stores, offices and drinking establishments on offer in town, and provide  his opinon of their services if he asked.  When Corrigan slowed to examine the wares in a shop window, or to take note of the clientele of a business, Cartwright tucked the information away in his mind.

The Irishman’s observations and questions were witty and incisive, and his smile and laughter infectious, making passersby look their way, caught up in his enthusiasm.  Ben found himself enjoying the man’s company very much, though he still – he realized – knew very little about him or what his purpose was beyond meeting wealthy mine owners in town.

When they arrived at the huge Ophir mining offices at the south end of “C” Street, not far from the Ponderosa’s Bristlecone offices, Corrigan’s canny blue eyes took in the good repair and general state of the buildings. It took only a few minutes for Andrew Holloway to come out of his office to greet them once his secretary announced “Mr. Cartwright’s arrived, sir.”

“Ben!  It’s good to see you!  When Garrett said ‘Mr. Cartwright’ I assumed he meant Adam had come by to harangue me about something,” laughed Andrew, shaking the elder Cartwright’s hand.

Ben chuckled, knowing how hard Adam worked for mine safety.  But he also knew that despite Andrew’s teasing banter, no one worked harder than Adam and Holloway, together, to lobby for safer working conditions for the miners.  It had been the tragic and unnecessary death of Gil Fenton, the former fiancé of Holloway’s daughter, Helene, and a good friend of Adam’s, that had changed the mine owner from someone who only looked at the bottom line to instead seeing the faces and lives of the men who worked for him.

But Holloway was a businessman on a schedule, so he quickly led the two guests into his office.  Ben made a cursory introduction of the Irishman, then quickly conducted his own business with Andrew Holloway.  Upon its completion, he then settled back to introduce Corrigan more fully.

“Mr. Corrigan asked me to make some introductions, Andrew,” said Ben easily, leaning back and gesturing to the big man beside him.  “I hope you won’t consider this taking advantage of you and your time.”

“Nonsense, Ben,” assured Andrew, though he eyed the other man carefully.  “I don’t have a lot of time to spare, but I can certainly hear you out for a few minutes.  What can I do for you, Mr. Corrigan?”

“I suppose I could be brash and be offerin’ ye the usual phrase, ‘ah, but Mr. Holloway, ‘tis not what you can do for me, but what I can do fer you!’ I think I’ll eschew that, and get down to brass tacks, sor,” he smiled. “I’m representing a firm in Ireland, and it’s me purpose to be buying gold and silver bullion for investment purposes. As I’m sure ye’re aware, international trading is much easier conducted in these forms than any other.”

“True enough,” nodded Andrew, tipping his head to one side. “What currency, though, will you be using to purchase the bullion? British sterling?”

Corrigan’s face closed slightly. “No, sir. American greenbacks,” he answered quietly. “I can be assurin’ ye, utilizing British currency and strengthening their economy is no pet project o’ mine.”

Andrew was startled a bit by the coldness of the reply. Ben, too, cocked an eyebrow at the Irishman. Noting the surprise on their faces, Corrigan adopted an easy smile once more. “It’s curious, I am, to be knowin’ if such a business transaction might be of interest to ye. I’d of course be contacting me bank in San Francisco by wire to learn the latest conversion rates. And ye’d be welcome to consult yer own financial advisors.”

“It sounds like a clear exchange of currencies and as such shouldn’t be a problem, Mr. Corrigan,” nodded Andrew, eyeing him carefully. “You mentioned your bank in San Francisco. Is that where your holdings are?”

“Some of the capital for the project is there, yes,” nodded Corrigan, puffing on the cigar Andrew had offered him. “Other assets are … floating, shall we say. But they shall have solidified by the time the deal is stuck.”

“Well, it seems to be a wise move to make. Helps you, and certainly doesn’t hurt me,” nodded Andrew. “Very well, Mr. Corrigan, when you can present me with you financial bona fides, we can talk again.”

Corrigan rose to his feet, a broad smile on his face and his large meaty hand outstretched. “‘Tis kind ye are, Mr. Holloway, to be givin’ me this much o’ your busy time, I’m sure. I will definitely be in touch.”

“Ben, it’s good to see you again. And I’m glad we were able to work out another year’s worth of business together,” smiled Andrew. Ben took his hand and shook it warmly.

“So am I, Andrew. Adam will be pleased, I know.”

“Tell Adam I said hello, and that Helene and Will miss seeing him. It’s been a long winter. She says he hasn’t been out to visit them in ages.”

Ben chuckled. “Well, besides the long winter, Adam’s got an active son to keep him busy now. But I’ll be sure to tell him. Good day to you, Andrew.”

Outside on the sidewalk, Ben glanced at his watch and smiled at Corrigan. “Well, Mr. Corrigan, it’s just half-past ten. It would appear we’ve easily met your time limits.”

“Aye, we have, Mr. Cartwright, and I’m most grateful to ye. This little introduction this morning has been extremely helpful,” Corrigan nodded.

Ben studied him a moment. “I meant to ask earlier. You mentioned that Mackay was out of town. Did you plan to meet him alone? I was under the impression you didn’t know any of the partners in the Bonanza Firm.”

“Mr. Fair kindly pointed out that Mackay is the front man, so to speak, for the firm,” answered Corrigan, briefly. I have to be more careful. Me cursed tongue will catch me in the end! And it’s remarkably sharp of this Cartwright to note that slip. Bloody Orangeman! “I simply supposed from his statement that Mackay would be the one I should be speakin’ with. Did I misinterpret?”

“No, not at all,” mused Ben. “I think John is likely the one you should talk to. Actually, he’s a rather good friend of my oldest son’s. Perhaps Adam should be the one to make that introduction.”

“Truly? Hmm,” considered Corrigan. “Perhaps you’re right. Might he be willing, do ye think?”

“Well, since Mackay is away for the rest of the week, why don’t you join us for dinner Saturday evening, Mr. Corrigan, and we can talk about it with him then.”

“I look forward to meeting your other sons, Mr. Cartwright. Hoss told me quite a bit about them. And that scrappy young grandson of yours!” he grinned. “Patrick, is it?”

“Yes, Patrick,” sighed Ben, with an indulgent smile. “And scrappy is a pretty good way to describe him!”

Corrigan laughed. “T’will be a pleasure, indeed, Mr. Cartwright, t’be meeting the rest of your family.  You seem very proud of them all.”

“I am,” Ben, stretching out his right hand. “Shall we say, seven o’clock?”

Corrigan’s own right hand grasped Ben’s, and he added his left atop their clasp, cordially. “Seven it shall be, sir. My great thanks to ye.”

Ben watched as Corrigan walked back toward the Hotel, the pleasant smile on his face covering the feeling of the hairs on the back of his neck rising in alarm.  He couldn’t put his finger on what it was, but there was something about this man.  He was disconcerted; Ben considered himself a pretty good judge of character.  So disconcerted that he wanted to gain the perspective of the only other man who’s acumen for sussing out another man’s character he trusted as much as his own.  And that was Adam.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Dammit to hell!”

The barn walls rang with a resounding clang! as Adam slammed his tools down on the workbench in a fit of petulant temper. As he’d feared, examining the pump proved to be disappointing. He’d have to replace the damned thing after all. There was just too much ice damage. That knowledge was even more irksome when he recalled that he had been the one who was supposed to have pulled the stupid thing from the reservoir. With everything going on with Pat last fall he’d simply forgotten. [1]

Wearily, the man leaned forward, bracing his arms on the workbench and studying the wreckage of the pump.  No way around it.  I’ll have to head into the town and see if Bill’s got one in stock. God, how he hated wasted time!

He’d been on edge all morning, ever since his quarrel with Patrick. He closed his eyes and sighed. He hoped the boy had settled down by the time he got to school.

Remembering his son’s defiance, his mouth twisted in a wry grin.  Pa would have tanned me within an inch of my life if I’d openly defied him that way.  And yet, he envied the boy for feeling on solid enough footing to stand his ground.  To have the confidence in himself to express his emotions so strongly. While he knew Pa often ground his teeth at the leeway he allowed the boy, permitting behavior that would never have been tolerated from himself or his brothers, Adam was grateful that Siobhan had instilled in their son the ability to access his emotions.  It was just going to take some work to teach him to manage them a bit more, but he had no desire to direct him to shove them down, burying them. He knew the fallout from that far too well and didn’t wish it on his boy.

Adam thought sadly of how much his son was like him in other ways, though. Of how, in so many ways, they responded the same way to challenges. He could remember being impatient and prickly at that age. Of having that adolescent selfishness and ego when feeling everyone else was just too slow and feeling irritated at having to pace his own thinking in order for others to keep up.  There were several occasions he could recall that Pa had had to come down hard on him for his reckless, insolent behavior. He sighed. Please God, get me through the next three or four years? he pleaded in amusement.

He came back to himself as his hand brushed a piece of twisted metal from the pump and he grimly shoved the pieces to the side; they could be melted down for new uses.  He squared his shoulders and went to hitch up the wagon to head into town.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Mornin’, Adam! What can I do for ya?” smiled Bill Jenkins at the mercantile.

“Well, Bill, I’m hoping you have a water pump in stock. If not, I’ll have to get one ordered,” sighed Adam as he unbuttoned his coat. He pulled his gloves off and slipped them into his pocket.  Then he grinned a little, raising his black brows, and leaned against the counter.

This morning, Joe had managed to talk him into picking up the supplies that afternoon since he was coming in anyway; in that way, Joe’d be able to have more time to see Liz Masterson. Adam had grinned and agreed easily; he liked that young woman, and he could see that Joe wanted to get her know her … very well. Anything that encouraged Joe into a more scholarly lifestyle was something he could totally get behind.

He shared a knowing grin with Bill.  “I also need to pick up those supplies Joe ordered yesterday.”

Bill guffawed, remembering yesterday’s silliness.  “He sure did seem pretty taken with our schoolmarm!” the storeowner agreed, between laughs.

“Well, may the gods shine upon him,” chuckled Adam, shaking his head, personally thinking that Liz Masterson would be looking for someone a little more well-read than his baby brother, but acknowledged to himself that Joe was a lively companion until the right fellow came along!  “She’s a very nice girl.  He could do worse.  Anyway, Bill, I’ve got a useless pump back at the Ponderosa and hope you’ve got one in the back.”

“What size?” asked Bill, coming back to business. They talked and examined possibilities for a few moments, then Bill left him while he went back to his stockroom. Adam sighed and turned around, leaning a hip against the counter, observing the rest of the customers. I haven’t been here in a dog’s age, he realized in a bit of surprise.  They’d been so busy out at the ranch that there’d been no time to come to look over the new arrival of sheet music, or tools, or even books. It also occurred to him that he’d be wise to pick up a few slate pencils for Pat. It had been quite a while since they’d needed to think about school supplies at the Ponderosa! There was always plenty of foolscap between the timber and mine reports that he wrote, and Pa’s letters, but slates and slate pencils hadn’t been purchased since Joe finally, joyously, left school behind eight years before.

He paused in his perusal of the other shoppers, some smiling at him and nodding, and others absorbed in their own business, when he noticed on a newcomer. His eyes widened slightly; a lovely woman with dark hair, nearly as dark as his own, small and delicate. Even the overly simple black dress she wore couldn’t hide the loveliness of her figure, with her tiny waist and gently widening hips.

She was studying book titles with all her attention, gently laying some in her arm. He tilted his head slightly and read the titles: Dickens, Twain … He grinned happily, then the smile froze on his face as he glanced at her left hand and noted a broad gold band on her finger. Oh, well, he thought wryly to himself, too late again. All the interesting ones seem to be taken.

The slate pencils were only a step away from her, so he quietly tried to step behind her in order to keep from disturbing her. Unfortunately, she chose that moment to finish her shopping at the books and turned sharply, barging right into him, and dropping her books in their collision.

“I’m so sorry!” she cried, flustered.

“Please, it was my fault,” he apologized leaning down to pick up the books. “I tried to get around behind you so I wouldn’t disturb you. I guess I didn’t succeed.” He offered his most charming smile, hoping to ease her mind, taking off his hat.

She reluctantly smiled in return. They stared at each other for a moment.

My goodness, what beautiful eyes! They’re… brown? No, there’s quite a bit of green in there and some flecks of amber.  Veronia Carter mentally shook herself as she realized, feeling her neck and cheeks grow warm, she was staring at this man. Staring, and feeling stirrings that were not welcome!

She really is captivating! Those green eyes … they’re so large, beautifully shaped.  That fringe of dark lashes really make the color spring out at you, and those brows… so delicate, like bird’s wings… He saw her color under his gaze, and he dropped his eyes, flustered, realizing he was staring.

“Uh … discovering Mr. Twain’s writing?” he asked, trying to cover his self-consciousness.

“Oh, no, I’ve enjoyed Mr. Twain’s writing for several years, now,” she replied, realizing his discomfort and trying to ease it. “I’m getting this one for my daughter.”

“I think she’ll like it,” he smiled. He handed back The Adventures of Tom Sawyer to her as well as the other two books. “My son and I  read it together, and I have to admit, he wasn’t the only one who really enjoyed it.”

“Oh?” she said, looking at him. “How old is he? I beg your pardon, I just wondered if they were around the same age…” she chattered, abashed.

“He’s fourteen. We read it this winter.”

She noticed that when he smiled slight, the edges of his perfect, cupid’s bow mouth gave his whole face a relaxed, engaging and very attractive expression.  “Wendy is thirteen,” she nodded, looking down.

“Oh!  They’re close in age.  If she enjoys adventure stories, she’ll like this, though she may find the hero’s antics a little off-putting.”

The woman’s laughter was joyous, and just the sound of it lifted Adam’s spirits.

“I doubt it.” Her face slipped into a comically hapless expression. “My daughter’s adventures likely rival anything Mr. Twain can cook up.”

Adam chuckled, too. “Yeah, I have to admit giving my son ideas was a side effect of this story I hadn’t given enough though to!”

They smiled at each other, each seeming as young as their children in their embarrassed yet clear mutual attraction.

“Well … thank you.”  She blushed and nodded her head, clutching her books closer.

“You’re welcome. Again, my apologies for my clumsiness,” he said quietly. She raised her eyes again, looking into that handsome face.

“No need, Mr … Mr … “

‘Cartwright,” he smiled, offering his hand.. “Adam Cartwright.”

Her eyes widened as she accepted it. “Cartwright! Would you happen to have a brother?”

“I would happen to have two,” he grinned.

“One named Hoss?”

Now his turn to be surprised, Adam nodded. “Yes, Hoss is one of them. You’ve met?”

She laughed and relaxed a little. “We’ve met. My daughter nearly drove him to distraction chattering his ear off all the way from San Francisco!”

Dawn broke. This must be the mother of the little hoyden Hoss had been talking about at dinner last night!

“Yes,” she smiled. “Your brother is a very kind man.”

“Hoss likes young people,” he chuckled. “Really, he enjoyed her very much. Told us all about her at supper last night.”

An uneasy silence settled between them. Just as Adam was about to break it, Bill came out of the back room.

“Hey, Adam! You’re in luck! We had one in stock!” he called across the store.

Cursing the man’s poor timing, Adam sighed and glanced at the woman. She smiled and walked toward the counter with him. She purchased her books; he purchased his pump. Bill watched the exchange with a knowing grin on his face as they sneaked peeks at each other through the transactions. Finally, their business was concluded, and Adam realized that he couldn’t monopolize her time any further.

“Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Carter,” he said warmly.

“It was nice to meet one of the brothers that Hoss talked about so warmly.” She picked up her package of books, trying to think of something more to say to keep the attention of this man. “Perhaps – perhaps Wendy and Patrick will meet each other today in school?”

Adam grinned. “More than likely. It’s a small school.”

“Oh… yes, yes, of course,” she murmured, blushing prettily.

The pause was long again. “Well, umm … good day,” he said awkwardly, turning to pick up his wrapped pump to carry out to the buckboard. They walked to the doorway together, and Adam stopped, looking from the door to the heavy pump requiring both his hands in consternation.

“Please, allow me, Mr. Cartwright,” she teased, knowing he was trying to figure out how to be a gentleman and not drop the pump at the same time.

He flushed a little as he smiled and allowed her to do it.

She managed a bit of a ladylike smirk, and continued down the wooden walkway, gracefully swaying.

Adam nearly tripped over the step as he continued forward yet keeping his eyes on her as she walked away, earning him a guffaw from Bill behind him.

Irritably, Adam strode to the buckboard and placed the pump inside, studiously avoiding Bill’s grin.

“Oh, Adam…”

Sighing, Adam turned back to the shopkeeper. Bill stood there, his arms crossed and a big grin on his face. “Seems you Cartwrights are having memory problems lately. Or might be a problem with your eyes.”

Adam frowned. “What?” he asked, confused.

“Well, Joe’s eyes were fastened on that pretty little schoolteacher yesterday when he forgot them supplies, too. Like I say, must be some eye problem you Cartwrights have,” he chuckled.

Adam blushed to the tips of his ears and closed those traitorous eyes while Bill howled with laughter.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Ben Cartwright sat in his leather chair beside the roaring fire in the huge hearth, enjoying a rare moment of quiet after lunch. With Patrick now in school all day, Ben was able to sit and read quietly or do some paperwork, without jumping in startled terror every time he turned around. In the six months since his active grandson had arrived, Ben had forgotten the sensation of quiet and peace that the Ponderosa could have on workday afternoons when his sons were all busy with their work and he could relax for a few minutes. In those months, Ben’s quiet afternoons had become punctuated with pounding feet that ran when they could have walked, a youthful voice that bellowed when it could have merely spoken, and laughter when the house had been silent. Ben smiled to himself, shaking his head. It might have been quieter, but it sure was less interesting.

Ben looked up from his book as he heard the sounds of a buggy and horse enter the yard. Must be Paul Martin, checking on our sick hands.   He put down his book and headed for the door.

Two of the hands had been complaining of fever and cold-like symptoms for a few days, and Ben had decided that it would be wise to have Paul come out to check them out. If the fevers hadn’t been so high, Ben wouldn’t have been concerned, but Hank, especially, was very sick and uncomfortable. Jake, Ben’s longtime foreman, had confided in Ben that morning that Hank’s wife, Abigail, said he hadn’t been able to sleep much last night and was worried.

Slipping on his coat, Ben walked out onto the porch. Sure enough, it was Doc Martin’s buggy. Gathering his frock coat around him more tightly to ward off the chill air, Doc picked up his bag and headed toward the bunkhouse.

“Paul!” called Ben, walking down the steps and toward him. He was startled by the tiredness etched into the features of his old friend. “Good Lord, man, you look tired to death!” he observed, concerned.

“You would be, too, if you hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in a week,” said Paul, with a tired smile.

“What’s been going on?”

“I think we’ve got an epidemic coming, Ben,” the other man sighed, starting to walk again toward the bunkhouse. Ben, startled, fell into step beside him.

“Epidemic! What do you mean?” asked Ben in alarm.

“I’ve had nine cases of measles in the last five days, Ben,” answered Paul, glancing at his friend. “When Jake rode in this morning to let me know about Hank and Charlie, he reported symptoms of fever, runny nose, irritability, sore throat, correct?”

“Well, yes, but we thought it was just a bad cold,” said Ben, uncertainly.

“Ben, your boys have had the measles. Surely you remember the symptoms?”

Ben frowned, and Paul nodded. “Those are the same symptoms people have in the prodromal stage of the disease.”

“The what?”

Paul chuckled. “Prodromal … before the patient breaks out in a rash.”

Ben thought about it. “Yes, that’s right, Hoss and Joe had measles the winter after Adam left for college. I seem to remember Hoss was awfully sick, but Joe came through with a pretty light case.”

“Yes, that’s what I remembered too, especially after checking my records,” nodded Paul. He smiled wearily at Ben’s questioning look. “I checked all your family’s records and what I knew of your hands. If measles has hit the Ponderosa, I might have to be ready for a major outbreak. Let me check Charlie and then Hank. Then I’ll come over to the house and we’ll chat.”

Ben sighed as Paul continued on into the bunkhouse, and turned back to the ranch, thoughtful. He, himself, had had measles while he was a young seaman; he remembered being miserably sick for two long weeks in the hot, sticky heat of the Pacific while they’d been sailing near Barbados. At least Hank and Charlie didn’t have to suffer through their illness in tropical heat as well.

= = = = =

Half an hour later, Hop Sing ushered Paul into the great room with a smile and promised coffee in a few minutes, before hurrying back to the kitchen. Ben gestured Paul to the blue chair opposite, inviting the doctor to warm his hands by the fire.

“Well, it’s definite. It’s measles,” sighed Paul resting his head back and sighing. “I talked to the rest of the hands.  Everyone but young Dave has had it, so you won’t have much more to face in the bunkhouse at least. I’ll have to ask Hop Sing. What about Patrick?”

Ben, nonplused, shook his head. “I have no idea, Paul. I wonder if even he does?”

“If he was old enough, he would remember,” mused Paul, nodding. “When Adam brought him in last summer for his assessment I should have done a more detailed history, but the lad was so nervous about being around doctors I figured it could wait. Wish I’d done it, now.” Then Paul’s eyes widened for a moment, and he turned to Ben. “That reminds me, I didn’t see a notation of measles in Adam’s records. What about him?”

Ben, startled, looked at his friend. His eyes widened, and he tried to think. “My, goodness, I don’t …  Well, now wait a minute, let me think. He had scarlet fever when he about four, scared the daylights out of me. We were still in Pennsylvania at that point, and he was one very sick little boy. Then, a few years back, Adam had pneumonia. Doc Wingate took over for you while you were in Denver, remember?  We were pretty worried.  Measles …Lord, Paul, I have no idea! Hoss and Joe had them when he was away.”

Paul nodded, worried. “Well, talk to him, maybe he had them while in Boston. You see, measles epidemics tend to occur in cities, areas of dense population. They also hit in waves, usually two or three years apart. We’ve been free of them for nearly four years, so I’m guessing this one’s going to be bad. We’ve had a lot more youngsters born in the last four years, and the number of families moving in has been tremendous in that time.”

He smiled at Hop Sing as the cook first offered him a cup of coffee, then passed a cup to Ben. “Thank you, … Oh, Hop Sing, I apologize for having to ask this of you, but it appears measles has hit the Ponderosa. Can you recall if you have ever had the disease?”

The Chinese man’s eyes widened and he grew pensive. “Led lash, all over body? Velly hot fever?” he asked, thoughtfully.

“Yes, that’s it,” nodded Paul. Hop Sing sighed.

“Yes, Doctor,” he nodded. “When first arrive this country, many many Chinese have this led lash … many die. Velly bad.”

“Many died?” asked Ben in shocked surprise.

“Oh, yes, Ben,” nodded Paul seriously. “Measles can lead to some very serious illnesses. Encephalitis, which is an inflammation of the brain tissue and spinal cord. Pneumonia. If it isn’t caught quickly and carefully nursed, this little childhood disease can definitely be deadly.” He drained his cup and hauled himself wearily to his feet. “I really must get back to town. This has been a long day already and it’s only early afternoon!”

Ben walked him to his buggy and resolved to talk to both Adam and Patrick when they arrived back at the house. Sighing, he shook his head. It seemed like life around here wasn’t about to calm down any time soon.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Elizabeth Masterson glanced out over the quiet classroom, assessing her students. There were two more empty seats today. Measles was beginning to take a serious toll on her attendance, she sighed. As a young teacher, this was her first experience with an epidemic, and she was concerned. The littlest ones were the first to be hit by this illness, first and hardest.  er lower grades were now empty except for a little boy in first and a little girl in fourth. After discussing the situation with Doc Martin, she began to keep a close eye on the rest of the children looking for symptoms.

She struggled to keep a smile hidden as she noticed symptoms of a totally different kind of illness affecting young Patrick Cartwright. Apparently, his father had spoken to him, because he was at least putting in an effort in his schoolwork. But the disease he seemed to have succumbed to was that of adolescent love. The boy was absolutely smitten by the new girl, Wendy Carter. He’d thought up two or three excuses to raise his hand and walk by her desk or be near her.

She took a quick glance at the clock on the bookshelf.  “All right, children, it’s time for lunch.  I suggest enjoying your meals outside; the  fresh air will do you all good.  Micah and Drew, would you be good enough to open all the windows so the classroom can be aired out?”

Usually in cold weather, students huddled in groups inside, but the weather had broken again. Today, the children were happy to find themselves outside enjoying the mild breeze.

Well, most of them, Elizabeth thought, with amusement, as she watched the scene from a window.  Poor Cassie Yates miserably moped around the schoolyard, gazing with hurt and anger at Wendy Carter and Pat Cartwright eating together over by the big oak tree. Mike Devlin was with a few of his cronies, though he occasionally glance quizzically back toward the oak tree.

Cassie herself was seated alone on the school steps, munching on a chicken sandwich while watch as Wendy, seated in the swing, swayed gently, her pinafore and skirts billowing in the cold breeze while Pat was perched on a fallen log beside her. They were laughing and talking; the things she used to do with him! Cassie wished Pat had never come to school!

 

Pat, on the other hand, was beginning to think he’d been wrong. School seemed to hold countless little niceties today.

“I heard somebody say you’ve never been to school before?” grinned Wendy, nibbling her sandwich.

“Yeah,” he sighed, chomping on a piece of fried chicken. “My father was teachin’ me at home.”

“Oh. Must’ve been hard to get into trouble that way,” she grinned.

He glanced at her, quizzically. “Whaddya mean?”

“Oh, you know … no, I guess maybe you don’t, since you’ve never been to school. Half the fun of school is playing jokes on people,” she said simply, nibbling her lunch.

Pat’s eyes narrowed and he lowered his chicken, studying her. “It is?”

“Sure!” She looked at him, with a naughty smile on her face. “Let’s see…putting firecrackers in the wood stove. Soaking the chalk in water so it crumbles …” As Wendy went through her litany of practical jokes, Pat started to roar with laughter.

“Those are great!” he sniggered, imagining the looks on people’s faces. As a natural practical joker himself, he appreciated the imagination that went into them. “How did ya keep from gettin’ inta trouble?” he asked, with a smile.

“Well, I don’t always get away with it,” she admitted, “but having the best grades in the school helps.”

He raised his head from his lunch and looked at her. “Huh?”

She wiped her fingers daintily on a checkered napkin. “Well, I’m a good student. Usually, I work hard enough that I’m the top in my class. And when a joke backfires and I do get into trouble, usually I’m enough of the teacher’s pet that I get off lightly.” She grinned at him mischievously. “’Course, it works best when there are other practical jokers in the class, too. Then the teacher doesn’t always figure out you’re the one that did it.”

Thoughtfully, Pat finished his chicken.

Wendy studied him. “I was watchin’ you today. You’re pretty smart yourself.”

Jarred back to reality, he blushed. She was watching me? “Well, I ain’t stupid,” he allowed, offhand, wiping his greasy fingers.

“You could do a lot better,” she said bluntly.

Stung, his jaw dropped and he glared at her.  But all she did was giggle at him.

“Your arithmetic is great, but your spelling is awful,” she explained.

He recovered and shrugged, slightly mollified. “Yeah, I know. That’s what Dad always said, too. But I guess you’re right, studying and working at home don’t leave much place for practical jokes, ‘cept on my uncles.”

“What about on your father?” she grinned.

Pat’s eyebrows arched and he shook his head, a sardonic grin on his face. “Unh unh….I like bein’ able to sit comfortable, thanks!”

She laughed. She liked this boy. He was different. She recognized the Eastern nasal accent, and it didn’t bother her. She knew other kids in the school found him a hard nut to crack. Mary, the girl next to her, said he was stuck up. But maybe it was just that he was like her.  She’d found that other children in the schools she’d been in found her intelligence daunting and shied away from her. Until she started becoming the jokester of the class, anyway. Then they realized she liked fun as much as the rest of them and relaxed around her. He’d never been to school before. Maybe he hadn’t yet figured that out?

“I guess I know what you mean. There was one school I was in where the teacher had no sense of humor at all,” she sighed, frowning in her memories. “I got caned once. He didn’t appreciate it when I glued his spelling book pages together.”

Pat chuckled and shook his head. “Well, watch your step here. Miss Masterson is pretty much a good sport, but she can give that cane a workout, too.”

She stared at him in surprise. “I thought you’d only been in school a week.  You got caned? Already?!”

He squirmed a little. “Yeah, well… I got into a fight,” he admitted. “She only gave me one lick, ‘cos it was my first day.” He blushed furiously; he couldn’t believe this! Here he was, baring his heart and soul to a person he’d only met a few hours ago!

“Well, we’ll just have to be really careful,” she said, tossing her curls devilishly. “Then I’ll just go and confess to the priest!” she laughed.

Pat’s head snapped up and he stared at her in shocked surprise. She noted the look, and paled a little, looking uncomfortable.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, worried. She knew that sometimes people reacted badly to learning she was Catholic. For some reason, many people feared her just because of her religion.

“Nothin’,” he replied, recovering and smiling. “You just surprised me. You Catholic?”

“Yes,” she answered uneasily, still not completely trusting.

“Me, too!” he grinned. The worry left her face and her smile wreathed her whole face.

“You are? How fun! We can see each other at Mass, then!” she crowed.

“Well, I dunno.” He squirmed a little. “See, my Dad isn’t, so we go to the regular church here.” He looked away when seeing her shocked expression.

“But … but, Patrick, that’s a sin, not to go to Mass,” she said uneasily.  A little hoyden she might be, but the basic and foundational beliefs she’d been taught were rock solid for this young lady.

“I know,” he grunted, remembering the arguments between his mother and the faithful of Hell’s Kitchen, who’d worried about his religious upbringing, convinced both Riordans were ‘headed for the bad place!’  “But …” His voice trailed off and he shrugged.

She thought for a moment. “Then it’s your mother who’s Catholic. Why doesn’t she take you?”

“She died. Last July.” Pat was fervently wishing now he hadn’t said a word. It was all so complicated. He hoped to God he didn’t have to get into explaining he was a bastard to her.

“Oh. I’m sorry,” she stammered, realizing that somehow she’d put her foot in it.

“No, it’s alright,” he replied softly.

Feeling bad for having put some kind of a wall between them, Wendy wrapped up her lunch things and put them into her lunch pail, carefully considering her words.  “Listen, Patrick,” she said softly, “it’s all right. I’m sorry I said what I did. Y’know, about not going to church being a sin and all.”

“Nah, don’t be. I should have been askin’ my Dad to take me to Mass, I just … well, I guess it was just easier to go along with them. I miss it, though.” He leaned back against the tree behind him for support. He drew in a deep breath, willing himself to be calm… talking about the past, about Hell’s Kitchen… about Ma. That always upset him.  When he felt he could speak normally, he swallowed and said, “When I was real small, I remember goin’ to a big church in New York with my Ma. She said it had somethin’ to do with my own name.” His face, struggling to remember, was ethereal to Wendy as she studied him, uneasily.  He continued, “There was a brick wall around the church, I remember, and Ma said it was there to be protectin’ the Irish.  New York hated us so, so much. I remember feelin’ it looked like nothin’ I’d ever seen in the Kitchen.”

Wendy let go of her worry and looked at him and was touched by the sense of awe and reverence she saw that had grown in his face as he brought that long-past memory to his mind.

“It was so beautiful, bein’ there,” he whispered. “I remember the sunlight comin’ in through the stained-glass windows lookin’  like paint covering all of us there in the benches. Ma, I remember, had the most beautiful blue coverin’ her face…”

Wendy remained silent as she watched as he brought allowed a memory nearly twelve years past into the present.

“I remember the smell of the incense.” His eyes were unfocused but clearly seeing something she could not see.  “And … I don’t know, I remember the whole thing feelin’ so…” He waved a helpless hand, trying to find a word to describe the feeling “… I don’t know, mysterious, I guess.”  His eyes suddenly focused, and he returned to the present and he looked back at her, a little abashed but also almost hopefully.  “I wonder… is Mass the same here?”

Her gentle soul was touched by the longing she heard in his question.

“Why don’t you come on Sunday and find out?” she asked gently. “Maybe if you asked your father, he’d bring you?”

“I’m sure he would. I think it just kinda slipped his mind,” nodded Pat, trying to shove the emotions to the background once more.

“Do it then,” she said, bluntly.  Intently.  “Ask him.”

A little surprised, he looked at her intense face.  “Yeah,” he sighed, smiling wanly at her. “Maybe I will.”

Wendy could see he was a little sad now and decided that this young fellow needed some cheering up, and she was just the girl to do it, especially since she felt guilty about bringing this mood on in the first place. She cocked her head to one side, recognizing a kindred spirit. “Wanna play a joke?” she asked softly, her blue eyes twinkling.

Startled from his blue mood, he glanced at her, taking in the riotous curls, the pert green eyes and the big smile. He raised an eyebrow and slowly grinned. “Whaddya have in mind?” he asked, with his own  wicked smile.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Joe Cartwright was keeping a careful watch on his tongue and his manners as he drove the buggy through the beautiful, snow-capped trees of the hills and mountains around the Ponderosa. He had picked up Liz after school to take her for a ride. It was still crisp, though beautiful, so brought several buffalo robes to tuck around her to keep her warm.

Now as they trotted through the hills, he glanced back at her and smiled. Her honey-blonde hair was escaping her warm hat and her cheeks were rosy with the fresh air. She looked relaxed and happy.

“I was wondering if I should dare ask what kind of a day my nephew had,” he grinned, as they rode along.

Liz chuckled. “Can I assume he had a little chat with his father?”

“Oh, yeah!” nodded Joe, grinning. “Adam laid down the law, let me tell you!”

“I figured as much,” she replied. “He was much more attentive. He even made up with Micah Devlin; they were chattering like a pair of magpies this afternoon. I had to speak rather firmly to them before they’d settle down.”

“Well, I’m glad he had a good day. After the mood he was in this morning, I thought he might have ended up being worse than ever,” sighed Joe, recalling the awful argument at the breakfast table.

Liz shook her head. “No, he seemed much happier and he certainly was trying harder.” She smiled as she remembered Patrick’s animation when around Wendy. “And I think your nephew has found something else to occupy his mind besides a bad temper.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“A new girl in class.”

Joe glanced back, surprised. “Really? What about Cassie?”

“Cassie Yates?” smirked Liz. Joe nodded. “No, I said a new girl. Poor Cassie has been forgotten, I’m afraid. And she’s not happy about it, either.”

Joe frowned a little at that. He remembered how close Pat and Cassie had been all winter. True, when the snows were really bad Pat hadn’t been able to ride out to visit, but he didn’t talk at all about having fallen out with her. Then Joe realized that, much like his father, Pat didn’t talk much at all about his deepest feelings.

Over the last few months, Joe had realized just exactly how much Patrick was like Adam, not just in looks. When he’d first arrived, Pat’s surly insolence had given Joe fits, and they’d locked horns frequently. Once, in an argument, Pat had lost his temper with Joe’s teasing and given Joe a black eye. He’d been sorry immediately afterwards, but it made Joe realize that, like Adam, Pat took things very seriously and he decided to ease up on him a bit. Besides he didn’t want another poke in the eye; the kid had a wicked right cross!

“So, do you think Master Patrick will survive?” grinned Joe.

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” she concurred, smirking. “I have a feeling that everything will work out. Oh, he’ll have a few bad days, I’m sure; and with that temper of his I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if he finds himself in trouble again soon. To be honest, I’d be worried about him if he didn’t. He’s a normal, healthy, bright and rambunctious fourteen-year-old boy.” She laughed suddenly.

“What?” smiled Joe, wanting to be let in on the joke.

“It appears everyone is back to normal!” Liz’ graceful eyes raised over her mischievous eyes. “We had a rather funny practical joke played at school today. Of course, I had to be stern and reprimand them all, since no one would own up to it, but it was funny. “

“What happened?” asked Joe, studiously looking ahead of himself, trying not to chuckle. Was Patrick feeling comfortable enough now to launch a joke campaign? God knew he was a wicked jokester at home!

“Someone tied a rope around the outhouse while poor little George Evers was in there. George tends to monopolize the outhouse, you see, and is always being teased by the other children for staying there too long. He was so mortified when he discovered he was trapped, that he just sat there quietly for nearly an hour waiting for someone to come along and let him out.”

Joe’s giggle was infectious and Liz joined in.

“Poor little boy, he was awfully cold by the time I realized how long he’d been gone. No one would own up to it, and quite honestly, I don’t think anyone but the naughty one, of course, really knows who did it. They all laughed, but they also all looked surprised!”

“I’ll bet George’ll be careful not to hog the outhouse again real soon,” laughed Joe.

Liz contentedly cuddled under the robes.

“Cold?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she breathed contentedly. “This is just delightful, Joe.”

“Well, I’m freezing. Do you mind if I just pull up over there, where we can see the lake, and talk while I get a chance to warm up under my robe?”

“Of course not. I should have realized.”

Joe drew up Midnight to the bluff overlooking Lake Tahoe, tethered the horse and climbed back into the buggy with Liz, drawing his own buffalo robe up to his arms.  “Boy, that’s better! My arms were getting numb,” he said lightly.

Liz let her warm brown eyes shine at him. “Joe, this was awfully nice of you. I didn’t realize how much I needed a break, a chance to get away for a while.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. I can’t imagine a better way to spend an afternoon than taking a pretty lady out for a ride. Especially when the fresh air makes her even prettier.”

She blushed a little, increasing the rosiness of her cheeks, and turned, smiling back at the view. “It’s just beautiful, Joe. You must spend a lot of time up here.”

“Yeah,” he sighed, snuggling a little closer. “Pa tells me when he first arrived here, with Adam and Hoss, he took one look at this place and decided this was where he was going to settle. He was originally planning to go on to California, but this sight, right here, made up his mind for him.”

“Just with Adam and Hoss?” she turned back, questioning.

“Yeah. See, we’re only half-brothers, technically, I guess you ‘d say, though we only mention it when we’re angry with each other” he grinned. “Pa married Adam’s mother in Boston. She was the daughter of a sea captain Pa served under as a sailor. Pa had always had a dream to come west, and she was happy to come with him once they’d saved up enough. But she died in childbirth with Adam. Pa finally started the move west, and along the way he met Hoss’ mother, in Illinois. She was a real lovely lady, Swedish. Hoss was born on the wagon train west. He wasn’t more than a couple months old when they reached Ash Hollow, where Inger was killed in an Indian attack.”

Liz’s face reflected the sadness and horror of the tale she was hearing.  “Your father has suffered a great deal of loss. Your mother, too?”

“Yeah,” he sighed quietly. “He met my mother on a business trip to New Orleans. I was born here, just after the house was built. She died in a riding accident when I was five.” Joe quietly gazed out at the lake, and pointed. “She’s buried down there, in Sand Cove, right near the lake. She and Pa loved it there. Just before she died, we went there for my fifth birthday as a family, and I guess sometime during the day she told Adam how much she loved it and never wanted to leave it.

“When she died, Pa was … well, he was totally grief-stricken. You know how some people get when they’ve suffered a loss. Well, Adam had to run the ranch, keep me and Hoss from running wild; but he remembered what my mother had said, and decided that she should be buried there. He was only seventeen.” Joe’s voice trailed off, as he recalled that awful time in young life. It had been Adam who made sure he ate his meals; washed behind his ears and tucked him in at night with a song or a story; comforted him in the night when horrible, terrifying dreams propelled him up out of sleep, screaming for his mother.

Liz watched the tender expressions play out on Joe’s face. “You love your family very much, don’t you?” she murmured, gently.

He smiled sadly, and swung his eyes back to her. “They’re the greatest possession I have, Liz. Sometimes I tend to forget what they mean to me and take them for granted. I suppose everyone does that. I guess it’s true we’ve had a lot of heartache in our family, but we’ve had a lot of joy and good times, too.”

“And Patrick fits right in?”

Joe chuckled. “Most of the time,” he allowed, gently slipping an arm behind her shoulders. Liz grinned herself.

“Why, Mr. Cartwright,” she teased. “What, exactly, are your intentions?”

“My intentions…hmmm. To get a little warmer?” He leaned toward her. She stayed comfortably still and allowed his lips to lightly brush her cheek. “Maybe to kiss a beautiful woman?”

“Maybe,” she whispered in return, turning her face up to his. Quietly, gently, Joe lightly kissed her willing mouth, a long, slow, deep kiss. Liz was breathless when they broke, and her eyes wide. “Maybe…”

He looked at her questioning.

“Maybe … again?”

He smiled, and drew the buffalo robe up around them, protecting them from the cold breeze as he leaned forward and ducked under the robe, covering them both.

 

[1] As Ye Sow

---

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

 

Patrick Cartwright dragged his heels as he trudged from the barn to the house Saturday afternoon, one dirty, tired, hungry and irritated boy. He wearily hauled himself up to the porch, making a half-hearted attempt to slap the hay and barn dirt off his clothes outside the door before turning the handle and entering the house.

The great room was empty. The boy yanked off his coat, tossed it toward the hooks of the coat rack, and missed.  Cussing under his breath, he retrieved it and tried again, this time hitting his goal, but leaving barn dust and straw messing Hop Sing’s beautifully buffed floors.  He pulled off his hat and pitched it onto the polished sideboard, leaving traces of the same barn detritus there as well.  He didn’t notice his boots leaving a trail of dirt as he walked through the house to the kitchen.

Hop Sing was madly running around the room getting things pulled together for the big dinner that was planned tonight. Granddad had invited this Corrigan fellow to dinner, and Hop Sing got the impression that it was supposed to be spectacular. Pat had already been told he was to dress properly for dinner.

“Hey, Hop Sing, can you fix me a sandwich or somethin’?”

A spate of Cantonese, which the boy understood completely, was thrown at him as the Chinese man bustled around his kitchen preparing the meal. The boy’s face settled into a disgusted frown as he looked over the table and wood block workspace filled with ingredients and dishes in various stages of preparation.

“Well, dammit, it ain’t my fault I missed lunch!” he protested petulantly, hungrily eyeing up some slices of cooked bacon. “Dad said I had to finish repairing that fence before I could come in!” Of course, the fact that he’d been daydreaming about a certain curly-haired, green-eyed girl might have slowed him a little…

“Leave alone!” snapped the man, seeing Pat’s predatory eye on the bacon. “Need for fancy grub!  You wait for suppah! Bad boy miss lunch, no get snacks,” scolded Hop Sing as he set aside the bowl of butter and sugar he’d been whipping, turning away to reach for the confectioner’s sugar to add more.

Pat reached out a dirty finger toward the bowl of icing Hop Sing had just started and set down, figuring he was safe.  Out of nowhere, a vanilla-covered spoon cracked down on his fingers before they managed to dip in to the icing bowl.

“Ow!” He winced as he snatched back his hand, massaging his aching knuckles. Then, noticing the icing, popping them into his mouth to lick off the sweet, white confection while pouting at Hop Sing.

‘Velly bad boy!” scolded the cook, angrily waving the spoon at him. “Keep dirty hands out of cooking! You leave light now!” Two or three well-aimed swats from Hop Sing’s vanilla-covered wooden spoon propelled him quickly out of the kitchen.

“But Hop Sing, I’m hungry!” he complained, rubbing his seat.  He frowned as his hand hit something sticky.  Pulling it up before him, he saw icing.  He sighed. Better than nothin’, I guess.  He licked the sweet confection off his fingers and walked into the living room, nearly sitting his vanilla’ed butt down before he remembered. Instead, he reached toward the fire and warmed his hands, yawning.

He turned toward the door as he heard laughter and the pounding of boots on the front porch.  The front door opened, revealing the rest of the Cartwrights, two trying to enter at once. Uncle Hoss finally stepped aside and let Uncle Joe in first, followed by Granddad, then his father.

Pat scowled and turned back to the fireplace.

Adam sighed, bracing for another difficult evening. “Chores all finished?” he asked pleasantly.

“Yeah,” Pat grunted. He moved to drop heavily into the blue velvet chair, but his descent was abruptly halted.

Ben had grabbed his arm, quickly pulling him up and turning a very surprised grandson away to examine the seat of his jeans.

“Hey!”  Pat twisted like an eel on a hook, struggling to get his hindquarters away from his grandfather’s reach.

“What the devil is this?” Ben demanded.. He raised a dark brow, studying first his finger full of sticky, white goo then looked questioningly at Pat.

“Icing,” the boy muttered, sheepishly.

Hoss did a double-take, staring at the seat of Patrick’s pants. “Icing?”

The youth shot him a glare. “Look, just don’t ask,” he snapped, starting for the stairs as soon as Granddad mercifully released him. “I’m gonna get changed.”

“Whoa,” said Adam quietly, taking his other arm, wheeling him around and steering him back toward the kitchen, “right out to the wash house, buster. You’re filthy, and it’s going to take a hot bath to clean you up.”

“For cryin’ out loud, Dad, it’s just dust!” protested Patrick, heartily sick of this square dance the adults in his life were determined to perpetrate.  “Lemme go!  I ain’t no chess piece, y’know!”

“Careful of the tone, young fella,” Adam warned, though mildly.

Pat icily removed himself from his father’s grip, his scowl eloquent.

“Need some help washing?” asked Adam sweetly.

Seething, his son stomped toward the kitchen, then turned back. “What about clothes?” he demanded. “Am I s’posed ta parade naked back through the house?”

Ben felt his right hand itching for his belt buckle, and harrumphed!, striding to his leather chair and pulling out his pipe and tobacco, black brows knitted together and his mouth clamped as tightly shut as his grandson’s had been a moment earlier.

All Hoss could notice was that the scowl on Pat’s and Pa’s faces were pretty much identical and had to turn away slightly to keep from chuckling.  As he turned his eye caught Joe’s face, and both swallowed down their laughter. Clearly, Joe’d been observing the same family resemblance.

“I’ll get them,” nodded his father. “You just go and get washed. Hop Sing has the baths kettles over the fire. Our dinner guest will be here in less than two hours.”

Grumbling to himself, Patrick stomped through the kitchen, causing another wave of angry Chinese to be heard from the back area. “He told me I had to, dammit!” they heard wafting over the Oriental spate of temper.

“Mind your language!” called out Adam, sternly.

“Yes, sir!” came the snapped reply as Pat angrily slammed the door between the kitchen and the wash house.

“Such a sweet child,” Adam observed, dryly.

Joe’s machine-gun giggle filled the room, as he shook his head. “He’s still pretty upset about being confined to the ranch, huh?”

“Furious,” sighed Adam, heading toward the stairs.

 

Upstairs, he opened the door to his son’s room, and his eyes widened in shock. He glanced back down at the floor near the door, rather amazed he’d been able to open it at all.

Books were piled haphazardly by the bed, on the bedside table, and on the table resting beside the sunny, east-facing window near an overstuffed chair.  Draped on every surface of bureau, bedpost and other furniture were clothes in every stage from dirty to likely fresh out of the laundry.  A leather tangle that Adam recognized as a new bridle Pat was making for Black Jack lay in a pile of leather punches, an awl and some studs on his desk. The boy was obviously experimenting with some ideas for decorating the bridle.

Adam took a wary step forward to avoid stepping on school papers strewn on the braided rug; clearly Pat had been stretched out on his belly working on something as there were pencils and sheets of paper (and a pen knife and shavings) covered in sketches looking like a military campaign map, littering the rug. He twisted slightly to avoid stepping on his son’s slate, half-hidden by a dirty shirt, but swore as he stepped instead on something else that sent him sliding.  Looking down, he grimaced, shaking his head.  Bending over, he collected two colorful marbles from the Solitaire de Venecia game Pat had received for Christmas from his great-grandfather Stoddard.  He spied the rest of it peeking out from under the bed.

Playing cards, charcoal pencils for drawing, gum erasers, dice – dice?! – tabletop ninepins (which were nowhere near a table), and set of jackstraws were all in a jumble on the floor beside the armchair.

Adam exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. Exasperated, he knew exactly where his young son would be spending tomorrow afternoon between church and supper. Thank God he’s past the age of keeping mice or dead birds in his room. Speaking of mice… He was also thankful it appeared Hop Sing was making sure no food was left around.

He slowly picked his way across the room, stepping carefully over more piles of dirty clothes, books and God only knew what else, trying to get the armoire.

He opened it, and sighed. Everything was dumped on the floor of the wardrobe, including Pat’s dress trousers. Shaking his head, Adam gathered a white shirt, reasonably unwrinkled, the dress pants on the floor of the wardrobe, socks and other necessities and carefully backtracked to the door, then returned downstairs with them.

Out in the wash house, he heard evidence that Patrick was enjoying his bath, luxuriating in the hot water, soaping his hair, humming to himself and splashing noisily.

“Here’s your clothes,” said Adam, draping them neatly over the clothes rack. “Hurry up, now, your uncles need to get in here too.”

“Yeah, okay,” the boy sighed, lazily stretching in the water. With a yelp, Pat nearly shot up out of the bathtub, coughing and sputtering as his father dumped a rinsing pot full of icy cold water over his soapy head.

“Hurry up!” he grinned on his way out.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Adam nursed his glass of wine as he listened to Eamon Corrigan talk with Pat with about the history of Ireland, and also some of its folklore.

“You’ve heard tell o’ the Children o’ Lir, have ye not?” smiled the man as he swirled his wine in his glass.

Pat chuckled and leaned back in his chair. “The four swans, Fionnuala, Aodh, Fiachra, and Conn?” He raised a black brow.  “According to old Kevin, our neighborhood’s shanachie, every Irish child needed t’know the story of their fortitude and faith, and t’believe that transformation and redemption’s always possible.”  Pat’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, as did his family’s.  Throughout his first thirteen years of life, Kevin Shaughnessy had indeed instructed him, and all of the neighborhood’s children, in the history and folklore of Ireland, so well that this rote phrase slipped off his tongue as though he’d read it aloud.

Eamon Corrigan smiled to himself, nodding. “Glad I am t’hear it.” And he pleasantly kept up the conversation at the table, talking of the magic of Ireland, trying to gauge just how much the boy, and his family, really knew of the island country. Over the course of the evening, he was able to gain a fairly good idea of his hosts, as well.

Just as he’d suspected, this Adam Cartwright was a canny one. As Eamon studied the man, he guessed there must be some French, Italian or Spanish blood in there, noting the wavy black hair and hot, dark eyes. He would have to be most careful when talking with this man, who looked nearly black Irish himself with his black hair; that effect was marred from the Irish look by rich olive skin and a pair of the most intelligent dark hazel eyes he’d faced in years.

For himself, Adam heard echoes of the tavern where he’d met Pat’s mother in Eamon Corrigan’s speech. He found the memories crowding the table along with his family and their guest, and shifted slightly in his chair, attempting to rid himself of the wash of sounds and sights from fifteen years in the past.

Early in the dinner conversation, Ben had raised the idea that Adam be the go-between for Corrigan’s meeting with John Mackay.

“Since you and John have such a good working relationship, I thought you might be the best person to make that introduction,” suggested Ben, quietly, his black eyes locking with his son’s, his expression slightly hidden behind his wine glass as he took a sip.

Adam tipped his head to one side, seeing the slight alert his father’s expression presented.  He allowed the corners of his mouth to tip up, though the smile didn’t fully reach his eyes. “Yes, of course.  I’m sure John would be happy to hear you out, Mr. Corrigan,” he said easily.  He, too, had alarm bells ringing in response to the jovial Irishman seated at the table.  It wasn’t that there was anything solidly said or indicated that he could put his finger on, but Adam would swear there was a distinct ulterior motive behind the man’s request for introductions.  He just didn’t know, yet, what that motive might be.  In some ways, Corrigan reminded him of Frederick Kyle[1] and that alone was enough to put Cartwright on the alert.  But Adam also knew that John Mackay was no fool. He was more than capable of handling just about anything coming at him, including an Irishman with an agenda of his own.

Of the other two brothers, Corrigan observed Hoss to be just the same as he’d been on the stage ride: open and honest, friendly and warm.  But discussions of the Ponderosa’s cattle operation revealed a solid intelligence and good sense, too.  Corrigan concluded that, just as Brendan Flaherty had said in San Francisco, this man wasn’t an idiot. He simply wasn’t canny to the ways of the world beyond the animals and workings of the family’s ranch.

Of the youngest brother, Joe, Corrigan smiled, seeing much of his own son Sean in his personality. He was witty and bright, charming and likely impetuous. Yet, listening to him talk about the ranch’s horses made it clear that he, too, had his strengths and areas of considerable expertise.

But that young Patrick!  Corrigan beamed to himself, remembering Sean at that age! He was a tall, handsome youth, in his features a dead ringer for his father, but with skin a bit fairer, and brilliant Irish blue eyes. Again, like his father, the intelligence of those blue eyes was remarkable, and while he said very little during the meal, took in everything. As Corrigan talked of Ireland and the Rebellion, he could see this youngster was following every single word. In the few times Patrick spoke, Corrigan had picked up what sounded like a surprisingly nasal New York accent. He wondered what the story was behind this boy.

Corrigan had kept his conversation light, sharing stories of the shanachies, the fairies, the banshees, widening everyone’s eyes a bit, except those of Ben, Adam, and the boy. Corrigan smiled to himself as he realized these three were the least likely to be swayed by blarney.

“Have ye never been to Ireland, Mr. Cartwright?” asked Eamon with a smile as Ben poured after-dinner brandies in the large area before the huge stone hearth and passed them around the room.

“No, I’m afraid I haven’t. I did visit England briefly as a seaman, put into Portsmouth Harbor several times during our voyages, but I never made it to Ireland,” answered Ben.

“And you, sir?” Eamon asked Adam, who merely shook his head.

“No, I’m afraid I’ve never been beyond the confines of the states. I’ve been back East, know Boston pretty well, but beyond that, no.”

“Back East! That’s where this handsome young pup was whelped, then!” grinned, beaming at Patrick.  “I knew I heard an Eastern twist o’ the tongue.”

Adam’s mouth firmed, but he said nothing, choosing instead to let that silence hang as he sipped his brandy.  Hoss and Joe exchanged glances, but Ben merely sat back, his fingers steepled as his arms rested on the arms of his red leather chair.

Pat was intrigued, though.  He knows an eastern accent.  Could this guy know Hell’s Kitchen? “Yeah, I’m from New York,” nodded Pat, sipping at the glass of cider he’d been presented with; no brandy for him, he’d noted with disgust. “You been there?”

“Aye, lad.  Stopped there on the way west. The Tenderloin, Five Points, Hester Street…”

Pat bolted upright so sharply that his father turned in surprise. “Hester Street! You know Hester Street!?”

Corrigan, also surprised, looked at the boy. What could he know of Hell’s Kitchen, with the wealth this family possessed?! “Why, nothing more than a few friends from Ireland and pubs along the street. It’s a section of town that the toffs don’t often enter.”

“Don’t I know it!” grinned Patrick, for the first time that night fully animated, instead of simply polite and quiet. “I grew up there! My ma and I lived on Hester Street!”

Ben and Adam exchanged uncomfortable glances, and Adam struggled with whether or not to shut the boy up or just let it go. This was his life, after all, and it was the first time in days he’d seen him smile.

“That’s an Irish part of town, to be sure,” nodded the older man, eyeing the boy. No, he looked too much like his father to see anything of the people Corrigan knew. To be sure, the blue eyes must have been his mother’s, or at least her family’s. “Your mother was Irish then?”

“Aye,” grinned Patrick, falling back into the vernacular of his early childhood with a smooth ease.  Suddenly, he recalled himself, and glanced uneasily at his father.

Corrigan picked up on the discomfort, and light dawned, his eyes narrowing. Ah, yes, a roll in the hay between a scion of a wealthy Orange family and some poor little Irish lass. She finds herself with a bun in the oven, and he leaves her to raise the child back east. Alone.  Corrigan sipped at his brandy, keeping his eyes from meeting the elder Cartwrights, knowing his anger would give him away in a minute.

Adam had noted the dawn breaking on Corrigan’s face and shook his head, his lips firming. Patrick had seen it, too, but not his father’s reaction; he was far too focused on this man and what he might know of Pat’s old stomping grounds.

“Yeah, she was Irish, Mr. Corrigan,” he answered carefully. “One hundred percent Republican Irish. I spent a lot of my life in Brotherhood back rooms. She was from Armagh.”

Corrigan raised an eyebrow and leaned a bit forward. “Armagh, was it? What was her village, do ye know, lad?”

“Do I know?” he laughed, his eyes sparkling with the memories. “It’s burned inta me. I prolly know more about that place than I do about anything else. Lessee, there was a little church with a broken stained glass window. Some guy named McCorley who was the caretaker refuses to fix it c’os it was broken by the great Tomas Guffey himself. And then there’s a lover’s lane at the end of the landlord’s drive that had the fallen log young lovers could sit on while they kissed in the cool of the green glade. And McDermot’s public house, they don’t call ‘em saloons, there, Ma said…”

Pat’s voice drifted off in alarm as he saw the shocked look on Corrigan’s face, his eyes wide and his face incredibly pale. Adam and Ben noticed it too, and Hoss, beside him, handed his own brandy glass to Pat to refill, gripping Corrigan’s arm in concern.

“No, no, I’m all right,” Eamon breathed hoarsely, waving the big man off, but not taking his eyes off the boy’s face. “Is it Ballylynch, then? Ballylynch yer mother was from?”

Pat, startled, nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, a bit baffled and concerned by the old man’s reaction. “She was a Riordan.”

Corrigan swallowed hard, shaking his head. Sure, and the devil himself must be involved in this mess. He’d have to be, since God couldn’t possibly come up with anything more trying or painful. “Riordan. ’Tis many years since I’ve heard that name. The family was all but wiped out in Ballylynch,” said Eamon carefully, still trying to gauge how much the boy knew.

Feeling a little helpless, Adam’s muscles ached with tension as he remained still, though closely observing the exchanges between Corrigan and Pat.  It’s not that I resent Pat talking about her.  He needs to! God knows I suffered enough as a boy from Pa having such a hard time talking about my mother.  But here, with this particular topic, I’m navigating unknown waters.

While this conversation will likely upset him, it’s clear Pat intends to follow through. And I have to give him that right; it was his life.  The best I can do is be there to pick up the pieces when it’s over.

“Yer tellin’ me. The Prods hung ‘em all.  My uncles, my grandfather…” the boy was saying, coming a little closer, and offering Corrigan the brandy again. “Here, drink this. Ya look like ya need it.”

And finally, the other shoe dropped. If it were possible, the Irishman blanched even more, though his hands firmed, one gripping the glass and the other reaching out to lightly grip the forearm of the boy in front of him.  He studied the lad’s face, and then focused on the eyes, and almost winced with the pain of remembrance. “Then you’re related to Paddy…dear God in heaven, is it his grandson ye are? The grandson of Paddy Riordan…Pádhraic Ó Riordá?”

Pat narrowed his eyes and cocked his head at the odd pronunciation of his name and smiled as memories flooded his mind. He remembered hearing it as a child and was surprised to hear memories of Irish phrases and conversation pepper his mind. “I haven’t heard my name in the Irish in a long time. Pádhraic.” He nodded slowly as he squatted down beside Corrigan.  Carefully, correctly, he repeated the Irish pronunciation.

“Aye, lad, you’ve got it. Ye were named for him then?” Corrigan nodded, his mind working overtime. There was only one person who could have been his mother.

“Yep. Ma said she wanted a Padhraic Riordan to always be alive someplace, since the bloody Orangemen hanged her da and brothers…” he answered.  He was so focused on Eamon Corrigan that he missed the bemused expressions on his uncles’ faces, and the serious exchanged glance between his father and grandfather. Adam shifted, uneasily, more and more worried about the direction this conversation could go.

“You knew Ballylynch. Did you know him? Didja know Paddy Riordan?” Pat continued, curious.

“Know him?” Corrigan finally raised his eyes from the swirling brown liquid in the glass he’d been holding and sadly looked up at the boy. “Know him, lad? There’s lash marks on me back from the miserable Orange Black and Tans who whipped me while they hanged Paddy, and Liam, Conor and Tim, yer mother’s brothers, for insurrection. She’d have to have been Siobhan. Those blue Riordan eyes o’ yours are no lie. They were Paddy’s. Every one of his bairns had ‘em. Yer mam… she was Siobhan Riordan?”

Patrick nodded, pale, and sat back, a little in shock.

Adam winced. Siobhan. This man knew Siobhan before she left Ireland, before she was scarred forever: scars her back from the flogging that preceded her banishment from Ireland, and scars on her heart from the hatred boiling over for the English and what they’d done. Adam knew that had it not been for that pain, he’d never have met her, Patrick would never have been born. He couldn’t wish it had never happened, but he did wish she could have been spared the worst of it.

Ben, Hoss and Joe felt a bit like members of an audience at a play, but a reluctant audience, and the play was one rapidly shifting from a depiction of a parlor game to a tragedy. They watched the drama unfold between the older Irishman, the younger man of English Protestant blood and the hybrid of the two, the youngster whose blood ran both Orange and Kelly green.

“You were there?” breathed Pat, sitting down slowly on the oak table across from the older man, leaning forward, those intense blue eyes burning into the man.

“Aye. Twas on a Thursday,” whispered Eamon Corrigan, casting his mind back to that horrible day in 1855. “Paddy and I and our lads had been outlaws to the English Crown for years, forever stirring up trouble here, insurrection there. The landlords knew better than to brutalize the widows and children because out o’ nowhere we’d crop up to surprise ‘em,” he said, darkly, with a cold, hard smile.

“She told me.” Pat’s  own Celtic blood ran hot as he remembered the tales his mother would tell, both to him privately and at Fenian gatherings. “The name of Paddy Riordan was usually said very quietly, she said, since if ya knew him, the Orangemen would haul you off for questionin’.”

“Aye lad, tis true, that,” agreed Corrigan leaning forward a bit, his faded red head close to Pat’s black one, one pair of blue eyes looking deeply into the other. “And knowin’ Paddy Riordan could also mean losing what little property ye’d been able to snare away from the bloody Orange.

“In the days before he died, Paddy had dragged every Riordan kinsman from miles around to vote in the election. He did not cause the rioting that happened that Thursday after the ballots were counted and the Orange won by a landslide,” he said with a sardonic, bitter smile. “’Course the fact that, physically, the RCs outnumbered the attending Orange three to one mattered not a whit. The election had to have a certain outcome, don’t ye know.

“When the villagers realized they’d been oppressed yet again they erupted like a volcano, lad. A human mass bubbled out onto the streets, takin’ in its wake anythin’ and anyone it could, looting, burning…several of the Orange landowners’ houses were destroyed. And Paddy and his sons were blamed, though they’d been long gone back to the hills. It took a few days to find ‘im and the lads, but ’twas betrayal that ultimately caused his capture. In the end, he was hanged for insurrection, Paddy was. When really all he’d done was his duty, voting in the election.” Eamon Corrigan stared out into the fire for a moment, while Patrick’s eyes were down, staring at the pattern on the great room rug.

Adam came around his son and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Pat, startled, looked up at his father, and noted the look of concern on his face. Pat smiled sadly and reached a hand up to his father’s and squeezed. “I’m okay, Dad. It’s nothin’ I ain’t heard before. Ma talked about it now and again. An’ every once in a while there’d be someone passin’ through the Kitchen who knew Grandda.”

“I’m sorry, Pat,” sighed Adam, intensely grateful that the boy wasn’t shutting him out. He quietly massaged his son’s shoulders.

“Siobhan,” Eamon repeated the musical name softly, leaning back again in his seat, reluctant to let this moment pass.  Here was a youthful connection to his own past, closer than he liked to think possible. “She was an incredible lass. All fire and passion. I remember a slip of a girl, slim as a reed, with an amazing mass of black hair flying back in the breeze as she ran from place to place. The lass never walked, she didn’t, she felt it took too long. Had to run, she did. And when they hanged her father, her brothers…when they wiped out her family, they had to banish her as well.”

Slowly, Eamon raised his head and stared at Adam Cartwright, realizing this man had loved her. And if not married her, had bedded her. A certain amount of anger surfaced, reflected in his eyes, as the realization struck him.

Adam met his gaze, with no less anger of his own; anger that this man could bring all this up and forget the pain that it must be causing his boy. “Look, I think this is a little depressing for Patrick, why don’t we – “

“Depressing?” snorted Pat. “Dad, this is the story of my life! And my family!”  The boy got to his feet and stared at his father, who eased off a bit at the anger. “I wasn’t reborn when I got here last August, y’know! Everything I was in Hell’s Kitchen, I brought with me here. This story is part of me, my story.”

Adam studied his young son. “I know that, Pat. I just didn’t want you to be hurt.”

“Too late for that,” he grunted, frowning and turning away from his father.

“Pat,” chided Ben gently, but rising to his feet, upset at the turn this evening had taken. He regretted inviting this man into his home and wished he could undo it all.

Patrick sighed and drew in a deep breath. “Sorry,” said softly, glancing up at his father guiltily. Adam smiled sadly and gave him a supporting squeeze to the shoulder, nodding.

Corrigan shook himself and rose to his feet, facing Ben. “I’m afraid I’ve opened some old wounds,” he said quietly. “ ‘Tis that sorry I am, Mr. Cartwright. ‘Twas not me intention to bring ye pain, or discomfort to yer family. I do apologize, truly. Perhaps I should have been more circumspect, it’s just surprised I was.  Ye see…”  The man struggled to regain his composure, and shrugged, lifting his hands helplessly.  After a couple of deep breaths, he began again.

“Paddy Riordan was me dearest friend, y’see. ‘Tis most grateful I am that his family didn’t die out. Young Padhraic, here…he’s livin’ proof the Riordans will continue,” he smiled, reaching out and placing a tender, gentle hand around the back of Pat’s neck, squeezing him affectionately and wringing a smile out of the boy. “That, sor, that means a great deal to me. As respected as you are here, in Nevada…that’s how respected Paddy Riordan was in Ballylynch and County Armagh. ‘Tis a lucky lad he is to have such strong, respected and remarkable grandfathers,” Eamon nodded at the boy.

Ben skillfully drew the conversation turned back to business, though with considerably less warmth than previously.

Eamon Corrigan thought about his statement.  Strong, respected and remarkable grandfathers. The man inwardly seethed, struggling to keep his composure, and hoping these people attributed it to his memories.  But for Eamon it was so much more.

‘Twas I who should have been that grandfather!

Eamon’s only child Sean, had loved Siobhan Riordan as no other, with a passion that had just about devoured the young man. He was hanged alongside the Riordans that day, forever ending Eamon’s hope for grandchildren, for his line continuing. And this boy standing here in this room, tall, handsome, bright and as full of passion as his mother and grandfather had been…that should have been his grandson! Instead, he was the whelp of a bloody Orangeman.

Ah, Paddy, he thought, as Ben and Adam outlined various plans for furthering the introduction of Corrigan to mine owners and investors, Paddy, lad…It’s glad I am you were dead before ye could know Siobhan would betray ye so….

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

After Corrigan had departed, Adam was bone weary and decided to head up to bed early, to read a bit before sleep. Apparently, Patrick had been waiting for him to come up, despite having been sent to bed over an hour earlier; no more than two minutes after Adam arrived in his room and began tugging off his boots, there was a knock on the door, and Pat snaked his head around the jamb.

“Dad? Can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure,” nodded Adam, neatly laying his boots beside his bed. “What’s up, besides you?”

Pat came into the room, still fully dressed, and his face thoughtful. “I was wonderin’… could I go to Mass tomorrow instead of your church?”

Surprised, Adam studied his son. “Why…sure, I don’t see why not. I just don’t know what time – “

“Nine o’clock,” his son replied promptly.

Adam grinned. “Got it all checked out?” Pat sighed heavily and sat down on the bed beside his father.

“Well, I was talkin’ to this girl at school, and … well, it reminded me that, uh – ” he shifted a bit uncomfortably, and looked up at his father in embarrassment. “Well, I ain’t even supposed to be in your church, and it’s a sin for me not to be at Mass.” The fact that his mother hadn’t frequented a Roman Catholic Church in years – nor had he – was a fact he felt wasn’t worth mentioning at the moment.  All that was in his mind was a lovely girl with green eyes.

Adam flushed a little. “Yeah, I know. I’m sorry about that, Pat. I know I should have been getting you to Mass. That’s more my fault than yours.”

“How would you know?” asked Pat, intrigued with this aspect of his father. Geez, wasn’t there anything this father of mine doesn’t know about?

Adam smiled and lay back tiredly on the bed, lacing his hands behind his head. “Joe’s mother, Marie, was Catholic. She told me quite a bit about your faith.”

Pat thought about that a moment. “So, Joe was supposed to be raised Catholic, too. How come Granddad didn’t do it?”

“There wasn’t a Catholic church here, then,” answered Adam honestly, with a shrug. “When Marie died, things were so confused and everybody was so grief-stricken … I think your grandfather had enough to do just to keep going, much less try to remember all the things he’d need to know to raise Joe as a Catholic. After awhile, I think it just became easier to raise him in the faith we’d always followed.”

“Kinda like me,” said Pat quietly.

Adam frowned. “No, not like you,” he sighed, shaking his head. “I have everything at my disposal to raise you as your mother would have wanted. I’m sorry, Pat. Of course, I’ll take you to Mass tomorrow. All right?”

“Can you go?” asked Pat incredulously.

“Sure. I just can’t receive communion. And neither can you, until you make your confession,” reminded Adam. Pat frowned; that’s right, he’d forgotten about that. Technically, he couldn’t really receive communion at all.  He’d not gone to church to receive the training his friends did to make his first communion or to be confirmed.  He did know he’d been baptized, but that was it. Sighing, he pulled a leg up under himself and rested his arms on his crossed legs.

Adam smiled indulgently; there was something on his son’s mind, apparently. Reading would have to wait. “What’s troubling you, Pat?” he asked gently.

“Nothin’, really, I guess,” he said slowly. This evening’s talk with Corrigan had pulled back old memories. It had reminded him of his mother. That, in turn, reminded him of his poor behavior yesterday morning. He’d obeyed his father and accepted his punishment; he hadn’t left the ranch Friday afternoon once home from school, and he’d done the same today. But he hadn’t yet truly apologized for his rudeness and now felt like as good a time as any.

“I just…well, I just wanted to say I was sorry for the way I talked to you yesterday. I was mad, and I guess I said more’n I should’ve.” Blushing furiously, Patrick picked at the stitching in his father’s quilt.

Adam stifled a smile; this was usually the way Pat managed to make his apologies; late at night, here in his father’s room. He could point to several patches of his quilt that had been mercilessly picked apart during these sessions over the last six months.

“I understand,” he nodded. “But, son, that temper of yours is going to get you into hot water over and over again until you learn to control it. I guess it’s normal, your mother sure had a wicked temper. And you come by it honestly from your grandfather. But he’d be the first one to tell you that if you don’t learn some self-control you’re going to be an unhappy young man. You could talk to your Uncle Joe about it, too. He’s been there,” grinned Adam, remembering Joe’s difficult times growing up with his hot nature.

“Granddad says I’m more like you. That I hold it in and then blow over something little that don’t have nothin’ to do with whatever I’m fightin’ with somebody about,” said Pat, with a small smile.

Adam grinned. “Yeah, I guess I am like that, aren’t I?” He sighed. “Well, I don’t want to lecture you; after all, you’re already being punished and you’ve made your apologies. Let’s put it in the past, all right?” Pat nodded, sighing. “Good. Now then, young fella, it’s late and you should have been asleep hours ago.”

“Dad, I’m not a little kid,” protested Pat, with a grin.

“Maybe not, but when you’re overtired, you have a propensity to act like one,” his father said with mock severity, sitting up and tousling his hair. “Now, go on and get some sleep.”

He rose and gently pulled his son to his feet, then stopped a moment, and turned the boy to him. God, has he gotten taller again? “Pat,” he hesitated, “are you all right? I mean, tonight’s talk with Mr. Corrigan must have brought up some painful memories. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

Pat smiled. “Nah, I’m fine,” he said quietly. “It’s just kinda strange talkin’ to somebody who really knew my family in Ireland, that’s all.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” he nodded.

Adam smiled and squeezed his shoulder.

“All right, then, youngster, off to bed,” he said turning him around and gently propelling him toward the door.

Pat opened the door and slipped around it, then turned back. “G’night, Dad,” he said softly.

“Good night, son,” answered Adam, his eyes warm and gentle. “Sleep well.”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

St. Mary’s in the Mountains Church was a beautiful new structure, completed less than a year before Pat arrived in Nevada, and when he entered it with his father Sunday morning, he was thrown back to his early childhood. The smell of the incense, the cloistered darkness, the beautiful vestments on the altar all evoked strong though hazy memories. His head tipped back as he looked at the ceilings and at the high stained-glass windows. He sighed contentedly; it felt good to be back. He slipped into the pew with his father, and automatically, through memories more than ten years old, went to the kneeler to offer his prayers of supplication. Adam smiled at him as he sat in the pew and studied his son’s bowed head.

After his prayers, Pat sat down beside his father and simply drank in the atmosphere of the church. Before long, others entered, many shocked and startled by the presence of a Cartwright in the church. The Cartwrights were known to be staunchly Presbyterian, and it shocked many of them to see Adam seated amongst them.

Patrick tried to dig through his memory, to see what he might remember of the old Latin prayers. Though Siobhan had ultimately turned her back on her religion, various child minders had tried to save her son’s soul by bringing him to Mass with them and their families, until the woman put a stop to it.  Pat wished she hadn’t.  There had been a kind of peace found there he could garner nowhere else in Hell’s Kitchen. Throughout the Mass, he found his memory filling in many of the blanks for him, letting him go to his knees at most of the proper times.

Adam, understanding Latin from his college days, was able to follow the Mass. He then realized that most of the congregation doubtless had no idea what was being said and were simply repeating the prayers by rote. He also realized that the ritual and the rigid tradition served almost as a catalyst for meditation for many in the church that morning. He found himself remembering Marie saying how the peace and rote prayers of the Mass filled her soul, and how she missed it. He found himself wishing sadly she could have experienced Mass one last time before she’d died.

It was a beautiful service. The priest was an older Irishman; his brogue even insinuated its way into the Latin of the Mass. Adam knew his name was Father O’Reilly but had never met him before. He was deeply impressed by the dignity and humility of the man, and the sincerity of faith that he presented to his flock. He glanced once or twice down at his son and could see a sense of peace he’d never noticed while the boy had attended one of his church’s services. It served to increase his guilt that he hadn’t made sure the boy was raised in his own faith. He would see to it that Pat got to Mass every Sunday and during holy days. He also considered talking to Father O’Reilly about seeing that Pat got some instruction in his religion. He had the sensation it had been years since Pat had been to church, and it would do him some good to be refreshed in the teachings of his faith. He wondered if there was a Catholic equivalent of Sunday school?

Patrick was relaxed and comfortable, and glanced around a bit after the consecration, during that quiet time after communion and before recessional. To his delight, he saw Wendy Carter and her mother sitting a few rows forward to the left of him, and she happened to peep back at the same time, her eyes and face alight with smiles of welcome. He grinned in return.

= = = = =

“Ah, I thought I saw a pair o’ new faces out in the congregation!” beamed the middle-aged priest as he extended a hand to Adam in welcome as they left the church.  “ ‘Tis Adam Cartwright, y’are, am I not correct?”

“Yes, Father,” smiled Adam, “and this is my son, Patrick.”

“Proud I am to be meetin’ ye, lad,” smiled the priest at the good-looking youngster. Pat smiled back, pleasing his father.

“Father, could I possibly make an appointment to talk with you?” asked Adam, realizing that there were people behind them, and not wanting to hold them up.

“Surely, surely, Mr. Cartwright,” nodded Father O’Reilly. “In fact, if ye’d give me a quarter hour, why not come over to the rectory and we can talk, if ye’d be free, then?”

“That would be fine,” smiled Adam. He and Pat went down the steps, and Adam turned to his son, who was looking back eagerly at those leaving the church. Who on earth is he looking for?

Adam started as he saw Mrs. Carter coming out of the church.  She smiled graciously at the priest and shook his hand, drawing forward a lovely young girl with curly brown hair and a big smile.  He almost groaned to himself, remembering his unusually awkward behavior upon meeting her earlier in the week. He hoped to God she’d already forgotten all about it… if, perhaps, not about him.  In fact, he’d even swallow down the embarrassment if he could manage to maneuver another meeting here in the churchyard.

To his pleasure, he saw the two ladies descend the steps and saw the girl’s smile widen as she nodded at Patrick, then hurriedly talk to her mother.  Mrs. Carter hesitated for a moment, then she too smiled and allowed herself to be led toward the Cartwrights.

It was at that point that Adam caught the wicked grin on Patrick’s face mirrored in the devilishly pert eyes of the young girl at Mrs. Carter’s side.

“So that’s Wendy, hm?” he asked softly, nudging his son’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” he answered, with a grin up at his father.

“You know, I can remember my father telling me once that there was nothing like a woman to help a man find religion,” said Adam, tongue in cheek. He’d expected an embarrassed look or an angry glance; instead, he was a little disarmed by the worldly chuckle his son gave, nodding his head.

“Yeah, I’ll say,” he said, his voice sounding deeper to his father.

Adam stirred and glanced at his son. He’s not a little boy any longer, he sighed. His boy was growing up, and the occasional glimpses of the young man to come was disconcerting to his father.

As the Carters joined them Veronica could feel her cheeks blushing. She fervently hoped it looked more like the brisk February air causing it than her disconcertion at once again being in the presence of this charming, handsome man. She couldn’t help chiding herself that it hadn’t taken much for Wendy to convince her to come down and meet the two Cartwrights. What on earth is come over me? she scolded herself.

“Good morning, Mrs. Carter.” Adam tipped his hat first to the woman, then her daughter. Mrs. Carter nodded graciously and Wendy dropped a little curtsy, being her most charming self. Adam chuckled; that one sure must be a pistol and a half. But his eyes quickly left the younger Carter fastening instead of her lovely mother. She really is lovely… extraordinary eyes, so much humor in there and intelligence…

“So, it appears Wendy and Patrick did meet at school on Friday,” smiled Veronica, winking at him.

“Yes, it certainly does,” agreed Adam.  Both parents gazed a little loftily at the children, who stared at their parents in surprise.  Both adults just barely managed to hold off a giggle at the expressions on Wendy and Pat’s faces but couldn’t contain bubbles of light laughter when they connected eyes once again.

“Well, I know how we met,” said Pat, with a slight air of sarcasm as he gestured between himself and Wendy, “but what about you two?”

Perplexed, Wendy nodded in agreement, her head nodding back and forth between the adults.

“What do you think, Mrs. Carter?” asked Adam loftily. “Think we should allow a certain amount of privacy to remain between parents and children?”

Looking delighted with the light-hearted banter, Veronica’s face shone. “I think that’s a perfectly reasonable request to make of our children, Mr. Cartwright,” she acceded, eyes wide in assumed seriousness.

The kids looked at each other, bewildered, then back at their parents, who were now chatting animatedly, almost unaware of their offspring.

Aghast, Pat realized that his father was looking at Mrs. Carter in a way he’d never seen him look at a woman before, and it made him thoroughly uneasy. What’s goin’ on here? Is Dad…..God almighty, is he fancyin’ Wendy’s mother?!  The way he usedta… the way he usedta look at Ma? The thought made him very uncomfortable.  Suddenly, the easy, happy mood he enjoyed at Mass disappeared, and he began to scowl.

For herself, Wendy couldn’t help but see the difference in her mother; how the sad, quiet woman who’d replaced her vibrant Mama in the last year or so seemed to slip away in the presence of this nice man.  She’s … well, it’s almost like she was before, Wendy thought, feeling both sad and a little scared.  The February sun sparkled on the snow surrounding them, making her mother’s eyes brighter and more alive than she’d seen them in ages. And it was clear Mr. Cartwright noticed them, too!

As her mother’s animation led her to speak with gestures and smiles, Wendy thought of what her mother’s kid gloves hid on her left hand: a simple, but beautiful, wide gold wedding band.

Knowing what she knew and knowing her mother was feeling a joy in living again made the girl feel forlorn. She feared that with things the way they were, this happy, alive and wonderful woman she loved so much would once again be forced to hide herself behind a veil of sadness.

 

[1] “A House Divided,” Season One, Episode 18, written by Al C. Ward, directed by Lewis Allen

 

---

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

 

“Are you about finished?”

Adam was reading his newspaper and getting ready to check Patrick’s homework. He set his paper aside prepared to check, a habit begun after Pat’s recent nonsense about refusing to do his work the previous week. The oversight reassured the man that the assignments were not only being completed, but with the boy’s best efforts rather than a lick and a promise.

“Yeah, just this last arithmetic problem,” nodded Patrick, as he labored at the dining room table.

Now, just a few days later, the shift was polarized. Adam was amazed by the effort Pat had been putting in. Even to the point of spending half an hour a day studying and drilling and practicing the hated spelling words. Adam had even heard him practicing spelling words in cadence with chopping wood for the kitchen wood supply.

Pat must be somewhere near the very top of the class, if not there. And Adam was honestly proud of his achievement. But six months of fatherhood had taught him to be wary of surprising shifts in his son’s behavior. Accepting big change without a murmur wasn’t high on the list of normal behavior for Patrick. This young man wouldn’t do a single thing without a sufficiently large motivation. So, wondered Adam, what was going on? He quickly dismissed simple scholastic excellent: not a big enough payback.  While the man contemplated his boy, Patrick laid down his pencil and stretched, yawning. The youngster got to his feet and gathered his papers together. He’d learned in the last three nights that he wasn’t permitted to do anything else until Dad had checked his work.

“You wanna look this over?” he asked, handing his father his papers, straddling the arm of the settee.

“Yes, thank you,” nodded Adam, accepting the papers and studying his son. Pat presented a perfectly innocent façade: a pleasant expression, if somewhat blank.  Eyes just a hair too wide, mouth, almost but not quite curving into a cheerful smile. Uh oh.

“Dad, I’m kinda hungry. While you’re lookin’ at that, can I go get somethin’ to eat?”

“Sure, go ahead,” nodded Adam, looking down at his son’s work.

“Thanks.”

As the boy’s footsteps faded toward the kitchen, Adam’s head remained down but he slowly raised his eyes and gazed after his son thoughtfully. Thanks? Asking permission to get something to eat?!  This boy is so damned independent that he found it nearly impossible to ask for help when he badly twisted his ankle and couldn’t walk for a week.  Who could fearlessly march into Hop Sing’s domain with no other armor than his saucy tongue and actually cook his own meals when he was hungry, much less scavenge in a well-stocked kitchen without permission. Pat’s motto could be Agnes Strickland’s words, “it being less difficult to obtain forgiveness for it after it was done, than permission for doing it.”[1]

And that was another thing: not once this week had Pat made any fuss about the rules. Not once had there been a snide comment; not once had there been a stamped foot, or an angry “That’s not fair!” Just quiet, peaceful acquiescence. And now, especially good manners? Adam rubbed his nose, thinking hard.

Patrick Riordan Cartwright was definitely up to something.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Hop Sing delivered platter after platter of mouth-watering fried ham, eggs, and flapjacks, with pots of coffee. Breakfast as usual on a workday at the Ponderosa. Hop Sing knew his family had to eat properly to get through the day. They were hard workers who needed to be well-fed to do their daily labor, and his job was to see that they were.

Joe and Adam were seriously weighing the pros and cons of hiring hands for the upcoming spring cattle drive from the usual drovers advertising, knowing they’d need to spend more this year to hire more hands due to the illnesses here on the ranch. Hoss and Ben were talking together about the likelihood of rounding up the estimated 4,500 head of cattle they hoped to find this spring. The winter had been a rough one, and they knew the toll a season like they’d just gone through usually had on the numbers of the herd.

Patrick sat at the breakfast table, mechanically forking egg into his mouth, obviously preoccupied. Ben occasionally glanced at his quiet grandson, wondering what was going on behind those blue eyes.

As everyone finished up, Pat carefully set down his fork on his plate, and picked up his coffee cup, looking into it. Then he drew a deep breath.

“Granddad?”

Ben glanced up and looked at his grandson. “Yes, Pat?”

“You know what Mr. Corrigan was talking about the other night?”

Ben, nonplused, first looked at his sons, then back at Patrick. “About your family?”

Patrick stared a moment, blankly, then – realizing his grandfather wasn’t keeping up – shook his head and waved a hand impatiently. “No, not about that. About the work he does. Raisin’ funds and bullion and such.” Once the words were out of his mouth, the boy uneasily picked up his fork again, as though needing something to fiddle with.

Adam’s eyes narrowed a little as he heard the tightness of the boy’s voice and noticed his tension. “Oh,” nodded Ben, his brow not totally smoothing.  His uneasiness at Corrigan’s topic of conversation hadn’t fully abated “Yes, what about it?”

“Well, I was wonderin’…”   Pat drew in a deep breath and slowly set down the fork again, raising his eyes and gazing directly into his grandfather’s.  “If you were gonna.”  He sat up a little straight, squared his shoulders a little more, his chin raising just a hair. It was as though once the words were out and he’d committed himself, Pat was ready for battle.

Ben’s brows furrowed again.   “If I was going to what?” He leaned toward Pat, trying hard to understand where this line of discussion was heading.

Pat rolled his eyes, exhaling in frustration. He placed both hands on the table’s edges, gripping hard enough to make his knuckles white.  “If you were gonna help!”

And the penny dropped. Ben, now understanding what was percolating in his grandson’s mind, looked first in concern at Pat, then at his sons.

Adam, Hoss and Joe were now staring at him as well. Joe had uneasily set down his knife and fork and was cradling a coffee cup in his hands, his eyes darting between his father and his nephew, with the occasional peek at his oldest brother. He had memories of his own to contend with, memories associated with Frederick Kyle and with his mother. He felt for Pat but also had a good idea that his request was going to fall on pretty much deaf ears.

Hoss continued to eat but wasn’t unmoved.  He remembered the passion in that boy’s eyes the other night, the intensity. Watching Corrigan and Patrick he’d seen a side of the youngster he’d not seen since he’d first arrived all those months ago.  And he’d frankly wondered how all those feelings were gonna find a way to surface.

Adam, too, was starting to get an idea of where this was going, and prayed he was wrong. “Patrick,” said Adam, narrowing his eyes, but keeping his voice calm. “What, exactly, are you talking about?”

“Jeez…” the boy muttered tightly under his breath. He shook his head in exasperation. I gotta spell it out for you?  “I’m askin’ if you’re gonna help Mr. Corrigan!” he declared.

Ben sat back in silent shock.  His head spun, trying to form an answer that wouldn’t set the boy off, not shut down discussion altogether.  “Patrick…”

“Well, ya know what he’s workin’ for!” said Patrick seriously, leaning forward to his grandfather.

At that, Ben raised a black eyebrow and made his decision.  The boy is nearing adulthood.  Time to speak to him that way.  “Yes, I believe I do,” nodded Ben, grimly, eyeing the youngster. “Are you sure you do?”

Now it was Pat’s turn to sit back suddenly, straightening as though he’d been slapped. His eyes widened a moment, his mouth open in shocked surprise.  Then his face flushed and those black brows knit together, mirroring his grandfather’s. “What the hell – heck does that mean?” he demanded.

“Do you have any idea what the money he raises goes toward?” asked his father quietly.

Pat’s head swung back to his father.

“Yes, I do!” he snapped. “It goes toward freein’ Irishmen, slaves in their own country!” His blue eyes blazed and his fair skin took on a ruddier hue, two bright spots of angry blood staining his cheekbones.

Adam closed his eyes and sagged, feeling helpless. So much like your mother.  I couldn’t reason with her, what chance in hell have I got with you?! But I have to try.  “Pat -”

“I was askin’ Granddad,” said Pat firmly, dismissing him.

Startled, Adam’s brows knit and his mouth firmed, his shoulders hunching slightly as his own face hardened and red crept up his neck.

Eyes round as saucers, Joe and Hoss gave up any pretension of continuing their meal.  Each sat back slightly, as though unconsciously removing themselves as much as they could from the line of fire.

But Pat had turned back to his grandfather. “Will ya help?”

“Pat,” said Ben, suddenly holding up a hand to silence his oldest son for a moment, “I’ve had no request to help.”

Adam seethed but waited.

Pat blushed, disconcerted. He looked down at his plate for a moment, then set his mouth.  His blue eyes rose again, deeply serious and looked at his grandfather.  “Well, you’ve got one from me,” he said quietly.

“Are you seriously asking me to give … to give money to this man?!” asked Ben, incredulous.

Pat’s stubborn chin rose and he nodded.

Ben drew in a deep breath. How in God’s name do I answer this? This boy’s soul is right there in those eyes.  I have to show I respect his passion but… God, what do I say?!

“Patrick, this is an inappropriate conversation,” Adam began sternly, laying his cup down.

Ben put out his hand again. “No, Adam, just a minute.”  He turned to his grandson again and looked him in the eye, forcing himself to remain calm and reasoned. He chose his words carefully, and eyed the boy the entire time he spoke, looking for reactions.  “Patrick, from what I know of the Irish troubles, I would imagine Mr. Corrigan is affiliated with the Fenian Movement. It is my understanding the Fenians are outlawed in Ireland.”

Despite the heightened emotions, Pat fearlessly held his grandfather’s eyes and nodded. “Aye,” he whispered. His eyes were glittering, his jaw tight; he was practically vibrating with tension. Ben could see the boy’s composure was hanging by a thread. “Outlawed. Like my grandfather. And my uncles. And my mother.” He swallowed hard. His eyes, if not his voice, pleaded with Ben.  The one person he believed he could make understand.  “Them, and the hundreds of thousands of others wanting desperately for their God-given freedom.”

Again, Adam felt eerily transported back to a Boston winter in 1857, hearing the ringing of his lover’s voice and passion in her words as she struggled to make him understand.  It was no less painful seeing it in their son. “Pat, there’s got to be a better way to get there than unlawful insurrection.” Adam tried to speak calmly.

Hoss and Joe sat in between, heads swinging from one of the protagonists to another.

The boy shook his head, frustrated, but with a major effort controlled himself and instead drew on every ounce of persuasion he possessed. Hauling in his breath, he hitched his chair a little closer to his grandfather and earnestly stared into the older man’s dark eyes. “All my life I heard about the tyranny o’ the Irish in my mother’s country. The horror stories…” he shook his head. “Granddad, unless you seen it, you don’ know!”

“And you have?” asked his grandfather, seriously, gently.

“No, but my mother did!” retorted Patrick, his eyes flashing. “Wouldja like me to tell ya how many stripes she had on her back from the sons o’ bitches that whipped her? I seen them!”

“Patrick!” Adam was livid, slamming his napkin down.

Ben closed his eyes and shook his head.  Can’t Adam see, can’t he understand how deeply this was affecting the boy?!

Sullenly, Pat stared at his plate, struggling for self-control. “I’m sorry, Granddad. I shouldn’t’a said that,” he grudgingly admitted, his face red. Then he raised his eyes, and they were filled with anguish. “But I’m tellin’ you we tried goin’ with the law. We tried using the system the right way, but it didn’t work! All it earned us was more beatin’s and hangin’s and gettin’ our shacks burned out from under us! How can you stand by and do nothin’ ta help?”

Adam winced. … “we”… oh, Pat.

Ben felt the fire emanating from his grandson as nearly tangible, felt the fervency with which he voiced a cry of ‘foul!’ screamed by an entire people for generations upon generations; his grammar wasn’t the best, but his gumption was pure and driven. Ben recognized it for what it was but knew more than this boy about the kind of man Eamon Corrigan and his ilk were.

Sadly, he shook his head, “No, Patrick.”

“Granddad!” Pat sat back aghast. He was unable to believe his grandfather, his beloved Granddad, could turn his back on him, on his people.

Ben drew in breath, readying himself to try to explain his position when he stopped, startled to see Adam shoot abruptly to his feet.

“All right, that’s enough.” Adam cut him off. “Pat, it’s getting late. It’s time for you to get to school.”

“But—”

“No buts!” snapped his father, slapping his palms on the table.

Both Hoss and Joe jumped in surprise.

Adam leaned forward toward his son. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the Ponderosa doesn’t finance illegal operations! Any money given to Corrigan would go towards guns and ammunition to cause a bloody war! And as downtrodden as the Irish Catholics are, and I concede they are, money from this ranch will not be used to finance their liberation. Not using those methods! Have I made myself clear?” Hands now on his hips, Adam glared at his son.

Without realizing it, Adam sounded just like the heathen, oppressive Orangemen Pat had always hated.  The man couldn’t have done more to widen the gap between them if he’d deliberately tried.

Pat started to protest but saw it would get him nowhere. “Yes, sir,” Pat muttered, shoving back his chair and pushing himself to his feet. Head down, he strode to the door.

His books were strapped together on the sideboard along with his saddlebags. Angrily, he shrugged into his coat, slapped his hat on his head, and stormed out, his saddlebags just missing being caught in the slammed door.

Joe and Hoss sat back a little and looked worriedly between father and brother. Ben was leaning back, rubbing his mouth with his hand, lost in thought.

“Don’t you think you were a little rough on him, Adam?” asked Joe, quietly.

Adam glared at his younger brother. “Oh, you think so?” he snapped. “You think swearing at his grandfather, asking for money—”

“He was talkin’ about somethin’ that means a lot to him, Adam, and you know it,” retorted Hoss, his face dark as he scowled.

Adam was startled into silence by Hoss’ unexpectedly angry response.  Hoss lumbered to his feet, slapping his napkin down onto his plate, still with portions of his breakfast remaining.

Ben’s eyebrow rose; there was no clearer indicator of Hoss’ emotional state than his leaving an unfinished plate on the table.

“And he was right about the other night, too, y’know. He brought all he is here with him when he got here last year. Ya can’t expect him to just erase everthin’ he grew up with, everthin’ he learned as a young’un, just ‘cos he ain’t in Hell’s Kitchen no more.”

And with that, Hoss pushed past his surprised older brother on his way out.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

That afternoon after school, Pat sat on his horse, at the edge of town doing serious battle with his conscience. He was torn between knowing he should go home to get his chores done, obeying his father’s order that he was confined to the ranch for a week, or visiting Corrigan. But that punishment had rankled ever since it was imposed last week.

While he admitted he shouldn’t have tried to slip that failing arithmetic grade past him, he felt Dad’s response had been far too much of an overreaction. I mean, hells bells,  ain’t he never tried to pull somethin’ like that on Granddad?  Pat sighed to himself.  No, not likely.  Not Saint Adam…

Pat grunted, hooking a long leg around the saddle horn musing. Ha! Adam Cartwright had probably floated through his childhood with an angel’s harp in his hands, he thought sourly.

He sighed and glanced back at the road leading into the center of town. At school, he’d heard Jeff Doherty talking about how Corrigan was staying at the International House but had rented a room at the back of Doherty’s father’s saloon, the Bucket of Blood. Every Irishman in the surrounding area was coming there in the afternoons and evenings, with Corrigan holding court like a king.

Pat recognized the pattern. God knows he’d grown up with it. That backroom at the Witch’s Broth had certainly seen its share of Fenian talk, from both those living in Hell’s Kitchen as well as the visiting Fenians that passed through. Perhaps, at some point or another, Corrigan had been there when he was?  Pat frowned and shook his head.  He couldn’t imagine that to be true. Surely if his mother had run into someone from Ireland, someone that knew her father, she’d have talked about it?

Pat unconsciously wheeled Black Jack around; here was the one and only chance he’d probably ever have to talk to someone who knew his mother as a girl; his grandparents and uncles. Maybe Pat still had family there? His mother had mentioned aunts and cousins back in Bally Lynch. Not for the first time in his life, Pat smiled to think he had Riordan cousins back in Ireland. Family! Wasn’t that what he’d always wanted to have?

But that thought made his conscience twinge a bit.  Well, he did have family, he conceded uncomfortably. He had his father, whom he did love, though they rubbed each other the wrong way sometimes; and his grandfather, whom he loved dearly. And Uncle Hoss and Uncle Joe, too. Even Hop Sing, he grinned to himself, who was more motherly sometimes than his own Ma had been! He sighed. But that wasn’t enough. That was only half of His family.  Half of me.

His forehead screwed up in indignation. Ain’t I got a right to know about my other family? Why is Dad squelching every chance I got to make a connection to my Irish side? Like this morning, at breakfast, the whole argument about helping the Irish.  Pat couldn’t help but feel that with Dad shutting down the discussion the way he did – end of the story! –  it was like he was saying I’m a Cartwright now, plain and simple, and that was it.  But it isn’t it.  I’m a Riordan, too!  And I’ve been one a helluva lot longer than I been a Cartwright.

And in a small, dark and painful part of his soul, Pat wondered, uneasily, Is Dad ashamed of that part of me?

Pat‘s body made the decision for him before his mind realized it. He found his boots slipped back into the stirrups of his saddle and his hands turning a surprised Jack’s head around, back toward town, Devil take it! he grunted, as he trotted back towards the Bucket of Blood.  If I’m gonna be in trouble, I might as well make it for somethin’ worthwhile!

 

Patrick glanced nervously around him as he readied himself to slip into the alleyway behind the Bucket of Blood. He knew he couldn’t go in the saloon’s front door, not at fourteen, so he figured he’d try going in from the alleyway entrance.

He wondered if the secret knock that had gained visitors entrance to the back room at the Witch’s Broth was one the Fenians used across the board? He reckoned he’d give it a shot, as it was likely his best chance at gaining entrance. Drawing in a deep breath, he beat the well-remembered secret tattoo on the door and waited.

The door was opened by a tall, good-looking young man, no more than around thirty, that Pat never remembered having seen before.

“What in blazes -?” the man sputtered, after looking down and seeing the youngster standing there.  He quickly scanned the rest of the alley, then glared at the youngster. “And who the devil might you be?” he demanded, his brogue thick and musical.

“Patrick Riordan Cartwright,” the boy replied, his head high. “I want to see Mr. Corrigan, if ya please.”

“Oh, do ye, now?” said the man, in disdain. “And what makes ye think he’s here, then?”

“Common knowledge this is the Fenian meetin’ place,” retorted Pat, throwing caution to the winds and playing his hand hard and fast. Hell, he had nothing to lose!

Startled, the other man narrowed his eyes, hands on his hips over the barman’s apron he wore. “And where’d you learn that? And what’s more, where’d ye pick up the knock?”

Pat was careful not to display his pleasure that he’d been right about the secret code.

“From me Fenian grandda, Paddy Riordan, county Armagh, Ireland, through me sainted mother, Siobhan Riordan!” he snapped back, insolently mimicking the brogue perfectly, angering the other man. “Now, are ya gonna let Eamon Corrigan know I’m here, or what?  Eamon ain’t gonna be happy you left an old family friend out here in the alleyway coolin’ my heels.”

Bristling, the young man turned back to the room and bellowed. “Eamon!”

Pat stepped a little to the side to peer into the room and recognized through a smokey haze a dozen or more men populating the room; miners, mine owners, businessmen, Irishmen all.

Corrigan himself came to the door and saw his visitor, and started, shocked. “Patrick! What in all the name o’ the saints are ye doin’ here?” He glared angrily at the young man “And what’re ye thinkin’ to be openin’ the door to him, Michael?!”

“He knew the knock,” said Michael, raising a knowing eyebrow at his employer.

Corrigan’s jaw dropped slightly, then again studied Pat, standing there, his arms crossed complacently over his chest, gazing at the older, taller man. Slowly, Corrigan’s mouth closed and he chuckled, shaking his head, hands on his hips. “Aye, and I suppose ye would, bein’ the son o’ Siobhan Riordan. All right, then, lad, come in and speak yer piece.” He waved the boy into through the door.

Patrick looked around as he entered and felt like he’d been transported back to Hell’s Kitchen. Except for the fact that his mother was nowhere in sight, he could have been at the back room of the Witch’s Broth once again.  That familiarity made his cocky confidence return, and he turned to Corrigan who had come up beside him.

“Mr. Corrigan, it was interesting hearin’ ya talk about my family back in Ireland the other night,” he said carefully, choosing his words, “and I wondered if I might be able to just… I dunno, hang around a bit, I guess, while you’re here.”

“How did ye find out about this place, lad?”

Knowing how seriously the Fenians guarded their secrecy, Patrick kept his mouth shut, merely smiling in return.

Corrigan threw his head back and roared with laughter. “‘Tis truly Paddy Riordan’s grandson ye are! Alright, lad. You do that. See if we can’t reawaken in ye that Riordan Celtic blood, eh?”

Pat grinned, his Irish eyes twinkling in delight.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Hoss drew in a deep breath and rubbed his cold hands together, happily nodded to himself that he’d worked up a good thirst and could reward himself with a beer.  After all, he’d done the banking, picked up the mail, dropped off a list at the quarry for dynamite they’d be needing up at the timber camp in the next couple of weeks when the lumber operation got started again.  Then, he’d dropped off Pa’s favorite boots to be re-soled at Lone Star Leather.  Nodding, Hoss strode down the wooden planked walkway to his favorite saloon.

As he walked, he thought about the unpleasant breakfast table conversation.  To be honest, everything had been so topsy turvy since he got home from San Franscisco that Hoss wasn’t sure what he thought anymore.  That whole mess with Mr. Corrigan the other night, and Adam and Pat goin’ at each other today.. well, Hoss felt gettin’ away from the Ponderosa for a short while sure felt good.  Poor Pat… he felt for the kid and hoped that his brother would soon figure out that getting’ on his high horse wasn’t gonna be any way to get through to his boy.

The Silver Dollar was quiet as a church this afternoon. A couple of the saloon girls had taken the afternoon off, leaving just two to work the ‘crowd’, which consisted solely of Tim O’Brien, still in his top hat and dusty morning coat. After striking it rich, Tim had on his own more than supported the monthly rent of the Silver Dollar, and Charlie was grateful for his business. Besides, Tim was a sweet little character, always a happy drunk.

Hoss sidled over to Tim’s table and gave him a big smile. He and Tim had always gotten along, and they managed to find all kinds of things to talk about despite the fact that Tim spent most of his days underground and Hoss spent his in open air. He ordered a beer from Charlie and carried it over to the table Tim was lounging at.

“How’s it goin’, Tim?” he grinned.

“Oh, ‘tis grand it is, Hoss, me lad! Just grand!” breathed Tim, with a beatific smile on his face as he sipped his whiskey. “I’ve just done me bit for the old country, I have!”

“Oh, yeah?  How’s that?” smiled Hoss, sipping his beer.

“I’ve made a blow for ending English tyranny, that’s how!” crowed Tim, toasting himself joyfully. Hoss, confused, glanced back at Charlie, who made a face and nodded.

“Yep, that Corrigan feller was in here earlier, and latched onto old Tim for ‘nigh onto five thousand dollars,” sighed Charlie, as he delivered another bottle to Tim’s table. Hoss wheeled around and stared at the barkeep.

“You’re kidding, ain’tcha Charlie?” gasped Hoss, glancing back at Tim.

“Nope,” confirmed Charlie, nodding at the old miner. “Five thousand dollars. And he’ll probably be back for more.”

Hoss frowned and thought … hard. What was Corrigan getting money from fellers like Tim for? The man said he wanted to meet wealthy mine owners. Hoss didn’t recall him saying anything about small-time miners like Tim. And he was negotiating with men like Mackay and Holloway for silver bullion. Tim didn’t have none o’ that stuff!

Hoss decided it was time to find out a little bit more about what Mr. Eamon Corrigan was doing in Virginia City.

“Hey, Tim,” he said, with a forced grin. “What’d you and Mr. Corrigan talk about, anyhow?”

“Ah, Hoss, lad,” sighed the old, drunken miner, “we talked about the old country and how every penny was going into Ireland to help the widows and orphans and to strike a blow fer her freedom!” he muttered, swigging a large gulp from the bottle at his side. “Aye, a blow fer freedom.”

“But … what, exactly, is Mr. Corrigan gonna do with the money you give him,?” asked Hoss gently.

Tim’s beatific smile suddenly froze. “Why… sure, an’ I dunno,” he said slowly, confused, his eyes a little wide. Frowning, Hoss nodded.

“I figgered. Listen, will ya do me a favor?”

“Yeah, Hoss?”

“Don’t give Corrigan no more money until I find out what’s goin on, huh?”

“But … sure, an’ he said ’twas for the mothers and children left behind,” said Tim, sadly.

“Yeah, well…I’ll bet them women and children could use some help, that’s true enough,” said Hoss, gently, getting Tim’s attention. “But will ya promise me you’ll wait on helpin’ ‘em out if ya ain’t heard nuthin’ from me? Will ya do that for me, Tim?”

“Shore I will,” sighed Tim, shakily pouring himself another drink.

Sighing, Hoss got to his feet and walked back to the bar. “Charlie, keep an eye on him, will ya? I gotta talk to some people.”

“Sure thing, Hoss,” said Charlie, his eyes narrowed, nodding emphatically. “You bet I will.”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Black Jack galloped like the wind, flying across the fields between Virginia City and the ranch house, with Patrick nearly flat on his back racing against time.

“C’mon, Jack!” he encouraged the lathering horse, worriedly praying that everyone would be so involved with the springtime chores around the ranch to notice he was late getting home. He tried to figure out what his story would be if he got caught; he supposed he could say he was kept after school. He wondered how far Uncle Joe had managed to romance Miss Masterson. Grimacing, he wondered if something like that would work… wouldn’t she tell him?

Sighing, he bent closer to Jack’s black mane and urged the horse on. “We’re almost there, fella,” he pressed, slowing him down as they approached the house.  He glanced around the deserted yard and quietly led a steaming Jack into the barn. He breathed a sigh of relief to see all the stalls empty; everyone was still out.

Pat set his mind to his work like a demon, giving Jack a vigorous rubdown, and tossing a blanket over him to cool him after the run. If he had time, he’d make sure to walk him for fifteen minutes or so around the corral, but he first had to be sure his chores were finished so he wasn’t found out. This pricked at his conscience a bit, as he’d been taught ever since he got there that a hand took care of his horse first, and himself later. But he was able to push it out of the immediate front of his mind and promised himself he’d figure out another way to handle this.

While mucking out the stalls faster than he’d ever done before – and doing a considerably less than able job of it – Pat’s mind was working overtime. He’d have to be very careful about when he took a chance as he did today or Jack’d drop on his traces! He liked excitement as much as the next fella, but the idea of daily living in fear of getting home in time to avoid getting caught… well, it just wasn’t comfortable to think about.

But a worse contemplation was letting the chance of learning more about his mother and her family – his family! – get away from him.  Corrigan wouldn’t be here much longer.  He was sure he could figure out how to hold out a few more days!

Pat calculated the amount of time it would take for his father, uncles and grandfather to do their chores and various jobs and figured that they’d be home just in time for supper each evening, in all likelihood.  This was an awful busy time on the ranch.

Dad and Uncle Joe were neck deep with most of the hands gathering up cattle that had been grazing over the winter in the farther pastures.  And Pat had learned that often other ranchers’ head had mixed in with Ponderosa beef, so there was the need to sort everybody out.  They were also dealing with checking fencing on the lower pastures closer to the main ranch where the herd would be moved as more were tracked down.  Between checking fences and making sure the was sufficient feed in place for the animals and making sure a meadow wasn’t overgrazed, they had their hands full.

Uncle Hoss was handling getting pastures and pens ready for spring calving as well as doctoring the animals.  That was in addition to any other doctoring or farrier work that was needed for the horses.

And Granddad, while often in his office writing up lists and contracts and what all, this week Pat knew he’d be making sure supplies were laid in for the line shacks, and hiring for the spring round up.

If Pat was lucky, none of them would drag in wearily until just about supper time. But that still didn’t solve the problem of having to be in two places at once or getting his chores completed adequately and on time. In order to keep Hop Sing from getting wise – I swear, sometimes it seems he’s got eyes in the back of his head! –  Pat would have to have an ally, someone who could help him.  But who? He glanced over the barn, noting the things that hadn’t been done, and sighed. It’d have to do, there just wasn’t time for any better.

He trotted out to the woodpile and heaved the ax, grateful he’d honed it, so he didn’t lose any further time. He got right to work, tossing his jacket over by the kitchen door. As the ax rose and fell in a rapid tempo, Patrick focused hard on figuring out who that ally could be. Suddenly he stopped mid-swing, his jaw dropping and eyes wide, and his face split in a grin. Nodding to himself, he bent to the task of splitting wood while cooking up his own brand of Irish blarney.

 

= = = = =

 

“Hey, Dave!”

Over at the corral the youngest of the ranch hands was gloomily gathering up the gear from an afternoon of exercising the cattle ponies.  Dave Wilkins was just over sixteen himself, and both impressionable and a little simple.  He and Pat had struck up a fine friendship over the last six months. It was Dave’s job at the moment to work with the ponies while the other hands were up at the branding site, readying things for tomorrow’s start of branding the new calves. Frankly, it galled him to have to stay here and be left out.

He glanced up to see Pat Cartwright jogging over to him, his hair plastered with sweat, his shirt damp.

“Hey, what happened to you?” he grinned, nodding at his friend.

“Huh?” Pat glanced down at himself.

“Ya look like Black Jack rode you home from that school o’ yourn,” Dave cackled at his own joke.

Pat sighed and rolled his eyes but managed to make a wan smile.  “Oh. Just the usual… tryin’ to get four hours of work done in two. You know how my Dad is about doin’ my share of the responsibilities.”

Dave smiled in understanding.  Of all the Cartwrights, Mr. Adam scared him the most.  Ol Mr. Ben, he might yell more, but he wasn’t as scary as when Mr. Adam got all quiet-like.

“I was just gettin’ the woodpile down some, that’s all,” continued Pat, leaning over to help Dave gather up the gear. “Listen, Dave, I need ta talk ta you. Got a minute?”

“Sure. Help me lug this stuff into the barn and we can talk,” nodded Dave, as he hauled his saddle over his shoulder and gestured toward the spare halters. Pat scooped up the pile of leathers and followed Dave in, planning his thoughts carefully.

“What’s up?” asked Dave as he deposited the saddle on a wooden sawhorse near the back of the barn.

“Well, I need a favor, and it’s a big one,” admitted Pat, as he walked to the tack room and carefully hanging up the tack in its proper place. He noted Dave following him and handed him one of the bridles.

“Shoot,” nodded Dave, reaching up to hang the leather in his hand.

Pat drew in a deep breath and prayed he still had his Irishman’s tongue and capacity for persuasion…

As they worked, Pat spun his yarn, telling him ‘in confidence’ about the opportunity to learn more about his Irish grandfather, and his mother, playing on Dave’s sympathies.

“Why, that sounds swell, Pat, bein’ able to talk to someone who knew your Ma when she was young!” Dave smiled broadly, reaching down for the bits and walking to the work table to set them down for cleaning.

Pat hesitated, but only for a moment.  He knew Dave often offered Patrick his condolences after a talking-to from his father, sympathetically commiserating or letting Pat blow off steam grumbling about a punishment – even one that was well-deserved. Dave was a kind, gentle fellow, not the quickest horse on the track, so to speak, but with the sweetest temperament.  He honestly like to help people. Remembering those moments of sympathy, Patrick played on them, sadly sighing and saying his father would never understand.

“I mean, I know it’s my job to get my chores done, I really do, but this is real important to me,” Pat sighed.  “But there’s no way.  My dad won’t never let me be late for chores.  I know there there’s a lot going on right now with spring’n’all, but I mean… I really, really would like to get to know this Corrigan fella better.  He was my grandfather’s best friend!  I might… well, I might learn more about my ma, and certainly more about who I am, my Irish family.”

Pat got to his feet, lifting a couple of the harnesses and started to hang them on the hooks on the tack room wall.  Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick peeked back behind himself.  He was pleased to note the sad, troubled expression on Dave’s face as he stared at the barn floor.

“I mean, honest and true Dave,” he sighed, dramatically. “How would you feel if you had a chance like this? And you got told ‘no’?”

Dave winced, still staring at the floor.  What if it was me, the youngster thought, thinking about his widowed mother and two little sisters.  What if it was someone who usedta know my Pa?  His sensitive soul made him shake his head and reach up a hand to rub the back of his neck.

Pat barely managed to keep a smug smile from surfacing.  Got ‘im!

Oh, Pat was proud of himself! He played it with just the right level of pathos, just the right amount of sad acceptance that his father was a cruel, mean sonofabitch who wouldn’t allow his son to explore his Irish roots. And while his conscience pricked at him a little, it didn’t bother him enough to deter him.

Dave fell for it hook, line and sinker. Sympathy turned to outrage, and the young man studied the sad, forlorn face of the boy in front of him.  “Well…” he hesitated a moment, worried.  “I could… mebbe I could help some.”

Pat stopped in his tracks, feigning shocked surprise, and turned. “Help?  How?”

Dave was nodding, thinking. “Well, I could mebbe git the stalls mucked out for ya. That’d buy ya a little time, wouldn’t it? And I could start on the woodpile.”

And it was done. As Pat assisted Dave in finishing up getting everything ship shape for the foreman to inspect they talked through what needed to be accomplished. “Now, the only problem is you gotta do it so’s my old man don’t catch on, or any o’ the rest o’ the family,” said Pat earnestly. “After all, I’m the one supposed to be doin’ the work. But don’t worry, even if he does find out, it’ll be me he’s mad at, ot you.”

“Look, Dave, I don’ wantcha ta think I’m askin ya do this for nothin,” Pat said earnestly, chinking in the final little holes of his plan.   “I’ll be glad to pay ya for helpin’ me out. It wouldn’t be fair otherwise. I’ll pay ya a quarter-day’s wages, each and every day, for the two hours of work. And it wouldn’t be for long… just till the end of the week, probably. Corrigan’s gonna be leavin’ soon.”

“Aw, that ain’t necessary.” Dave shrugged uneasily. “A man don’t  take money for helpin’ a friend when they need it.”

Pat winced. “Well, I know, but you’re already having to get your own work done, and I know you give a lot of your wages to your Ma.  Please, it wouldn’t be right if ya didn’t take it. I ain’t gonna take advantage of ya.” That was almost hard to say without a little flush of shame. ‘not take advantage’… ha!

“Well….” Dave frowned, trying to think this through.

Dave was a willing sort and pleasant, not overly endowed with brains; it never occurred to him to ask Patrick what he was supposed to say if, somewhere along the line, somebody noticed that he was doing Pat’s chores. Neither did Dave think to ask how his boss, the Ponderosa’ longtime foreman, Jake, would feel about this arrangement. His friend Pat Cartwright was asking him if he would help, and offered to pay him, besides.

“Sure… why not?” he grinned finally, sticking out his hand. Relieved, Pat stuck his own out and the two boys shook hands, smiling; Dave, because he was able to help out a friend, and Pat because he figured he had at least three or four days of freedom to visit with Corrigan, free from retribution.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Corrigan blew out most of the lamps and walked thoughtfully toward a large, overstuffed chair in the darkened backroom at the Bucket of Blood. He was alone now, but for Michael, polishing glasses behind the small bar and finishing up the tidying. It had been a good meeting, with many of the movers and shakers of the Irish community in Virginia City honing the logistics of transporting bullion, collecting monies, and sending it back to Ireland.

And young Patrick Cartwright! Now there’s a lad, he thought with a small smile. Despite his surprise at the youngster showing up at the semi-clandestine meeting, Corrigan was glad he’d welcomed him in. When Pat had asked him politely if he could hang around, Corrigan readily agreed, seeing the potential for financial opportunity in having the youngest of the wealthy Nevada Cartwrights as an ally.

The personal pleasure in spending time with Paddy Riordan’s grandson only added sweetness to the pot, in Eamon’s mind.

Michael smiled when Corrigan wearily sank into the leather chair and reached below the bar for the aged Napoleon. “A nightcap, Eamon?” he asked softly, pouring the cognac, already knowing the answer.

Without looking up, Eamon reached up an arm, gratified when the glass was put into his hand. “Thank ye, Michael.”

“Don’t mention it,” grinned the younger man. As he walked back to the bar, he frowned, thinking. “Tell me, Eamon. What’re yer plans for the lad, then?”

Corrigan sipped his cognac and leaned his head back against chair, tiredly closing his eyes. “And why would ye be thinkin’ there’re any plans in me head for him?”

“Because,” replied Michael dryly, “in the nine years I’ve been tagging behind ye, ye’ve never done a bloody thing without a plan.”

Corrigan chuckled and opened his eyes again, swirling the warm, amber liquid in his glass. “Nine years… is it that long, lad?”

“Aye. And don’t be changin’ the subject,” grinned Michael, pouring himself a snifter of the brandy and sitting down opposite his employer. “What’re yer plans for young Cartwright, then?”

“To be sure, I’ve no specific plans of yet,” he sighed, tossing back the cognac. “He interests me, Michael. A grandson of Paddy Riordan…’tis hard to believe, lad. Paddy and I knew each other since we were wee bairns. To be seein’ his grandson, here in this Godforsaken land! And to also be the grandson of a wealthy cattle and timber baron, no less.” Corrigan sighed, with a small smile on his face.

Michael sipped his brandy and glanced at the older man. “Plannin’ on some fleecin’, are ye?”

Corrigan cocked an eyebrow and returned the gaze. “I’m thinkin’ on it, lad, I’m thinkin’ on it,” he conceded quietly.

“Well, be makin’ sure ye aren’t plannin’ more than that,” observed Michael seriously.

At these words, the soft, thoughtful smile on Eamon’s face hardened suddenly.  He turned a gimlet eye on the younger man across from him.  “And just what would ye be meanin’ by that?” demanded Eamon, putting down his glass and glaring at the younger man.

“Ah, save yer breath, Eamon. Yer reaction is tellin’ me more than I want to know,” declared Michael, dryly, as he got to his feet. Holding his palm up to forestall Eamon’s hot, angry words. “I can see it in yer eyes, man. Don’t be tryin’ to recapture Sean in that lad, because ye won’t find him there. All ye’ll find is pain and grief.  And it’s believin’, I am, ye’ve seen enough of that in yer life.”

Michael finished his drink, set the glass firmly on the table and after a long, hard look at his employer and mentor, left the room. Corrigan gazed after him for a long moment, and sighed, closing his eyes.

 

[1] Strickland, Agnes, Lives of the Queens of England, 1846

 

---

 

CHAPTER NINE

 

Elizabeth Masterson carefully looked over the class as they worked on their various assignments and sighed in relief. Apparently, the practical joker who’d plagued the classroom for the past several days had decided to take a rest. Every time she turned around for the past week, some nonsense or other was taking place, and she hadn’t been able yet to determine exactly who the culprit, or culprits, were, though she had an idea.

Until young Pat Cartwright and Wendy Carter had arrived, practical jokes had played a very minor role in her discipline problems. Oh, there had been the occasional frog put into a girl’s desk, or a girl’s pigtail dipped in an inkwell, to be sure. These were children, after all. But the level of pranking that had gone on this week was both formidable and exhausting for Elizabeth.

As she studied Patrick, she saw him concentrating on his history assignment, writing an essay on the Battle of Gettysburg. Wendy was helping one of the younger girls by quizzing her in her spelling words. Both, behaving as good as gold. That should have warned her right away.

Joshua Bennett, her one remaining little first grader, raised his hand. “Miss Masterson?”

“Yes, Joshua?

“Can I get a drink of water?”

“May I, Joshua.”

“Yes’m,” the little boy sighed. “May I get a drink of water?”

She smiled. “Yes, Josh, you may.”

She put her mind back to marking essays from the middle grades on the subject of the Lewis and Clark expedition and didn’t notice the strange look Josh wore as he sipped water from the dipper.

Frowning, the little boy sniffed at the dipper, then peered into the bucket by the door, perplexed.  Finally, he shrugged his shoulders and drank down the dipperful. His mother had served fried ham for breakfast, and he was awful thirsty.

Patrick eyed the little fellow as he walked back to his desk and fought to keep the edges of his mouth from turning up. Josh leaned a little to the side, and with a puzzled expression whispered something to Johnny Fitzgerald, a slightly older and wiser boy; Johnny looked at the younger boy, glanced back at the bucket, eyes narrowed. He waited a decent interval, then raised his hand.

“Ma’am, may I please get a drink of water?”

Liz nodded, still rapt in her reading, and Johnny made his way to the water bucket. One good swig, and Johnny knew. He managed to keep the grin to himself, as he had another swallow, then walked back to his desk. Unobtrusively, Johnny scribbled a note on foolscap, and quietly passed it back to Drew Norbert, who read the note, grinned, and passed it on to the next boy.

Being sure to keep the note’s contents restricted to the older boys in the room, the word spread like wildfire. Carefully, quietly, thinking they weren’t drawing attention to themselves, every older boy in the classroom visited the water bucket over and over again. A couple even innocently suggested that it was awfully warm in the room… maybe Miss Masterson could cut back off on the wood to the stove, since the heat in here was makin’ them awful thirsty. Pat chuckled to himself, delighted in the reaction, and put his attention back to his assignment.

Throughout the course of the morning, Josh revisited the water bucket a good six or seven times, and while the older, larger, sturdier boys weren’t showing much more than a bad case of the giggles, Joshua was beginning to look a little the worse for wear. His steps were unsure, his head ached and he was awful sleepy, and he began to feel a bit sick to his stomach.

“Boys! Settle down!” Liz scolded. They were laughing and giggling hilariously at some inside joke and seemed unable to stop. “Gentlemen, would you all like to spend an extra hour after school today?”

Now, there was a sobering thought. With a major effort, mostly geared toward not looking at each other, the boys did their best to settle down, but the occasional guffaw still punctuated the silence of the room.

Finally finished with her grading after nearly an hour and a half of only paying half an ear and eye to her classroom, Liz glanced out over the room and noted there was something odd going on. All the older boys had silly, giggly looks on their faces, and poor little Josh sat at his desk in misery, barely able to hold up his head. Concerned, she rose to her feet and walked over to him, bending down at his side.

“Josh, dear?” she said gently, stroking his hair. “Are you all right?”

He picked up his head, his eyes bleary and his face a little green. “No, Teacher, I feel awful,” he moaned, belching. Liz caught the unmistakable reek of whiskey and reared back in shock.

“Joshua!” she said, aghast, leaning forward and sniffing deliberately. There was no mistake; whiskey! “Josh, dear, you’re not feeling very well, are you?” she asked softly. The little boy’s lower lip trembled.

“I feel funny,” he muttered, his head pounding like the hammer at the blacksmith’s. Through all this, Mary Logan tried, gesticulating wildly, to get Liz’s attention.

Liz’s eye finally caught the motion and she turned, still supporting the little boy at her side. “What is it Mary?” Liz asked, irritably, as she stroked the Josh’s forehead.

“Please, ma’am, may I get a drink of water?” she asked.

“For goodness sake!” said Liz, crossly, as she eased Josh to his feet, “you children must have all had salt pork for breakfast! Oh, go ahead.”

Mary, a little put out at being scolded when she hadn’t done anything, wore a hurt expression as she flounced to the water bucket, and every boy’s eye followed her. She scooped out the very little water left, and being truly thirsty, took a big swallow… and promptly spat it out loudly.

Liz whirled to look at the girl, who was now sputtering, red-faced and indignant. “What on earth is the matter?” demanded Liz, still hugging Josh to her as he wove a little.

“Somebody…cough!… somebody put whiskey in here!” Mary howled. The boys couldn’t help it; they burst out laughing.

Elizabeth glared at them, deposited little Josh back in his seat, then hurried up the aisle and took the dipper from Mary’s hand.  She sniffed, then sipped, wrinkling her nose.

Slowly she turned back to the classroom and realized she had a roomful of slightly inebriated young boys… and one darned-near drunk little one. And dawn broke.

“All right! This practical joking has gone far enough,” she said icily, dumping the dipper back into the bucket.  She carried it with her to the front of the room. “Mary, I want you to please help Joshua get dressed and walk him home. Tell Mrs. Bennett I will be by at lunchtime to talk with her and to see how he is.”

The absolute fury on her face sobered all the boys pretty quick, despite the effects of roughly equivalent of a half shot of whiskey. Boys went from sniggering, exchanging knowing looks and shouldering each other to – one by one – quickly sobering uneasily and growing alarmed.   Elizabeth scanned the room and noticed that the girls were looking smugly at the boys, seeing a chance for one of them to be in trouble. Only one of the girls looked uncomfortable in the slightest.

Sure enough, Wendy Carter. Immediately, Liz swung her eyes around to the other side of the room and nailed her chocolate brown eyes on Patrick Cartwright, who squirmed uncomfortably under her furious gaze.

“I am going to ask, and give the opportunity, for the person, or persons,” she ground out, looking back at Wendy, who blushed furiously, “who did this to show some integrity and come forward before I have to find out for myself.”

No one in the room moved an inch.

Without a word, Liz took the bull by the horns and stalked  to Wendy’s desk. “Well, Wendy? Do you have anything to say?”

Her lip trembling, she looked up at Liz, mutely, her green eyes very frightened. This hadn’t turned out anything like the way she and Pat had expected…

Wendy’s terrified expression told Liz everything she wanted to know. Setting her lips and crossing her arms across her chest, Liz towered over her. “Wendy Carter, did you have something to do with this?”

Gulping, unable to speak, Wendy merely nodded, squirming uncomfortably. Without a word, Liz grasped the girl’s arm and hauled her to her feet, marching her to the front of the room. Wendy’s face showed her fear; she thought for sure she was going to be caned. So did Patrick, and he shot to his feet, his sense of justice being tweaked hard.

“Wait, Miss Masterson,” he called out, firmly. “I did it.”

Every eye in the room swung toward him. The boys thought he’d lost his mind: Miss Masterson ain’t even said nothin’ to him! The girls looked at each other, not sure whether to turn their noses up at him for his stupidity, or beam at him for his chivalry!

“Oh, I don’t doubt you were involved,” retorted his teacher sternly. She continued past her desk still with Wendy in tow, depositing her in the corner. “Now you stand there, where you can’t cause any more trouble, young lady!”

Miss Masterson turned and came sailing down the aisle toward Patrick like a battleship with war flags flying, and he swallowed hard as she approached, forcing himself not to shrink back.

“Open your desk,” she ordered sternly. Blushing, Patrick swallowed hard and lifted the lid of the two-seater he shared with Mike, who sat there staring at him in shock. Miss Masterson reached in and pulled out a whiskey bottle, holding it in distaste between her thumb and forefinger. She eyed the boy balefully, glanced at the bottle, then glared at him again. With her free hand she latched painfully onto his ear and hauled him up as well, marching him up the aisle.  Patrick sucked in air between his teeth to keep from yelping as he was hauled all the way up to the front and into the opposite corner from Wendy, his nose nearly touching the wall.  His trip to the front of the room was punctuated with titters from the girls, though the boys didn’t utter a sound.

“Well, you two, we’ll just see how funny your parents think this little escapade of yours is!” she said ominously. “Micah, take that bucket out to the stream, rinse it very well and refill it with fresh water, please.”

In abject humiliation, Patrick rubbed his sore, reddened ear, and closed his eyes. Suddenly, their hilarious practical joke didn’t seem so funny anymore.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Adam?”

Ben came into the house, a frown on his face as he studied an envelope. He glanced around the great room and saw no one, even though Adam was supposed to have been working at his desk putting together a couple of contracts for their timber interests. “Adam!”

“Up here, Pa!” Adam rounded the corner of the hallway and down the stairs with a large sheaf of papers in his hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, I’m not sure,” said his father, honestly. “I had to stop by the school to estimate the measurements for the new roof. Remember, you and I were supposed to have made those estimates for Monday night’s school board meeting?”

Adam closed his eyes and nodded. He’d completely forgotten with everything going on.

“So, anyway, I was there and bumped into Miss Masterson this morning when she let the children out for recess. And she asked me to give this to you.”

Frowning, Adam walked over to the desk and set his papers down, taking the envelope from his father, slitting it open.

“Did you see Pat?” he asked casually as he removed the letter.

Ben hesitated for a moment, then drew in a breath to answer, but not fast enough.

“Wasn’t he there?” demanded Adam, dropping his hands and looking at his father in disbelief.

“Oh, yes, he was there …” replied Ben, looking away.

“Pa?”

Ben, uneasy, looked back at Adam and shrugged. “Now, Adam,” he muttered gruffly, starting to turn away, “ just read your letter and – “

“Well, where was he?” demanded Adam, deliberately trying to be careful of his tone.

“I didn’t talk to him, Adam. He was… well, Miss Masterson had him standing in the corner,” sighed Ben, turning away. Adam shook his head, then turned his eyes down on the letter.

Ben watched his oldest son’s eyes widen, then a grim smile crease his face,  then his head begin to nod.

“So that was it,” Adam muttered.

“What?” asked Ben, concerned.

“Oh, nothing much, Pa,” Adam replied tightly, as he forcefully folded the note and rammed it back into the envelope. Shaking his head, he looked down at the floor, then back up at his father, eyes burning.  “I’ve just discovered why my son has been walking around here like an earthed angel, lately. I have to go into the school this afternoon and discuss the fact that he’s turned into the practical joker of the Nevada Territory!”

“Oh, is that all,” sighed Ben, in relief. That relief was short-lived however, when he saw the glare in Adam’s eyes.

 

~oo0oo-~

 

School was out. It wasn’t too late, despite the unpleasant scolding Patrick and Wendy had from Miss Masterson after the bell had rung. She had made it clear that their practical joking days were finished; the only reason she hadn’t punished them herself was that the president of the School Board had been called in by little Josh’s very angry mother and was taking charge. Their parents had been notified and would be meeting with her later that afternoon to discuss their punishment. It was a very penitent and worried pair of youngsters that silently left the school that afternoon, each heading in different directions towards home.

Pat uneasily rubbed his knotted stomach as he helplessly gazed out toward the corral, where Jack was patiently waiting.  The boy had found out long ago that despite the teachings of Catholic doctrine, the conscience is not in your heart or mind. At least his wasn’t. Pat’s conscience had always been in his stomach; whenever he had done something wrong or was feeling guilty, he was pale and sweating, suffered with an upset stomach.

He saddled Black Jack, loaded his school things into his saddlebags, but hesitated, having no desire whatever to go home.  How in the world could he ever explain this to his family?!

He walked through town, trying to decide whether to be good this afternoon and go immediately home instead of down to the Bucket of Blood’s back room.

Now, as Patrick stood outside in the alley behind the saloon Friday afternoon, the boy thought back on the misery of this day and decided he had nothing left to lose. By now, his father was meeting with Miss Masterson about the jokes he and Wendy had played. And it was only a matter of time before Adam learned that Pat had disobeyed him and broken his restriction. Pat was going to be in trouble anyway; he might as well give in to temptation now and take his punishment for it later. Stubbornly setting his jaw, Pat felt a certain sense of pride in his decision. It was as though in his own small way, this Irishman was striking his own blow against English tyranny. And he entered the back room of the Bucket of Blood Saloon, his stubborn head high.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“The coffers are fillin’, lads, and it’ll be a good amount of money I can bring home to Ireland, believe me,” Corrigan was saying earnestly, his gestures inclusive, his tone both collaborative and intimate.  He caught the eye of every man present, making them feel part of it, as though they, too, were making the cause possible, each and every one of them. “It’s these pennies and coins and greenbacks that will help to finance Ireland’s final battle with the English tyrants and gain us our freedom!”

Pat sat on the periphery of the group, a pint of forbidden ale in his hand. He’d heard the line before, but somehow the fire that Corrigan infused into the message was compelling. Not since he’d heard his mother speak to a group of Fenians at the age of about ten had he ever felt so connected to his Irish heritage. He could remember the arguments he’d had with his mother about her involvement in the Fenian movement: he’d remind her they now lived in America. She’d retort that it hadn’t been her choice, and that she would fight the oppression of the British over her homeland until the day she died. Pat had sighed, thinking about it; her words had been sadly prophetic, since she had died as a direct result of another Fenian uprising, only this one on American soil.

For three days, Patrick had been drinking in the atmosphere of the Fenian backroom, made to feel a part of all the excitement and planning. Corrigan had befriended him in a big way, even though Michael Nolan, the henchman-cum-confidant Corrigan had trailing with him, was still eyeing him suspiciously.

Corrigan told him tales of his grandfather, stories of them cutting up together as boys, stories of his grandmother, Maggie, and of his uncles… and his mother. How everyone in the village had loved Siobhan.

Hearing these stories made him feel good, so good that he was able to thrust from his mind the fact that if his father ever found out he’d been here every day after school instead of at home as he was ordered to be, there’d be hell to pay. Each evening, Patrick had done his homework, been obedient, checking with Dave before he went into the house to be sure he knew exactly what had and hadn’t been done in reference to the chores. He’d also paid Dave daily, to make sure the other boy saw the immediate recompense of helping him out. It had nearly drained him of his allowance, but Pat felt it was worth it.

If Pat’s conscience bothered him a bit, he managed to push it to the back of his mind as he reveled in being made to feel very much a part of the Fenian group. More and more, he questioned his own allegiances: to his mother’s homeland versus those  to his father and his father’s family, and to this new home he’d built for himself in the Western wilderness.

Maybe I been kiddin’ myself all along, he thought morosely as he sipped his beer and watched the Irishmen of Virginia City shoot dice, play cards, and talk insurrection.  Maybe I’ll never fit in here. And after all, ain’t I got as much right to my Irish blood as the Cartwright side, like Mr. Corrigan keeps saying? Maybe it’s a sin to forget I got insurrectionist blood flowing through me and it’s just as strong at the hard-headed Orange brand I got from my old man?

Pat didn’t realize that questioning himself this way was exactly what Corrigan wanted him to do. Eamon Corrigan had plans for this boy, big plans. As intelligent and street-savvy as Patrick was, he was no match yet for the older, more experienced Irish con artist.

Corrigan cooked up his con with the skill of a master chef, garnishing conversation with comments about Orangemen who had professed to understand and care about the Irish cause, only to turn tail when push came to shove; salting his anecdotes with tales of Americans who paid lip service to the plight of the Irish Catholic, but who, when the chips were down, would ally themselves with the economic realities of maintaining good, healthy ties with the Crown.

Corrigan told tales of marriages between Orange and Fenian that had gone sour, or ended in bloodshed, never naming names, or likening it to the relationship of Adam and Siobhan, but definitely making thoughts stir in the youngster’s mind. Corrigan watched himself and the boy carefully, cautious not to overdo it. But he didn’t have much time. He’d need to leave the following week. And for what he had in mind, he had to convert Patrick to his side very quickly.

The unexpected side effect of this endeavor, though, was that Corrigan found the boy’s company pleasant. Pleasant, and emotionally moving. Despite Michael’s warnings, each day Eamon felt as though in some way, the companionship he’d lost when Sean died was being returned to him, and he liked that feeling. He’d sorely missed it.

In order to complete Patrick’s conversion, Corrigan decided to make Pat as much a part of the Fenian group here as he could. The boy was included in the drinking (to a small degree); in the poker games (and his prowess startled and pleased Corrigan…now there was a talent he could use in his entourage!); and in the insurrectionist discussions. Eamon knew how Patrick had been raised, and how Siobhan had died. It had taken a bit of thinking back to his connections in Hell’s Kitchen, but he finally recalled his visit earlier that year to the back room of  an Irish bar in the Tenderloin and the sad discussion of the horribly mangled attempt at protest the riot of July 12, 1871, had been. So many dead, apparently including Siobhan Riordan.

And so, Eamon shamelessly used it in a roundabout way, discussing quietly the horrible event last summer that had left 100 men, women and children dead on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen, murdered in their tracks by the filthy Orangemen and their protectors. He noted Pat’s pallor, and his silence, and tread carefully. But he could see that he’d struck a chord. He hoped that chord would raise the song of patriotism in the boy’s heart and make him want to join him in the fight for his homeland’s freedom.

To lighten the mood a bit, Eamon started a round of singing to go along with the ale, and Patrick found himself caught up in the Irish songs of insurrection of his childhood, until long past the time when he should have been on his way home…

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Well, Mr. Cartwright, Mrs. Carter, I’m afraid their list of crimes is quite extensive,” sighed Liz sadly. “Let’s see … they started small; there was tying a rope around the outhouse door with a younger child inside for about an hour; the poor child nearly froze out there. Then there was soaking all the school’s chalk in water and hiding all the erasers. Then they decided to escalate a bit: there was a snake put into the hat of one of the girls, which of course wasn’t noticed until the thing was on her head and tied securely. There was a hornet’s nest placed in the cloakroom … The school spent several hours outside Wednesday, while it was cleared of smoke caused by them stuffing the stove pipe with cloth. Then the eyebrows of one of the older boys got singed when he tried to help me by lighting the stoves in the morning; Patrick had soaked the top piece of firewood in alcohol. And speaking of alcohol, there was their piece de resistance, today’s little prank.”

Throughout the litany of crimes, Adam had begun to blush and had to force himself to sit up straight in the student desk, when all he really wanted to do was sink into the floor in embarrassment. Across the aisle, Veronica Carter was staring straight ahead, two very bright pink spots glowing in her cheeks.

“I’m afraid we can no longer simply view this as just a childish prank; they laced the school’s water supply with whiskey, giving every boy in the school a little dose of alcohol and made poor little Josh Bennett absolutely tipsy.”

Adam winced, and closed his eyes, then his mouth flattened into a firm, angry line. I’m going to kill him…

“They are, without a doubt, the two finest students in the school,” said Liz seriously, getting up from her desk and walking over to the uncomfortable parents, her arms crossed. “That’s what makes this even more difficult. Wendy’s work has been stellar ever since she arrived. Patrick had been having a little harder time,” she said gently glancing at Adam, who was resolutely studying the top of the desk he was sitting at, “but this week he’s shown a … well, an absolutely unbelievable improvement. It’s his own work, it isn’t that he’s been cheating. It’s simply that he’s finally working to his potential. At many different things, apparently,” she sighed, leaning against the first desk in the row.

Adam drew in a deep breath and uncomfortably shifted. “How do you want to deal with this, Miss Masterson?” he asked quietly, trying to tamp down his embarrassment.

Helplessly, Liz shrugged her shoulders. “They will have to be punished. Simple pranks are one thing, but Joshua was quite sick, and his mother is furious,” sighed Liz. She looked down at her desk, snatching a quick, flustered glance at Adam as she finished her thought. “I had hoped to be able to handle this myself, but Mrs. Bennett has already gone to Mr. MacDonald, the president of the School Board, and he’s decided they both will receive a caning, in front of the entire school. He’s asked that you both be present with the children first thing Monday morning.”

Mrs. Carter winced slightly but nodded and said nothing. Adam nodded, too, flushing at the thought of John MacDonald being involved. John might the president of the Board, but Adam was also a member; to have his own son be involved in such serious misbehavior was humiliating. Oh, yes…I’m definitely going to kill him!

= = = = =

As the two embarrassed parents left the schoolhouse, neither glanced at the other until they reached the hitching post, where Sport waited patiently for his rider.

“Mrs. Carter, I can’t tell you how sorry I am for whatever influence Patrick must have had on Wendy,” began Adam, nervously, as he fumbled with Sport’s reins.

“Mr. Cartwright, I assure you, Wendy is not easily influenced,” she said sadly. “And unfortunately, this isn’t the first time she’s been in a mess of this nature.” She giggled a little to herself. “Of course, I am sorry the little boy became ill, but …” she turned away, a handkerchief to her mouth to cover her chuckling.

Adam stared at her in shock. Somehow he’d expected her to be … a little more upset, maybe? She glanced back at him and couldn’t help herself; she began to laugh.

He looked down, suddenly seeing a bit of the humor himself, remembering some of the stunts he’d pulled as a kid. None of the stellar quality of Patrick’s, but pretty wild none the less. As he thought of the image of a bunch of slightly tipsy twelve to sixteen-year-old boys, he felt a chuckle begin in his chest and bubble up to the surface. He was willing to bet those boys weren’t feeling so giggly now!

Within seconds, both parents of the errant schoolchildren were laughing until tears fell.

“Oh, dear!” wept Veronica, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. “Really, I suppose we’re offering the most terrible example—” but she couldn’t go on, as she continued to laugh.

Finally, Adam was able to catch his breath again and wiped at his own eyes. He grinned at Veronica. “Mrs. Carter—”  he began, chuckling.

“Please, after today,” she giggled, “call me Veronica!”

“All right, Veronica,” he laughed. “May I invite you to have a cup of coffee with me so that we can discuss how we’re going to deal with our two little monsters at home?”

“I think that would be delightful!” she smiled. Adam crooked his arm for her, and still laughing, they walked toward the International House and a pot of coffee.

= = = = =

“Wendy has always had a penchant for the unexpected,” sighed Veronica as she sipped her coffee. “She’s so bright, that I suppose she gets bored and that’s what gets her into trouble.”

Adam nodded as he thought of his own problem child. “I think that’s a pretty fair assessment. But they’re both going to have to learn to curb this desire for excitement!” he said with a small smile. And then he sobered. “Seriously, Veronica, what are we going to do with them? Oh, I know they’re going to be caned, and believe me, it won’t be pleasant. I have a feeling they will be pretty subdued for a time afterward. But how do we reinforce it at home?”

“Well, I usually find that Wendy would rather take a spanking, because it’s over with quickly. When I impose a restriction, she finds that to be far worse.”

Adam nodded, thoughtfully “How about this? They’re to spend two weeks confined to home, the first of which is in their rooms? For Pat, that would be except during school and chores.”

“The same for Wendy; she has jobs she’s expected to finish in the morning and evening, too,” nodded Veronica thinking. “I think both of them would find that a pretty substantial punishment.”

“Especially knowing that they’ve got a wicked caning waiting for them on Monday,” sighed Adam, uncomfortably. “I wish that didn’t have to be hanging over their heads, but I don’t see any way around it.”

“It will be a good lesson in learning to think first, before action, I suppose, though a pretty harsh one,” sighed Veronica, setting down her cup. Adam noticed it was empty and gestured toward the carafe.

“Yes, please,” she smiled, allowing him to refill her cup.

With his attention focused on pouring, she noted his handsome face, with his high, intellectual forehead, the slightly snubbed nose, the high cheekbones, when he suddenly looked up.  Their eyes met and Veronica colored pink with discomfort, quickly casting her eyes down to her cup. Adam drew in a deep breath and decided that he might as well say what had been on his mind.

“Veronica,” he said softly, slowly placing his hand over hers, “I know I’m being forward, and I don’t want to upset you. But, well, I can’t explain the way I’ve been feeling the last few days. I wish I could. All I know is that I can’t get you out of my mind. I sit down to write a timber contract,” he smiled wryly, “and I’m thinking of you. I try to work on anything and I’m thinking of you! All I can concentrate on is wondering if your skin feels as silky as it looks, or if the scent of honeysuckle I detect is from your hair or clothes.  The way your eyes absolutely shine in the sunlight… oh, I’m sorry, I’m putting this badly,” he said in frustration, blushing and shaking his head.

Smiling, she put her own hand atop his and squeezed gently.

“Badly? I don’t think so,” she said gently. He hesitated and glanced into her eyes.

“Do you … do you think…” Adam hesitated, unsure of what to say and uncomfortably embarrassed. Just speak plain! he scolded himself.

“Oh, yes,” she nodded wryly. She tentatively reached out and touched his hand, looking up into his dark eyes. “Adam, ever since you nearly knocked me down in the mercantile, I haven’t been able to take you from my mind. I – I would like to get to know you better,” she murmured, her cheeks rosy and her lips trembling slightly.

Adam’s heart leapt as he heard her words; his eyes shone as he gently clasped both her hands in his.

“Will you have dinner with me this evening?” he asked quietly.

“Well, I would love to, but if I have a young lady confined to her room this evening, I shouldn’t leave her alone,” she replied wryly.

Adam frowned, then rolled his eyes, realizing that Patrick would be in the same boat. “That’s true, I forgot.”

“But, if you’d like, you could come to dinner at my place. Widow Hawkins has told me often that since I’m the only one boarding right now, I could use her kitchen and dining room any time I wished. Would your family be home to care for Patrick?”

“It’s more would my family be willing to stand guard over Patrick,” sighed Adam, scratching an ear and thinking about how this little lecture was going to be received by his young son. He frowned and nodded his head.  “Yes, I’m sure one of my brothers or my father will be home this evening. May I bring a bottle of wine?”

Veronica beamed. “Oh, how lovely, Adam! I haven’t had wine since we left St. Joseph. That would be delightful. Do you prefer chicken or beef?”

“Beef, so I’ll bring a red,” he smiled, rising to his feet and gesturing to the waiter. “I’m sorry to have to hurry off, Veronica, but if I’m going to get back to town for dinner, I’ll have to hurry. There’s a little chat I need to take care of,” he said grimly. He squeezed her hand, then hesitated. Puzzled, Veronica looked at him, and he gave in to impulse. He slowly raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, looking deeply into her eyes.

The electric jolt that shot through Veronica as his lips touched her hand was palpable.

The tiny gasp she gave, and the gaze she returned told him everything he wanted to know. Smiling all the way to his eyes, Adam touched her cheek. “Until later,” he said softly. She nodded, her heart full, and watched him leave the restaurant, and continued to gaze after him for a long time afterward.

~-oo0oo-~

Adam trotted into the yard, his mind awhirl with disturbing thoughts: he was going to kill his brat of a son; he was going to court his son’s little friend’s mother; and then, how did he feel about courting a woman again, now that he had a young son? It was all so confusing, and exhilarating and mixed up that it made Adam chuckle to himself. It was rare he was in this boggled state of mind. He wasn’t too boggled, however, to be furious with Patrick, and hearing wood being chopped at the side of the house, decided to go over and have a firm talk with his errant son.

To his surprise, Dave Wilkins was there swinging the ax, not Patrick. The youngster tiredly lugged the logs up and set them on the stump, raised the ax and split them. The boy looked all in and depressed as well.

Adam waited until Dave was finished with a swing before quietly asking, “Dave, what the hell is going on here?”

Dave jumped and whirled, saw Adam and blanched. Oh, no! Now what do I do? He’d already been chewed out by Jake fer not doin’ his own work, and now one of the bosses was gonna come down on him like a duck on a June bug when he heard about the little deal made with his son. Oh, Lordy!

“I’m waiting, Dave,” said Adam quietly, eyeing the youngster. “This is supposed to be one of Patrick’s chores, isn’t it?”

Dave grew red-faced and shifted his feet uneasily. “Well, yes, sir, Mr. Cartwright, that’s true, but—”

”Dave…the truth.” Adam’s voice was quiet and very firm.

Dave gulped. Sorry, Pat, he thought to himself sadly, but I gotta take care o’ number one, here… “Well, Mr. Cartwright, y’see it’s like this…”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Pat galloped up the road towards home, his stomach lurching. There was no way he’d be able to hide that he’d been off the ranch this time. His father was going to be furious. And how in the name of God was he going to explain about the trouble he’d gotten into in school? Groaning to himself, Pat slowed to a canter as the yard loomed ahead.

Patrick brought Black Jack down to a trot, then a walk as he entered the yard, and was surprised to see Jake, the Ponderosa foreman, simply leaning against one of the hitching rails in the front yard, as thought waiting. Pat managed a weak smile, and Jake chuckled.

Jake had been with Ben Cartwright now for more than twenty-five years. He’d watched all the boys grow up, and had been fond of all of them, but had always had a special spot in his heart for Adam. He remembered him as a very bright, scrappy and intense little boy with a lot of gumption and stubborn will, as well as a kind and caring heart. He remembered how protective Adam had always been of his little brothers, though there were times they drove him to distraction, particularly Little Joe.  He also remembered how hard it had been for that little boy to accept his second stepmother, and all the wrangling and hard times between her arrival and his acceptance of her. And he recalled with great pride how the boy had overnight become a man when his father’s bereaved grief had left him to shoulder the load of the Ponderosa at seventeen years old.

Now, Jake was watching Adam’s son grow. Patrick was just as bright, as intense, and as stubborn; his father all over again. If it were possible, Jake thought Pat might be even more coldly ruthless than his father could be at times, but that could have a lot to do with his upbringing in the slums of New York. The one difference between them was that Pat had a bad habit of speaking before he thought, a mistake his father had rarely made. Fact was, even as a small boy, Adam Cartwright had very rarely done anything without thinking about it!

As Jake watched Pat trot in on his beloved Black Jack, he sighed. Adam was furious with him this time, and he’d be surprised if the boy would be able to sit that horse at all for the next few days. All Jake knew was that last he heard, Pat was confined to the ranch, but the past few days he’d been fudging his chores with one of the younger hands, Dave. Jake had already disciplined Dave over it, now it was Adam’s turn with Patrick.

“Hey, Pat!” he called, as Pat glumly dismounted and started to trudge toward the barn. He looked up at the foreman, startled and questioning, as Jake walked toward him, his hand outstretched. “I’m supposed to put up Jack for you. Your father wants to see you.”

He watched the boy’s face go pale and saw the struggle to swallow. Ooh, boy, thought Jake. Whatever you done, young’un, apparently your daddy is right in being as mad at you as he is, or you wouldn’t be this scared!

“Go on, Patrick,” said Jake quietly. “Don’t make him any angrier than he already is, boy.”

“Awful mad, is he?” asked Pat, nervously.

“Steamin’,” nodded Jake. “Go along, now. You’d best get it over with.”

Pat was about to reply, when he heard, “Patrick!” and started nervously.

Slowly, the youngster turned toward the porch. His father stood there, hands on his hips, with the coldest glare on his face Pat had ever seen. He gulped slightly, and handed Jack’s reins to the foreman, lowered his head and walked slowly toward the porch. He stopped just about a foot beyond what he estimated his father’s long reach would be and picked up his eyes. He had the good sense to wince and dropped his eyes again; the expression on his father’s face was the angriest he’d ever seen. Oh, man, I’m really in hot water now.

“Inside.”

That single word conveyed a myriad of emotions, and Patrick, for once in his life, knew enough to shut his mouth and obey. Slowly, carefully, he sidled around his father, managing to keep his back turned away from his father’s hard right hand, as he slipped by him and into the house.

= = = = =

Pat lay on his back on his bed, staring miserably at the ceiling, his heart heavy. That had to have been one of the worst tongue-lashings he’d ever suffered through. His father had ripped up one side of him and down the other, almost bringing him to tears without raising a hand to him.

“I can’t believe your audacity!” his father had scolded. “I confine you to the ranch, and what do you do? You disobey me, talk one of the hands into doing your chores, and then go off gallivanting with Eamon Corrigan! Now, I can understand your wanting to talk to Mr. Corrigan to learn more about your grandfather and your Irish family but would it have been so hard to ask my permission?!”

“Maybe I just figured you’d say no,” Patrick muttered.

“And that was excuse enough to defy me, hm?” demanded Adam furiously. “And Dave! Talking young Dave into doing your work! Did you know that he’s been in trouble with Jake for the last three days because his own work isn’t getting done? He hasn’t had time! He’s been doing yours!” Adam paced the great room, trying hard to keep his temper under control. Finally, cooled down a bit, he turned again to his son, who was sulking in front of the fireplace, eyes fixed on the floor and not – to Adam, at any rate! – looking particularly apologetic.

“And now the capper, you decide that it’s funny to get some poor child drunk!” shouted Adam, hands on his hips. “Have you any idea how embarrassed I was, sitting there trying to figure out how to excuse your behavior? Trying to think of what on earth I could possibly say to defend you?” Adam glared at him. “It finally occurred to me, there is no defense for your actions! That little boy is sick because of your reprehensible behavior, young man, and, buster, you are going to feel just as miserable by the time Miss Masterson and I get through with you!”

This time, the verbal jab got through and Patrick flinched, looking down at the tips of his boots. His father then sternly outlined what his punishment would be.

His confinement to the ranch was extended another two weeks. The first week he’d spend in his room, unless he was at school, at church or doing his chores. And any time his father felt he was working slowly to allow himself more time outside, another day would be added to his punishment. His meals would be served in his room, his homework would be done in his room, he would be permitted no visitors. After the first week, he’d have a list of extra chores to keep him ‘occupied’ while confined to the house and yard. If he was lucky, he just might be able to be finished in time to eat with the rest of his family.

And to top it all off, on Monday morning he had a caning to look forward to, administered by the school board president, on a part of his anatomy considerably further south than his hand.

“I’m ashamed of you, Patrick, completely and thoroughly ashamed. Go to your room! I don’t even want to look at you,” his father had snapped, turning away, boiling mad.

Pat closed his eyes at the memory and turned over, curling up in a ball on his bed. It was just a little bunch of practical jokes! And he knew his father would never have let him go visit Corrigan if he’d asked first, so that had been a nasty route for his old man to take!

I hate it here! he seethed. All he wanted to do was find a way to get out of this place. And it’s all my bloody Orangeman of a father’s fault!

 

---

 

CHAPTER TEN

 

“How did your ‘little chat’ go?” asked Veronica, as she sipped her wine.

“Unpleasantly,” Adam sighed, leaning back from the table, his stomach comfortably full of Veronica’s superb roast beef. “I just wish he’d learn to think before he gets himself into these situations.”

Veronica smiled. “Wendy thinks far too much! By the way, she admitted she was the one who came up with the idea of practical jokes.”

“It wasn’t just Wendy. Veronica, just talk with either of my brothers, and they’ll be glad to tell you the jokes Pat’s played on them in the last six months,” replied Adam, dryly. “No, they were both to blame.” He sipped his wine and glanced at her. “So, your conversation was no better, I take it?”

“No, not really. A lot of apologetic tears that stopped as soon as she realized I wasn’t going to give in,” sighed Veronica. She smiled sadly. “Regardless, there were also some real ones.  She’s scared about Monday.”

“So’s Pat,” nodded Adam. “For that matter, so’m I.” He sighed, his shoulder sagging a bit, his brow furrowed with concern.

Veronica nodded, understanding, then rose to her feet and began gathering serving dishes. She wanted to give him a moment to compose himself. If he was like any other man she’d ever known, allowing a woman he barely knew to see when he was less than completely under control wasn’t something he’d endure comfortably.  “Just give me a moment and I’ll clear these.”

“Let me help, all right? It’ll go faster,” said Adam, wanting something to do. Surprised, but pleased, she allowed him to follow her into the kitchen with the dirty plates and utensils.

“Tell you what,” he said, rolling up his sleeves, “I’ll wash, you dry. You know where everything goes. All right?”

“My goodness!” she laughed, making an effort to shake off the somber tone of the evening. “What talents you have, Mr. Cartwright!!” She handed him a long kitchen towel and donned her own apron.

“Hey, young woman,” he said with mock severity as he tied the towel around his slim waist, “I’ll have you knew I was chief cook and bottle washer on our trip west.  At least after I turned five.”

They laughed and chatted over the dishes, and when the kitchen was shipshape again, they returned to the sitting room.  The fireplace was crackling and welcoming as the wind howled around the house.

Veronica sat down on the settee and with her eyes invited him to sit beside her. He drew in a deep breath and seated himself, willing himself to relax. It had been a long time since he’d felt roused this much.  At thirty-six, Adam considered himself a man of the world, not easily rattled or at a loss with the fairer sex.

But this wasn’t just another rancher’s pretty daughter. This was a woman with a keen mind, humor and pathos, as well as beauty. She was a woman with experience, not some untried young virgin, but she was absolutely not a saloon girl.  He needed to tread carefully, because he found she mattered to him.  And he was both excited and a little scared to realized how much.

Beside him, Veronica was fighting her own inner battles.  She knew the joys of the flesh as well as heartbreak. For the last several years she’d managed to push aside those memories, but this tall, dark man with the deep, expressive voice and eyes that spoke volumes stimulated her, bringing her alive as she’d once feared she’d never be again.  But danger rested there; she knew it! Still, she could not stop herself from wanting to experience his touch, to feel his lips on hers, to know that she wasn’t yet dead inside, but still had something to offer! All of this churned under the surface as she managed to keep her expression calm and impassive, though two small spots of color bloomed on her face, and her breath quickened. To rally herself, she gazed into the fire, a gentle smile of remembered passions dusting her lips, almost to her surprise.

Adam tried to think of something to say, but found his mind was uncharacteristically blank. He glanced at Veronica and saw her staring with a small smile into the flames of the fire, as though captivated. Tentatively he placed his hand over hers on the settee, waiting for a reaction. She didn’t move her hand, and her smile deepened. Slowly, Adam leaned a little forward and lightly brushed her cheek with his lips.

She closed her eyes and sighed, turned toward him, her eyes shining.

“What is it about you?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion. “What is it about you that makes me … makes me….”

She gently put a finger to his lips. “Don’t talk….” she whispered, shaking her head. Then she removed her finger and leaned forward, her lips meeting his. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift, returning the kiss. He was startled by the desire implicit in her kiss and before he realized it, his arms were around her and gathered her close into his arms.

“Veronica…”

“Oh, Adam,” she whispered, stroking the tips of his ears, tracing his thick black brows.

Adam threw caution to the winds and drew her to him again, this time kissing her deeply, passionately. His fingers were in her hair, undoing the pins and allowing her dark hair to tumble around her shoulders. He kissed her cheeks, her throat…

“Adam… Adam….”  she moaned, her hands on his broad shoulders and strong arms, feeling the hard, sculpted muscles rippling beneath her fingers and his elegant white shirt, hungrily gathering him into an embrace that seemed to weld them together as one.

Suddenly, both realized where this was going, and as though a bucket of cold water were thrown on them, they broke apart, breathing hard and red-faced with embarrassment.

“My God,” Adam breathed, scrambling to his feet and putting some distance between them. “I’m so sorry…” he whispered, turning away in an agony of embarrassment and shame. He looked around for his jacket and hat.

“Adam, no!” she begged, rising to her feet and going to him. “Please, don’t leave!” She turned him toward her. “Adam, I’m as much to blame as you are,” she said brokenly. “There is something there between us, something so strong…” She shook her head, helplessly shrugging. “I can’t explain it.”

Adam breathed in deeply and drew himself up to his full height, looking down on her. “Veronica…it sounds ridiculous, we barely know each other, but I’ll swear before God that I love you. I can’t believe it, I’m acting like a schoolboy, no older than Patrick. But I can’t help it,” he said wryly, his face still tinged with a flush of ardor and a little shame.

“I know,” she nodded, drawing her hair back again from being tumbled around her shoulders. “I can’t explain it, either, but it’s been there since the moment I saw you fumbling with those slate pencils” But there was no mocking in her eyes or tone. It was honest, an exposition of fact.

For a moment they stood there, uncomfortable and ecstatic at the same time.

“Well,” he said, sighing, finally allowing himself to look her in the eye. “What are we going to do about it?”  As he watched, the passion and desire drained from her eyes and something else entered, something that looked like fear… or horror. What on earth….? He cast his mind back to what he believed he’d said, trying to figure out what might have caused that reaction, that shutting down so abruptly.

“I think we need a little time to think about that,” she said quietly, turning away. He looked at her, surprised.

“Think about it?” he asked gently, a wry smile on his lips as he came up behind her. “Thinking doesn’t seem to be quite the right verb, does it?”

“Adam…” she turned suddenly, her eyes full of pain, and something more, something he couldn’t decipher. “Truly, I need to think. Please… I think you’d best go home. I’m sorry.”

Surprised by the sudden change, Adam stepped back a moment, desperately trying to get control of himself and of the situation again. He swallowed and picked up his hat, then hesitated, turning once more to her. “I-”

“Oh, Adam, please!” she cried, turning away from him, burying her face in her hands. “You don’t understand! There’s no way you could understand! Just please go home!”

Silently he stared at her as she wept, confused and worried. He decided that he’d best do as she asked and let her figure out what was troubling her. “All right, I’ll go.  I don’t know what I’ve said, but…  I’m sorry.”

She kept her back to the door, and while she wept she listened as he slowly left the room, the cold wind swirling around her as he opened the door, then closed it behind him. She continued to listen, and, as she heard his hoof beats pound away, she closed her eyes and sank to the floor in front of the fire, weeping in desolation.  As alive as she’d felt a moment earlier, she now felt as though her very heart had been ripped out and tossed into the flames.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Patrick spent a long, lonely, and unhappy weekend. Even having the window open slightly didn’t quell the feeling of being closed in that he suffered while stuck in his room. The air was stuffy, and he ended up spending most of his time in front of the frosty glass, staring out morosely at the sky.

When he wasn’t confined to his room, he was working his tail off on the long list of chores waiting for him.  As tiring as they were, at least they gave him something to focus on, beyond the reality of his situation.  He had to admit, after that blistering lecture from Dad, he had the stirrings of a very guilty conscience.  He hadn’t meant to be mean or cruel but realized now how dangerous what he and Wendy had done could have been.  He wanted to try to talk things through with his father, but Dad seemed closed off, unapproachable somehow.  Pat could tell his mind on something though the boy couldn’t imagine what was more important right now than his, Pat’s, hide!

But though Adam wasn’t talking, he watched the boy like a hawk.  All through the morning and early afternoon, he’d felt his father’s eyes burning into his back as he split logs, cleared brush from around the barn, exercised the cow ponies, mucked out the stalls, and he resented it. It was bad enough being punished; it was another thing altogether not to be trusted. His temper boiled as he felt the injustice of the world closing in on him as effectively as the four walls of his room.

Saturday afternoon was beautiful early spring weather, and it galled the youngster to have to watch it happen from his bedroom window. Upstairs, all alone, he couldn’t hide from his thoughts and worries. As he leaned against the window jamb, the boy winced and uneasily rubbed his stomach.  His belly had been in knots all day, and he’d barely been able to eat.  He hated to admit he was scared about Monday. Allowing that to surface, even just to himself, was akin to acknowledging cowardice in his eyes, and his pride suffered for it. But he was scared, as well as honestly outraged.  He simply couldn’t understand how his father, who declared he loved him, could allow this to happen.  Pat would have accepted a tanning from Dad; he had done wrong and knew it.  But this?  This was…

The youngster’s lips trembled as he fought to keep his composure, unable to keep echoes of his mother’s flogging from his memory.  In front of everybody, this was gonna happen.  They’d stripped Ma from the waist up to flog her. Would they do that to him? How bad would it be?! He remembered the pain of the cane cracking down on his hand and shuddered as he tried to imagine what that pain across his hind end would feel like. Anything like when Dad used his belt? He remembered the fire of that cane, just one, single stroke… he shuddered.

Miserably, the boy turned from the window, groaning softly as his stomach clenched again.

All of Corrigan’s words rang in his ears; words of oppression, of struggles for power and control, of injustice. And in his current state of mind, Patrick wove a tapestry for himself of self-directed lies and half-truths as unsubstantial as an embroidered wall-hanging made of tulle, and just as full of holes. Without an adult to help him understand, this boy’s imagination ran wild.

Sunday was even worse. At mass, he devoutly prayed for the Lord to deliver him, to give him some sign that his dad would intervene and stop this from happening. As the day wore on, his faith was shaken and he miserably felt as alone as he had after his mother died. His nerves were a mess; he couldn’t eat and had trouble sleeping.

 

~-oo0o-~

 

At the knock on his door, Pat wearily turned his head from his pillow, offering a quiet, “Come in.”

When his father entered the room, Pat first looked in frightened hope toward his father’s face. Please, please tell me you ain’t gonna let this happen!

The man’s heart ached at the expression he saw on his boy’s face, and he drew in a breath, focusing on the pattern of the bedroom rug to compose himself.  He looked up then and looked at his son with compassion. “I thought you might need to talk,” Adam said quietly, coming to the side of the bed and sitting down beside his boy.

Pat’s heart ached; he wanted his father to protect him, he didn’t want to talk! Rubbing at his stomach, the boy rolled off the bed and he put a little distance between them. “Nothin’ to say.”

Adam sighed.  He’d been so preoccupied with this crazy situation with Veronica that he’d wasted precious time, not being there for Pat when he’d truly needed him, and he regretted it badly. “Pat… son…”

“If you ain’t gonna stop this from happenin’, if you’re gonna let somebody else beat me, then you and me, we ain’t got nothin’ to say to each other!” Pat ground out, angrily.   “An’ if you’re waiting to watch me fall apart and start bawlin’, then think again!”

Adam studied him, breathing hard, suffering, and wanted nothing so much as to gather the boy in his arms and hug him close.  He believed it was fear and bravado that was doing the talking but was unaware of the level of betrayal his boy was experiencing.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said quietly. “I understand how you feel-”

“You don’t understand anything about me!” Pat flared. “So just let me be!”  He whirled away and gripped the window ledge hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

Having struggled alone with this terror for two days had rendered Adam as the villain in Pat’s eyes. Once Patrick realized that his father was going to be adamant and force him to go through with facing what would come tomorrow, he shut him out as though a thick sheet of glass were between them; Patrick might have to see his father there in the room but didn’t have to hear him

In the wee hours of Monday, Patrick still stared at the ceiling of his room, fighting the impulse to run as hard as the impulse to cry. Finally, he fell into an exhausted, troubled sleep wishing that the previous week had never happened.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

On Monday morning, Mike Devlin watched in curiosity as Pat rode up for school a bit earlier than usual, looking pale as a sheet and in the company of his father. One of the other boys nudged him and pointed toward Mr. MacDonald – the school superintendent’s – buggy and raised an eyebrow.

“The pranks?” the other boy mouthed at him. Aghast, Mike swung back to his friend and understood. Public punishment didn’t happen often at the school, but Mike knew a parent was always required to be present when it was administered by the head of the school.  He tried to surreptitiously gauge Adam Cartwright’s mood, but he looked as rigid as a fence post as he dismounted beside his son.

Mike’s two oldest brothers, Cal and Danny, knew Adam Cartwright and had been friends of his for years, but Micah had always felt a certain awe for the oldest of the Cartwright brothers. He knew Little Joe Cartwright pretty well because he was best friends with Mitch, his next older brother, and Hoss Cartwright had to be the most easy-goin’ man he’d ever met. But Adam?  Oh, Pat…

Pat dismounted and silently unsaddled Black Jack and turned him loose in the school yard corral. His eyes downcast, he trudged his way to his father, who had slapped his reins around the hitching post with a very stern look on his face. Pat slowly came to a stop beside his father and glanced up nervously. Adam’s single nod toward the door made Pat sigh. His face white and his head down, he dragged his heels as he headed in the door, his father following right behind him

Inside, Wendy was already waiting in misery with her mother, who was looking nervous herself. Mr. MacDonald was seated in Miss Masterson’s chair, and the teacher herself was standing to the side, looking sadly at her young student.

Patrick hung up his coat and followed Adam into the school room.

“Thank you for coming, Adam,” nodded MacDonald.

“Morning, John,” said Adam quietly. Pat stood besider his father, uncomfortably shifting his feet.

“Patrick, Wendy, come up here,” said MacDonald, quietly, rising to his feet and coming around the side of the desk, the cane in his hand. The children slowly obeyed.

“Well children, I think you know why you’re here, and why your parents are here,” said Mr. MacDonald, very sternly. “I want you both to understand that dangerous practical jokes will not be tolerated in this school. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the answered in unison, neither able to take their eyes off that wicked-looking cane.

“Miss Masterson, call in your students.”

Adam walked over to Veronica’s side and stood beside her, near the front of the room, offering silent support. Adam knew Pat deserved this; he also knew he’d survive it. But it was awfully hard for him to stand there, waiting and watching what was about to happen to his son. He imagined it was just as difficult for Veronica.

It was the first he’d seen her since the unfortunate, confusing parting on Friday evening, but he shoved his disappointment aside to be there for her lean on. A simple touch to her hand made Veronica look up at him, her lower lip unsteady as she miserably awaited the fate her daughter faced. She knew he had to be as upset for Patrick as she was for Wendy and unobtrusively squeezed his hand in return.

As Pat stood waiting at the front of the room, the ticking of the clock on Miss Masterson’s shelf sounded unnaturally elongated, from one agonizing second to the next.  His insides were shaking, and he kept his hands clenched to avoid them trembling, as he struggled to maintain his composure. The only way he could do it was to avoid looking at Wendy, which he realized was probably mean, but he just couldn’t help it. The other children slipped silently into their seats. Word got around a small school fast. Pat thanked God that so many of the littlest kids were absent from school with the measles. That knowledge helped his sense of battered pride a little.

“Children, you are all aware of the shameful behavior last week that put the wellbeing of several classmates in danger.  You are all about to see clearly what the punishment is for willfully causing pain and harm to another classmate, even in the name of a practical joke,” said Mr. MacDonald very sternly, his tongue lingering distastefully on the last two words.

Pat stole a quick glance at Wendy, and it almost undid him. Wendy’s eyes were closed, her lower lip trembling and silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

“Miss Carter, step up here please,” he said quietly. MacDonald was not a cruel man; Adam knew that. He could see that John wasn’t enjoying this. But it didn’t make him feel any better.

For a half a heartbeat, Adam considered calling this whole thing off, until he was suddenly reminded of a painful lesson from his own childhood. He’d gotten into some mischief on the wagon train heading west, snitching apples from another train member’s Conestoga. When his father discovered it, Ben had marched him over to the head of the other family, a dour, stern man named Ohrbach, told him to apologize, and then told Mr. Ohrbach to punish him as he saw fit. Adam had been shocked and dismayed.

After a sound spanking, and a tearful, embarrassing walk back through the train to their own wagon, Pa had sat Adam down and sternly told him that when he was in their wagon, their home, his mistakes and mischief would be dealt with by his father or his stepmother, Inger. When his mischief reached beyond the family, he had stepped outside of Ben’s protection and would have to answer to the person he’d hurt. It had been a hard lesson for the five-year-old to learn, but it had stayed with him all these thirty years.

Adam drew in a deep breath as he realized his young son was learning that same lesson today. He sighed and looked over at Veronica and saw that her eyes were locked on her daughter, trying to offer her support.

Mr. MacDonald gestured for the girl to step to the side of Miss Masterson’s desk and directed her to bend over, bracing her hands on the desk.  Trembling in terror, Wendy slowly obeyed, trembling like a brittle leaf in a fall wind.

“As I understand you were less involved than your young friend, you will receive three strokes, Miss Carter. Are you ready?”

Drawing in a deep breath, Wendy glanced towards her mother in a final appeal. Veronica forced herself to keep an impassive look on her face; there would be no reprieve. With a shudder, Wendy turned back to the superintendent and nodded.

MacDonald completed his unpleasant task. Adam turned away slightly flinching at each cut of the cane and the wail that followed it.

When it was over, Wendy was weeping and rubbing her bottom and shifting her feet despite herself. A quick look at Veronica made Adam realize she was just barely hanging onto her composure and quickly turned away.  He peered instead at his son, and his heart ached. Pat was white as a sheet; sympathy and concern were etched into his face as he watched as Wendy miserably stand to the side of the desk as old Mac indicated, sobbing softly in pain.

“Mr. Cartwright.”

Swallowing hard, Patrick walked up to the desk. He shot one glance of entreaty at his father and firmed his lips when he saw Adam’s stony countenance. He was too scared and upset to really think about what might be behind it; he simply attributed it to his father’s cold, aloof nature. He was unable to see that Adam was as upset and worried for his son as Patrick was for himself. Drawing in a deep breath, Pat didn’t wait for MacDonald to tell him to do so, he stepped back and assumed the position.

“Mr. Cartwright, I understand you were the one who procured the whiskey. Is that true?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick answered softly.

“Very well. Then your punishment will be more severe. You will receive six strokes. Are you ready?” asked MacDonald.

“Just do it,” said Pat between clenched teeth. He shut his eyes, gritted his teeth and waited.

His eyes snapped open in shock when the cane connected, and he ground his teeth together to keep from yelling. In desperation, Pat squeezed his eyes shut harder and tensed his body, telling himself he could take it, he’d get through it. At the second cut, he gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white and breathed deeply. At the third cut he groaned softly and lightly stamped one foot fighting the need to cut and run. He found himself sweating in his effort to control himself. He wouldn’t cry, not in front of all these kids, he told himself, he would not cry!

But he couldn’t help it.

Adam’s face was ashen as he watched his son, desperately wishing he could help. But Pat had to get through this one alone. He winced with every cut of the cane, and it almost seemed though he could feel the sting himself.

Pat jaw ached from gritting his teeth so hard, and his eyes burned with tears. It was a few moments before he realized it was over. Mr. MacDonald had laid down the cane. Patrick slowly straightened, trembling, his fists clenched desperately. Shakily, he wiped at his eyes, angrily brushing away tears that wouldn’t stop falling no matter what he did, and struggled not to groan.

“Are we going to have a repeat of this nonsense, Mr. Cartwright, Miss Carter?” asked MacDonald quietly.

“No, sir,” Wendy whispered, tearfully.

Pat merely shook his head, not trusting his voice, wincing. His backside seemed to hurt even worse now than before!

“All right, then. You may both return to your seats,” said MacDonald quietly. Wendy and Pat slowly, painfully, began the stiff walk back to their desks, their eyes downcast. Wendy’s seat was right near the front of the room, so Pat walked the last leg alone. He hurt so bad that it didn’t matter that his eyes and nose were red from crying, that more tears welled, or his breathing was kinda ragged. He gave in and rubbed his backside now and didn’t care who saw.

Patrick arrived at the desk he shared with Micah, gingerly eased himself down and sucked air in between his teeth as his bottom connected with the seat. His breath hitched in a gasp as he shifted around miserably.

Mr. MacDonald sighed, glanced out over the incredibly shocked classroom, then gathered Adam and Mrs. Carter with his eyes and nodded toward the door. He was used to dealing with shaken parents. As the white-faced mother and father walked toward the door, he hung the cane back on the wall and turned to Miss Masterson. “Thank you, Miss Masterson.”

There was dead silence in the room as the door closed behind the adults. Liz Masterson unhappily looked around her classroom.

Wendy was still crying, fidgeting desperately, looking as though she wanted nothing more than to spring up and run. Her seatmate gently patted her hand, helplessly.

Pat’s shoulders were rigid as he supported his weight on his forearms and elbows. leaning far forward to take his weight off his rump. His lower lip trembled, and he shakily continued to wipe at his red, damp eyes.

Half the children looked at Wendy and Pat in shock and sympathy; the other half couldn’t look at them at all.

Well, Mr. MacDonald had wanted to set an example. He certainly had. Her whole class was badly upset.

She made a snap decision. “Children, get your coats on.” She started walking down the aisles. All the children, even Wendy and Patrick looked up in surprise. Liz turned at the door and announced, “We’re going on a nature walk!”

The rest of the children crowed with pleasure and scrambled to their feet, hurrying to the door. The last two out were Pat and Wendy. As they came alongside her, she put out a hand to touch Wendy’s cheek, gently stroking it, and then turned to Pat and put an arm around his shoulders and gave him a hug, earning her two small, damp-eyed, grateful smiles.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Adam walked slowly down the stairs, seeing his younger brother cleaning a rifle in the great room.

“Joe?”

“Yeah?

“Would you do me a couple of favors?”

“Yeah, shoot,” responded Joe as he placed an oil-dampened rag on the tip of a rod and rammed it firmly down the muzzle of the gun.  His eyes studied the debris on the rag, but he glanced up quickly toward his older brother.  “Whaddya need?”

Adam sighed and flopped into the blue velvet chair by the hearth next to where Joe was working. “You’re planning to head into town to load up the new branding irons, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” his younger brother nodded, setting down the rifle he’d just finished and picking up the next. He also winked and offered his brother an impish grin.  “I was also gonna stop by the school and invite Liz to the dance Friday night. Why?”

“Well, first off, stop by Doc Martin’s and let him know it looks like Dave’s sick.”

Startled, Joe stopped, his hand holding the cleaning rod arrested mid-shove and gently set down his cleaning cloth, rod and the rifle.  Worried, he studied Adam.  “Oh, no,” the young man murmured, thinking of the cheerful boy who’d been a part of the ranch for over a year now.  “You’re thinking he’s got the measles, too?”

“I don’t see how it could be anything else,” nodded Adam. “He’s got a fever, he’s coughing his fool head off, and just feeling miserable.”

Adam was pensive; he and Ben had talked about his own likelihood of developing the disease. He couldn’t remember having been seriously ill at all while at college, beyond a few bad colds from the Boston winter weather. And when Pat was asked, he couldn’t recall his mother ever saying ‘measles,’ but honestly couldn’t be sure.  They would have to simply keep an eye on him and deal with it if the situation arose.

“That’s really leavin’ us shorthanded. How’s Hank? He any better?” asked Joe thoughtfully, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nope.” Adam shook his head. “His fever is roaring, his chest is filling up…he’s a real sick man, Joe. It’s frightening.” Adam rubbed his nose. “Charlie’s feeling better though. The rash is fading and his fever’s broken.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll be glad to let the doc know,” Joe got to his feet, gathering his cleaning supplies. Then he remembered what Adam had said. “What was the other favor?”

His older brother shared a knowing look with him. “Will you time it so you can pick up Pat at school?” his older brother asked, smiling sadly. Joe stared a moment, then he smirked, understanding.

“Yeah, sure. There should be plenty of room in the back of the buckboard,” he agreed.

“Joe, don’t give him a hard time,” said Adam quietly, seriously. “John really gave him a beating. He’s gotta be sore as hell.”

Joe grew more serious, and his smile changed to one of compassion. “I remember, Adam. I’ve been on the receiving end of one or two of Old Mac’s canings myself. Sure,” he said with a reassuring pat on his brother’s shoulder. “I’ll pick him up, no problem.”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Pat suffered through the morning; instead of a certain amount of relief that it was all over, he was feeling decidedly sick to his stomach. Most of the other kids took their lunches outside, but Pat wanted a flat surface to rest his meal on and where he could try to eat standing up. Wendy was doing the same on the other side of the room.

The nature walk had helped a little – anything was better than having to sit! – but he was still tense and upset. Anger burned white-hot with an occasional surge of rage, followed by a sting of betrayal nearly as searing as the cane marks on his backside.

Mike had tried to gauge his friend’s mood, torn between wanting to support his buddy but also wanting to give him privacy if he was still too aggrieved to talk.  But in the long run, he remembered past times when he’d been in Pat’s boots himself; having someone there, showing they cared, had always felt better than suffering alone.  Making up his mind, Micah plopped his lunch down on the desk beside his buddy and looked up at him.

“You feelin’ better?” he asked sympathetically.

“No,” grunted Pat. He tried to nibble at the good sandwich Hop Sing packed him without much interest, thinking that maybe his upset stomach was partially due to being hungry. After all, he’d certainly had no appetite that morning at breakfast. Supper last night hadn’t been a real joy either. But now, he found swallowing a bite made his stomach cramp as soon as the food hit, making him queasy, the food feeling like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach.  He rubbed his midriff uneasily and put the barely touched sandwich down,

Mike adroitly turned the conversation towards other, more pleasant things to occupy his friend’s mind, and it seemed to work for a little while. But then he noticed that Pat was sweating hard and looking awfully green. “You okay?” he asked in concern.

“I… I don’ think so,” Pat whispered, gulping a little.

Mike cast a worried glance around for Miss Masterson, who had been keeping a gentle eye on both Pat and Wendy. Thankfully, she was already on her way across the room.

“Are you feeling ill, Pat?” she asked gently.

The boy raised his head in dismay, then, eyes suddenly widening, he clapped a hand to his mouth and ran for the door.

“Micah, keep an eye on things in here!” she ordered, grabbing her shawl and a large dipper of water. She stopped just long enough to grab Patrick’s jacket off the coat rack before hurrying outside.

She saw him at the edge of a small grove of trees, leaning against a tree and retching, out of sight of the other students. Rushing over, she dropped his jacket away from them and quickly put up her right hand to hold his head while he heaved violently, using her left hand to rub his back.

“Easy…” she murmured noting with dismay that he’d managed to spray himself pretty liberally in the process.

At a brief respite in his heaving, he groaned, dizzy and shaky with the strain.

“You’re going to be alright, dear,” she reassured him gently. “Just breathe slowly and deeply.  Been sick all day?”

He nodded in misery, relaxing a little, one hand leaning heavily on the sapling, and allowing her to hold his head while he panted and tried to get his breath back. “… all weekend,” he gulped, his face very pale.

“I’m not surprised,” she said bitterly; she couldn’t imagine those two poor children having to suffer for three days in terror and apprehension. It was cruel!

It took another few moments of dry heaves before he finally felt like he might live through this.  All the way through, Liz held his head and rubbed his back, soothing him. Pat hated being sick; he’d decided years ago that he’d rather have a broken bone than spend an hour throwing up.

“Feel a little better?” she asked gently. He nodded wearily and leaned his back against the tree, careful to avoid bumping his throbbing rear end. He shakily accepted the dipperful of water from Miss Masterson.

“Don’t swallow it, Pat,” he heard her say softly. “Your stomach will just bring it right back up again. Take a mouthful and swish it around, just enough to get the taste out of your mouth.”

Pat nodded weakly, did as he was bid and spat it out to the ground.

“Oh, boy,” he sighed, wiping his forehead with his sleeve and shivering slightly in the cold. As the sleeve came up to his face, he caught a whiff of something sour, and frowned, looking at sleeve then down at himself. “Aw….” He groaned in disgust as he looked at his vomit-spattered clothes. He looked up at Miss Masterson, unhappily.

“Don’t worry about it, honey,” she said, with a gentle smile. “You’re not feeling well, and you’re going home.”

 

= = = =

 

Patrick saddled Black Jack and checked the cinch three times, finally sighing and looking at the seat of the saddle. He closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath and sprang into the saddle…and yelped.

He managed to ride out of Virginia City with his head high. For fifteen minutes he galloped hell bent for leather, desperate to ride as fast as he could for as far as he could. Afterward, he felt as though, if asked, he could clearly point out where all six stripes were on his rear end, they were so clearly making their presence known!  He pulled Jack up short, looked around him, and dismounted quickly, desperately trying to ease some of the sting from his seat, leaning one arm on the saddle and resting his head. God almighty, but this hurts….

Sighing, he raised his head and looked around him to get his bearings. Picking up Jack’s reins he started walking toward the creek, just about a quarter mile to the east. Pat carefully picked his way over the rocky ground to the water’s edge, letting Jack drink at the stream. He eased himself down to his knees, wincing, and leaned forward to cup some icy water to drink. The water was good and refreshed him a little; he figured it had been long enough since he’d been sick to risk swallowing it. He got slowly to his feet, and looked out over the land, started to rub himself again, then stopped, flinching.  If anything, rubbing made the pain even worse rather than provide comfort. Damn! Is this sting ever gonna let up?!

It’d take a good three to four hours to walk home, provided he didn’t stop for anything. Distracted, he didn’t watch his footing as he walked over to retrieve Jack’s reins. The creek bed still had patches of ice, and Pat slipped, his feet flying out from under him and landing him, hard, on his rump. Yowling, he rolled over onto his stomach, grimacing in pain. He struggled for a moment, then miserably gave in and, burying his face in his arms, finally began to sob.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Joe picked up the branding irons at the smithy and got the buckboard to the schoolhouse just as Liz was releasing her students. He grinned and waved at her, standing on the porch of the school wrapped in her shawl. She caught his eye and smiled, waving back. As the children ran for the street or the corral she walked over to the buckboard.

“Did Pat get home all right?” she asked with a smile.

Joe looked at her, mid-smile, and stared. “What … what do you mean, did Pat get home? Isn’t he here?”

Now it was her turn to stare. “But, Joe… I sent him home around 11:30 this morning!”

“Sent him home?” Joe was totally confused.

“Yes,” she sighed. “Poor child…he was so upset after this morning….”  she looked questioningly at him, wondering if he knew. Joe grimaced and nodded. Liz went on, “Well, anyway, he was so upset that he got awfully sick to his stomach and when he tried to eat some lunch, he became ill. He was so uncomfortable that I sent him home. He rode out, which is more than I expected, frankly.”

Joe giggled, earning him a frown from Liz. “I’m sorry, Liz, I really do know how he must be feeling. So does Adam. That’s why he asked me to come in and pick Pat up with the buckboard so he wouldn’t have to ride Jack home.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Liz. Here I’ve gone and made his situation worse!

“You know, I just don’t understand how I could have missed him,” Joe wondered. “If he got walloped as bad as Adam said, there’s no way he could have ridden all the way home. He’d have to get off and walk some.”

“That’s true! I wonder where he is?” she wondered, worrying a bit. “Joe, he was awfully sick. I mean, he looked better by the time he left, so I thought it would be safe enough to let him go, but—”

“I’m sure he’s all right,” reassured Joe, wondering himself. Then he shook himself; heck, he’d lived through punishments from Old Mac; Patrick would, too. He bumped back to reality just before flicking the reins and looked down at Liz.

‘Wait a minute! I almost forgot what I came over here for!” he grinned and jumped down from the wagon seat.  Taking her right hand in his, his tucked his left behind him in a courtly bow. “Miz Masterson?” he asked, in a gallant, debonair Southern voice, one eyebrow raised at a lazy, rakish angle.

She giggled. “Mr. Cartwright?” she replied in kind.

“I would be most honored, ma’am, if you would consent to allow me to escort you to the barn dance Friday evening? Would you, by any chance, ma’am, be free to attend, ma’am?” exaggerating the drawl to the point that Liz was laughing out loud.

“Why, suh, I would be most pleased to have you as mah escort, suh!” she smiled, curtseying gracefully.

“Pick you up about seven? I don’t think I’ll be able to get back into town until Friday, we’re going to be getting ready for the spring round-up,” smiled Joe, stepping closer to her, hanging on to her hand.

“Seven would be fine,” she said softly, looking up into his brilliant green eyes. My goodness, but he’s a handsome one! she thought dreamily.

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, deviltry shining out of those eyes. He glanced slowly around the schoolyard, first to the left, then to the right, and back at Liz, who was smiling, her cheeks pink.

“Nobody’s around,” he whispered, eyebrows up.

“You’re right…nobody’s around,” she nodded, smiling.

He leaned forward, grinned. “Think I could risk a kiss, Miss Schoolmarm?”

“I think you might,” she nodded.

Joe gathered her into his arms and took the risk.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Pat squatted by the creek bed, careful to keep his backside up off the heels of his boots. He cupped his hands into the creek and gingerly washed his face; the cold water felt good on his hot eyes and face and his swollen nose. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath, and sighed. He shivered a little in the cold and glanced up at the sun.  It looked to be just about two in the afternoon.  He still had at least a three-hour walk ahead of him. Sighing, he figured he’d better get going or he’d be lucky to get home before supper was cleared away for the night.

He hated to admit it, but he honestly felt better after having given in to a good bout of tears. Shaking his head in irritated embarrassment, he gathered Jack’s reins and grumpily figured there was one good thing about a long walk home: it’d give him that much longer for evidence of his crying jag to fade. He guided Jack back up the hill to the road and began walking.

As Patrick trudged along the road, he thought back to all the fights he’d gotten into his life, fights that had left him hurting worse than this. Why did this caning bother him so much? After a moment’s reflection he realized there were two reasons: first, he’d had to stand still and take this one, without fighting back. Secondly, and most important to him, he simply could not understand how his father just stood there and allowed it to happen! It was just like Corrigan had said, he thought, angrily. The Orangemen say they care, but when push comes to shove…

Seething with resentment, Pat forced his long legs into longer strides, trying to ignore the discomfort it caused, anxious to cover as much ground as quickly as he could. His stomach was back under control and he was getting hungry. The more he walked, the more he hurt, and the more he hurt, the angrier and more frustrated he got.

He’d run away! That was it! Then his conscience kicked in, and he sighed, slowing his pace a little. No Riordan had ever run away from anything; no Cartwright, either, from the looks of things.

But what if he were running to something, instead of away? Pat thought about Eamon Corrigan and what he was doing to try to free Ireland from the British and let her be a united Ireland in her own right. That was worthwhile work, wasn’t it? His own mother had tried so hard to achieve that.  Even she had realized that life with an Orangeman would never be a reality!

Pat thought hard for awhile about the life he’d built here out the in the West, with his father, uncles, and grandfather. He frowned as he tried to imagine life without them, but every time he faltered a little, he remembered back to this morning, and how his father had stood by and simply watched as he was beaten. Pat’s jaw set stubbornly; he’d devote some serious thought to going with Corrigan and figuring out how to help the countrymen of his mother find their freedom.

Maybe, just maybe… somewhere along the way, he’d find his own.

---

 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

Pat trudged in the door just before supper time, He was one weary boy. It had been a long walk, even with his occasional ten-minute spurts of suffering through sitting in that damned saddle. Now his feet hurt as well, throbbing right along with his rear end.

Taking in an exhausted view of the great room, Pat saw his uncles huddled over the oak table in front of the hearth playing a game of checkers. His father stood in front of the fire, weight resting mostly on one leg, his arms crossed as he appeared to stare into the flames. Seeing him made Pat remember being abandoned to his fate that morning, and the boy clamped his teeth shut, his jaw jutting out in stubborn irritation as he turned toward the hooks by the door.

Adam, hearing the door, turned quickly as Patrick first entered the house. Since the boy was scowling down at his coat, unbuttoning it then tossing his hat onto the sideboard and hanging up his coat, Pat couldn’t see the sudden relaxation of worry and concern his father’s face had been wearing for the last hour or two, or see the relaxation of tension in his shoulders as he realized his boy was home, and was safe.   And given the mood he was in, even if he had seen them, it wasn’t likely he’d ascribe them any positive motivation.

“I was getting worried,” Adam said in a quiet, gentle voice. “Are you alright?”

Oh, sure.  Now you make believe you care… Pat had done a fine job of working up a bad temper on his walk home, all of it was aimed at his old man. He walked to the table behind the settee and finally looked up, a coldly hostile expression on his young face. “I’m fine,” he grunted. “When’s supper?”

At his desk in the office area, Ben raised his head sharply, first startled, then annoyed by his grandson’s tone of voice, and watched his son’s expression change. Hoss and Little Joe did the same, glancing at each other uneasily.

Adam frowned. So… still a bit of a lesson to learn, apparently… “For you, when you’re finished with your chores,” he said quietly.

“Chores!” Pat then remembered his sentence of solitary confinement. “Are you tryin’ to tell me that even after today,” he said incredulously, slamming his fists to his hips only to flinch in discomfort, then quickly move his right hand when it came too close to a sore spot, “you’re gonna make me go through with all that?!”

“Even after today,” nodded Adam, slowly walking over to his son. “I told you exactly what your punishment was going to be. The caning was just part of it.”

Pat’s blue eyes smoldered. “I’m late ‘cos I had to walk most of the way home!” he spat out. “ It ain’t ‘cos I was havin’ a good time someplace!”

“Well, I’m sorry about that, but you’ve only yourself to blame,” said Adam seriously. There was no anger in his voice, but he was resolute.

Pat’s disbelief in the unfairness he was facing was gargantuan. As if to undermine his outrage, the boy’s stomach growled with hunger – loud enough for even his uncles to hear and look at each other in concern. His gnawing belly caused his resolve to be a total pain in the ass weaken a little, and his next words were voiced in a tired, pleading tone, even if the words weren’t exactly conciliatory. “For cryin’ out loud, can’t I just eat first? I’m hungry!”

Adam struggled for a moment between irritation at Patrick’s attitude and sympathy for the kid; he’d had an awfully rough day. He almost capitulated, then stopped himself. He believed that right now, Pat needed firmness, not coddling. His young son had a lesson to learn, and it appeared he hadn’t gotten there yet; his attitude and tone of voice were still far too fresh for Adam’s liking.

“You know the rules, Patrick. You don’t work, you don’t eat,” he said, quietly, shaking his head. “Go get your chores done, and I’ll have Hop Sing prepare your supper on a tray.”

Pat stood beside the sofa table, his face a study of indignation and resentment. He was right on the edge of a tantrum but managed, just barely, to hold himself in check. He dropped his eyes and turned away from the table, pounding his feet to the door, grabbing his coat again. He continued out, slamming the door behind him.

He stalked out to the barn, cussing under his breath, and wearing a black scowl on his face. In his present state of mind, he refused to recognize the sympathy in his father’s eyes or the gentleness in his tone as he talked with him. Pat had had a bad day, and he was bound and determined that everyone around him was gonna suffer for it!

= = = =

After finally finishing at the woodpile and honing the ax – his last chore of the day – Pat dragged himself back into the house, starving hungry and just wanting to eat, sleep, and hopefully forget this whole rotten day had ever dawned.

“Where is everybody?” he grunted, seeing only his uncles in the room as he hung up his coat and hat, briskly rubbing his hands together and approaching the fire to warm up. He absently perched on the arm of Granddad’s leather chair, then hissed in pain, hastily straightening up again, gingerly rubbing himself uncomfortably. He shot Joe a glare when his uncle’s usual woodpecker-like giggle could be heard from the settee.

“Pa and Adam had that school board meetin’ to go to,” answered Hoss, mildly, as he read his newspaper.

Joe was enjoying a rare moment of being able to prop his boots up on the settee while reading a book; Pa wasn’t there to order his feet off the furniture, and he was taking advantage of it. “You have something to eat yet?” asked Joe, with a grin, as he munched on a cookie.

“You kiddin’?” Pat scoffed, plunging his hands into his pockets, and pulling them out again as his pants pulled too tightly across his hind end.  Morosely, he stared  into the fire. “Think old Ironpants’d let me eat when there’s work to be done? ‘You don’t work, you don’t eat!’ ” Pat’s rude imitation of his father, right down to the knitted black brows, hands on his hips and the stern expression, made Joe giggle again. Even Hoss had to struggle to keep from laughing.

Pat sighed and dragged his weary, aching body toward the kitchen. “I’ll bet Hop Sing didn’t even bother to -”

“Hop Sing make you suppah!” snapped the Chinese man coming around the kitchen corner into the dining room, a tray in his hands. His sudden appearance startled Pat, and he flushed a little when he realized Hop Sing had to have heard his rude comments. “Fatha say you eat in bedroom!”

Pat made a sour face and glanced at his uncles. “See what I mean?” he complained, raising an eyebrow and spreading his hands in demanded acknowledgment.

“You better watch your step, Pat,” advised Hoss with a grin. “ ‘Old Ironpants’,” he chuckled. “Adam hears you callin’ him that and you’ll wish you had iron pants!”

“A little late for that,” muttered the boy as he scowled, taking the tray from Hop Sing and trudging up the stairs while his uncles laughed below.

 

~-oo0oo-

 

Adam hesitated outside the Widow Hawkins’s boarding house, reins in his hands, unsure of whether to go up to the door and knock or get back on his horse. He sighed; I’m here, I might as well go through with it. He’d spent most of the day wishing he could figure out what on earth had gone wrong Friday night. Had he pushed too hard, too fast? He was usually pretty sharp about the signals a woman would send him; he was hardly a choirboy, after all. If his life had depended on it, he would have said that Veronica had wanted him, too.

Frowning, he decided to try going slow. He didn’t want to lose her. He chuckled to himself; of course, that statement implied he had her to start with! He tethered Sport at the hitching rail and, screwing up his courage, walked to the porch, and knocked on the door.

He turned away from the door to look out over the street. When he heard the door opening he turned back, expecting to see Mrs. Hawkins. Instead, little Wendy stood there.

“Mr. Cartwright!” she said, in surprise. He noted the pinched, drawn look to her face and the red eyes. Poor kid …

“Hi, Wendy,” he smiled gently. “Is your mother home?”

“Yes, sir,” she said quietly, opening the door wider. “Mama? Mr. Cartwright is here.”

Veronica came out of the kitchen area, wiping her hands. “Adam!” she said, startled. “I didn’t expect you … ”

“Well, I had to come into town tonight for a school board meeting,” he answered, shrugging a little in self-deprecation, “and I was hoping to talk to you.”

“A school board meeting?” she asked, surprised. “Not about … ” and glanced at Wendy, who blushed uncomfortably.

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” he assured her, nervously fingering the brim of his hat. “I’m a member of the board, that’s all. A regular meeting.” He didn’t mention, especially in front of Wendy, that this morning’s discipline had been thoroughly discussed, however – much to his embarrassment.

Veronica nodded and suddenly realized her daughter was there. Her expression grew stern, and her voice matched it. ‘Young lady, you’re supposed to be confined to your room, remember?”

Sighing unhappily, Wendy turned to the stairs. “Yes, ma’am.” She turned back briefly. “Can I just ask how Pat is doing?”

“I would imagine pretty much the same as you, Wendy,” said Adam, with a small smile. “He’s confined to his room, too. And I must say, you’re in a much more polite mood tonight than he was.”

She managed a small smile and continued up the stairs, wincing a little at the landing when the larger step required a longer upward step. Flushing, Wendy continued up, surreptitiously rubbing her backside as she climbed.

The adults smiled sadly as they watched her go. Veronica turned back, her eyes questioning. “Wendy said Pat became sick this afternoon and had to go home.”

“Pat’s got a bit of a nervous stomach anyway,” nodded his father. “I’m not surprised. Poor kid, I had arranged for him to get a ride home stretched out on the buckboard with Joe, but when he got sick, Miss Masterson sent him home early. He ended up having to walk most of the way. Put him in a thoroughly bad mood. I don’t blame him for being … well, for being Pat,” he added ruefully, “but I really wish he’d change his attitude. Thank God he’s spending the week in his room. I’d probably kill him otherwise.”

Veronica nodded, though she felt for the boy.  She and Wendy had gone a long way to repairing their own fences this afternoon when she’d cuddled her daughter on her bed, allowing the girl to pour her heart out to her.  While she didn’t condone the girl’s choices, she allowed Wendy to cry and begin to heal.  Gently, Veronica then counseled her. Together, they had talked over ways that Wendy could make amends to the children she’d hurt, and by the end of it Wendy was feeling better and on the way to learning from her mistakes and putting the past behind her.  It didn’t sound as though Adam had done the same for Patrick, however, and her mother’s heart ached for him.

Adam awkwardly shifted his feet as he stood in the foyer and finally drew in a deep breath. “Listen, if you’re too uncomfortable with this … I just wanted to talk to you for a moment.”

“Oh, goodness, Adam, I’m so sorry,” she said, flustered, stepping back to allow him to enter. “It’s just been such a difficult day …” Blushing, she gestured him into the sitting room. “Mrs. Hawkins is visiting with the neighbors, so we have the room to ourselves.” Her heart beat a little faster as she recalled what had happened the last time they’d had the room ‘to themselves!’

“Veronica, I’d like to apologize for my behavior the other night,” he said seriously. She started to protest but he cut her off. “No, I made you uncomfortable, and that was not my intention. The last thing I want to do is make you not wish to be around me. If you’re willing to give me another chance,” he said lightly, “I’d like to invite you out to a picnic on Thursday.”

“A picnic? This time of year?” she laughed, uncertainly, looking at him askance.

“I love it … it’s something my stepmother introduced us to,” he smiled. “You make a fire in the snow and cook hot food over it. It can be a lot of fun. Would you like to go?”

“Why Thursday?”

Adam grinned. “Because I can play a little hooky on Thursday. I’ll be negotiating a lumber contract with someone at the hotel that morning, and I thought I’d treat myself to an afternoon off.”

Veronica looked up at him, losing herself in the gentleness of his dark eyes, the handsome face. “Adam, I…” “ she began helplessly.

Adam drew in a deep breath and looked at his hands. “Veronica, I don’t know what it was that upset you the other night,” he said quietly, “but I promise to behave myself.” He flushed a little and smiled wryly. “Just a picnic. Honest.”

She smiled at the sincerity in his voice. And she did find him so attractive, so amazingly attractive. “Alright,” she nodded. “I’d love it.”

He looked up at her and grinned happily. “Great! I’ll pick you up around noon. Be sure to dress warmly.”

She walked him to the door. She hesitated a moment, then shook her head, lips curving up despite herself.  “Adam, I’m really glad you stopped by. After today … well, I needed some cheering up.”

“Yeah, me too,” smiled Adam. “Until Thursday, then?”

“Until Thursday,” she nodded. He stopped and turned to her, searching her eyes. There was a welcome there, and he almost took advantage of it. He hesitated, then turned away abruptly, before he could lean down to kiss her as he really wanted to do.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Pat stood at his bureau, picking at his breakfast. He felt a bit better this morning but still found sitting down well nigh impossible. Riding to school sure oughta be fun, he thought sourly. He glanced at the clock on the wall, and groaned. He’d better hurry or he was going to be late. He finished his food and checked his clothes. Good, nothing spilled. Eating standing up was the awkwardest damn fool activity …

He gathered his saddlebags and started down the stairs. Everyone else was at the table as he walked toward the coat racks.

“Morning,” he muttered, knowing that he’d get pulled up short if he didn’t acknowledge them. If there was one thing his father demanded it was good manners and courtesy. In the six months he’d been at the Ponderosa he’d learned that one pretty quick.

He was greeted in return by his family. He kept on walking toward the front door, grabbed his coat and started shrugging into it.

“Patrick.”

Pat exhaled noisily in exasperation and turned around, irritated, but silent. His father was standing there not five feet from him. Pat eyed him belligerently, but clamped his mouth shut.

Adam studied his son, his eyes narrowing, and crossed his arms over his chest. This bad attitude is really beginning to wear thin….

Stubbornly, Pat held eye contact. God knows he’d heard enough exhortations of “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” to know better than to look away. Not realizing that his look and stance were defiant rather than respectful, the boy waited, growing more irritable in the lengthening silence.

Adam had been about to offer to drive Pat into town using the buckboard so that he wouldn’t have to ride, but the man sighed inwardly. Definitely, more guts than sense. All right, little boy.  So be it.  Perhaps a long ride into town on that sore backside of yours will get that lesson finally through your stubborn head.

“It’s a new day. Try to get off to a good start today, alright?” said his father pointedly, eyeing his son. “Adjust your attitude.”

Pat rolled his eyes, shifting his feet. He struggled to keep his irritation under control and nodded curtly. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.

Adam continued to study him, then cleared his throat, eyebrow raised.

Pat began to squirm a little. He knew what his father was looking for, and finally after about a thirty-second standoff, Pat sighed and relented a little. His stance grew less combative and the chip on his shoulder shrank a bit. “Yes, sir,” he repeated more softly.

“Good boy. See you tonight,” nodded Adam.

Pat’s brows knit together and his face grew red. At that condescending dismissal, Pat knew if he didn’t turn and leave, and right now, he’d boil over like a pot of potatoes.  He slapped his hat on his head and slipped on his gloves. He picked up his saddle bags and walked out, shutting the door behind himself carefully without a slam.

As Adam slowly returned to the table, deep in thought, his father, now finished, carried his coffee cup toward the office.

On his way by, Ben offered quietly, “I think you’re going to live to regret that little power play.”

Stung, Adam’s head snapped up to see his father’s eyebrow raised.

“That tactic never worked too well on you, anyway,” Ben observed, and continued on his way to his desk.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

The ride to town was every bit as painful as he’d expected it to be. He tried yesterday’s ploy of galloping as far as he could for as long as possible and managed nearly twenty minutes before his backside protested too much. Then Pat slowed Jack to a trot and stood in his stirrups for a while, until his legs grew too tired. He just had to sit.

The uncomfortable smarting of the next five miles did absolutely nothing to improve his outlook. Finally, he couldn’t stand it any longer and pulled Jack up, slipping down off the saddle, hissing in air and rubbing his tender hind end. In fury, he kicked at a good-sized stone in his path sending it spinning crazily into the distance, giving him the momentum to completely lose his temper.

“I ain’t goin!” he shouted, beside himself, startling Black Jack into prancing a little. Frustrated, he bent down and picked up another rock and threw it as hard as he could at a nearby tree, taking satisfaction in hearing the mighty thunk! of the stone connecting with the bark.

He panted, a little shaken by his tantrum, but it felt good. No way am I going to go back to that school; not today, not ever! He gathered Jack’s reins and started walking. Now that he’d made up his mind he just had to figure out how he was going to manage it.

He’d gone home sick the day before. Could he somehow spread a rumor that he was still ill? Not like yesterday;, Miss Masterson had known that was just nerves. And she knew that his father wouldn’t let him ditch school just because of a sore tail, that was for sure. Not old Ironpants!

He brought his mind to bear on the problem as he walked, toying with different scenarios, sorting out plans and ideas, obstacles and pitfalls. Finally a slow smile began to spread across his face. He glanced at the sun, guessing the time. He figured it he hurried he just might make it to the fork in the road where he always met Mike.

He looked at the saddle in dismay.  But brows furrowed, jaw set, he sprang into his saddle, stubbornly ignoring the discomfort, and kicked Jack into a gallop. In order to pull this off, he’d need Mike’s help, and he’d need every available minute to convince him.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Are you outta your mind?!”

Micah stared at his friend in consternation. “For cryin’ out loud, just yesterday you got the worst whippin’ o’ your life and you’re ready to court another one already?!”

“Mike, listen, it ain’t that serious, I’m just—”

“Aw, no it ain’t that serious!” mocked Mike, snorting in derision. “You’re just asking me to lie for you, to stick my neck out so’s you can put your butt in a sling! And probably take mine along with you! I got news for you, Pat, my old man wields a mean switch and I got no intention o’ lettin’ him practice his swing on my hind end!” snapped Mike, marching back toward his horse. “Nothin’ doin! It’s against my religion to help somebody commit suicide!”

“Mike, listen to me!” argued Pat, dodging around the side of the shorter boy to intercept him. “I ain’t gonna have that much time left to see Corrigan before he leaves!”

“You keep up this bullshit and you ain’t gonna have much time left, period!” declared Mike. He tried appealing to his friend’s common sense. “Pat, c’mon! Think about what you’re doin’! Your father’ll kill you!”

“Wouldn’t surprise me!” snapped back Patrick, his hands on his hips. “All I wanna do is talk to a man who knew my mother and my grandfather back in Ireland! But just because I pulled couple of stupid pranks my old man ain’t gonna let me! He’s gonna force me to watch this chance go by! How would you feel, Mike? What if it was your Ma? Your Grandda? Ain’t it my right to know who I come from?” His tone turned beseeching.

Mike uneasily kicked at the dirt in the road and then studied his friend, eyes narrowed. “You asked your pa and he said no?”

“Mike, I’m locked in my room from the time I finish chores until the next time they’re due!” he sighed, pushing his hat back on his head and scratching his ear. “How much time does that give me to see a man who knew my other family? You think my old man wants me to even know about my Irish family?” Pat was digging himself in deep here, fostering accusations and assumptions that he wasn’t truly sure he believed but was sure was the only route to take to get his way. And this time, by God, he was gonna get his way!

“My father wants me to forget everything about them! He wants me to forget I’m Irish at all! Look at me!” he said, throwing his arms out in desperation, mixing up the truth and his wild surmises even in his own mind. “I look just like him! Everything about me screams ‘Cartwright’! Any way he can crush any memory of my Ma helps him forget that he wasn’t around when she needed him! Helps him make believe that he ain’t the father of a half-Orange, half-Irish bastard! Well, I ain’t gonna forget! I ain’t gonna make believe I’m only half a person!” As he’d spoken, Pat was a little surprised to realize that what had started out as open manipulation – and he had the grace to be a bit ashamed of that – it had rapidly turned into him putting into words what he truly felt.  This sense of feeling as though he was supposed to sublimate half of himself had been simmering since he’d arrived in Nevada last August.  He couldn’t really put his finger on why or where it came from, but it was there, as real as could be.

Helplessly, Pat came closer to his friend and tentatively put a hand to his shoulder. “Please, Mike,” he begged softly, his eyes imploring. “You gotta help me. All I’m askin’ is for you to deliver this note, nothin’ else!”

Mike uneasily studied his friend, then sighed. “Aw, Pat…” he groaned, shaking his head.

Pat’s eyes gleamed as he pulled up the carefully forged letter. Since he’d learned how to write from Adam to begin with, they formed their letters in a very similar way. And he’d been practicing his penmanship very seriously these last two weeks – thanks to Wendy and her advice about being good students offering them more leeway.

It was a simple little note, explaining that Patrick had come down this morning with what looked like the measles, just like the three hands on the Ponderosa. He was immensely careful of his spelling and kept the letter short  and to the point. It was a masterful job, if he did say so himself.

“If she asks, just say someone from the Ponderosa passed it off to you,” he said softly, keeping his eyes looking directly into his friends. “I won’t let you get into trouble, Mike, I promise. Please? Please help me?”

“God skin me alive for a fool,” snapped Mike, swinging into the saddle and snatching the letter from Patrick’s hand. “This is it, Pat! No more, you understand?”

“Yeah, Mike,” he said tiredly, with a smile. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Micah snorted and galloped off towards town. Pat sighed as he watched him go, then put his mind to figuring out how he was going to get into town, to the backroom of the Bucket of Blood, without being seen.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Ben and Hoss rode in silence to Virginia City, on their way in to place an ad in the Territorial Enterprise to hire some men for the spring round-up, as well as to do some other errands around town.

Ben glanced over at Hoss and was distressed to see his middle son’s head drooped and despondent as they rode. Ben had noticed for the past day or so that Hoss had something on his mind. It wasn’t like him to be so silent. And it troubled him to see Hoss so worried. His usually easy-going middle son was definitely not himself today. “Hoss? Something bothering you, son?”

Hoss raised his head and glanced at his father. “Well, yeah, Pa, there is, and I ain’t ‘zactly sure how to go about straightenin’ things out,” he admitted quietly.

“Can I help?”

“I dunno, but I sure would appreciate your ear … and your advice,” said Hoss seriously.

“Well, go ahead, son, shoot,” nodded Ben, drawing Buck up closer to Chub and altering his gait to match that of the other horse.

“Well, Pa, it’s about this Mr. Corrigan. I’m a bit uneasy in my mind about him and what he’s doin’ here in Virginia City,” said his son, seriously.

“I see,” said Ben quietly. “Any particular reason?”

“Well, I learned he’s already done fleeced poor little Tim O’Brien outta five thousand dollars!” worried Hoss. “Tim ain’t got nuthin’ to do with silver or gold bullion, Pa! That got me to figgerin’, so I did some talkin’ to the smaller miners down to Washoe Diggings who’ve struck it good. He hit all the Irish ones, not the others, just the Irish ones with some scratch to spare! And got money outta every single one of ‘em, too.”

Ben cocked an eyebrow and Hoss noticed a small smile cross his father’s face.

“What you make of it, Pa?”

“Well, son, I’m not entirely sure, but I would imagine that Mr. Corrigan is looking for something here more than just international currency,” said Ben thoughtfully.

“What should we do?”

Ben shrugged. “At this point, there really isn’t a whole lot we can do.  We’ll just have to keep our eyes and ears open and see what happens next, I think.”

Hoss nodded unhappily.  “Yessir,” he sighed.

= = = = =

Once in town, Ben and Hoss split up to finish their errands, reuniting near the Mercantile. “Last thing, Adam asked me to ask Father O’Reilly about religious instruction while I’m in town.  Want to go with me?”

“Yessir, Pa,” nodded Hoss. “Sure is a pretty place. I’d kinda like to meet this Father O’Reilly, too. Adam sure was taken with his preachin’.”

“Yeah, I’m lookin’ forward to meeting him as well, son,” said Ben, thinking a bit.

Hoss didn’t miss the change in tone, and he turned to his father. Seeing the expression, he frowned. “What you plannin’?”

Ben looked at his middle boy innocently.

“Planning? Who said I’m planning anything?” asked Ben, a small smile on his face.

Hoss stared at him, smiling. “Pa, you’re looking like a big, sly cat eyein’ a bowl o’ cream.”

“Watch the way you speak to your father, young man,” grinned Ben.

“Yes, sir,” chuckled Hoss. “Seriously, though… what’re you thinkin’?”

“It occurs to me that if Mr. Corrigan is talking to none but the Irish in this town for donations of cash, there might be one person in this town, with the ear of all the Irish, who might have some idea of what’s going on.”

Hoss thought a moment, then turned to his father, a slow smile spreading over his face. “Father O’Reilly?”

Ben nodded. “Father O’Reilly.”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Well, I must say, I’m meetin’ more Cartwrights in these past weeks than I expected to in a lifetime,” smiled the old priest, waving them into the rectory. “Come in gentlemen, come in.”

“My oldest son, Adam, asked me to drop off this letter asking you about religious instruction for his son, Patrick” said Ben, proffering the priest a sealed envelope. “Adam was so taken by your sermon last week, he said he was pleased to have brought Patrick to Mass. I think you’ll find them there regularly.”

“That’s grand, it ‘tis, Mr. Cartwright, just grand!” smiled O’Reilly. He accepted the letter from Ben and opened it as he walked to his large desk in the rectory, drawing out some notepaper. “Would you like to be waitin’ just a few moment while I jot down a quick reply for him?” The man’s eyes scanned the page, nodding as he read. He looked up and offered them a sunny smile. “T‘won’t take me but a moment.”

“Thank you, if that’s not inconvenient,” smiled Ben.

“Not a’tall not a’tall,” assured O’Reilly.

Hoss glanced around the rectory, looking at the many religious statues, the crucifix hanging on the wall. It seemed rather strange to him. He uncomfortably remembered the bible’s teachings, “Though shalt not worship graven images …”  Although he’d known that Marie, his stepmother, had been Catholic, there hadn’t been a lot of Catholic trappings in the Cartwright house. He knew Marie had a rosary, he’d seen her saying her prayers once in awhile, late at night, if he woke with a bad dream and went to her for comfort. And Sundays, Marie always retreated to her room for a long time, saying her Sunday prayers. Pa had built her a padded kneeler for her prayers. He couldn’t see nothin’ awful about Marie and the way she loved God. Hoss had trouble with that kind of bigotry, anyway. God don’t care how you love him,  as long as you follow his teachin’s and treat your neighbor as you would yourself.

Ben was thinking through how he would approach his questions to Father O’Reilly, when he was startled from his reverie by the old priest’s voice.

“And what was it you were wantin’ to ask, Mr. Cartwright?” asked the man, still with his back to Ben, an amused tone to his voice. Ben shifted uneasily in his chair and O’Reilly turned around to face him, his totally Irish countenance alight with mirth. “I could feel yer eyes burnin’ into me back, Mr. Cartwright. Is there something ye needed to ask?”

Ben smiled sheepishly. “Well, to be honest, there is, but I’m not exactly sure how to approach this,” he said, scratching his head.

“From the beginning, sor,” assured O’Reilly, placing his letter into an envelope, briefly addressing it and handing it to Ben, then settling back in his chair to listen. “ ‘Tis usually the best place to start.”

Ben nodded. “Father, are you aware of a certain individual in town who might be … . Who might be trying to raise money from your congregation?”

Father O’Reilly chuckled and leaned back, relaxed. “Such a diplomat, Mr. Cartwright!” He sighed and nodded. “ ‘Tis Eamon Corrigan ye’re referring to, I take it?”

Hoss’ eyes widened in surprise, and he glanced at his father. Dadburn it if Pa weren’t right!

“Yes, Father, Eamon Corrigan,” said Ben seriously.

“Do I know he’s in town? Aye, obviously. Do I know why he’s here?” Father O’Reilly cocked an eyebrow. “Well, let’s just say I’ve me suspicions.”

“Father, I’m going to speak plain,” said Ben, quietly, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his legs. “Mr. Corrigan has touted himself as a businessman seeking investment opportunities from the wealthy mine owners in the Washoe and the Comstock Lode. My son, Hoss, was on a business trip in San Francisco a few weeks back and met him there. Hoss was asked to introduce him to several of those mine owners. In and of itself, that’s not a problem. However, he presented himself as representing a business in Ireland. If that were the case, I’d like to know why he’s seeking charitable donations from several of the smaller mine owners, men like Tim O’Brien, Jerry Flanagan—”

“Daniel O’Leary, Dermot Callahan, Tim Boyce,” continued O’Reilly, eyeing Ben. Hoss started, but Ben held the old priest’s gaze and nodded. O’Reilly pursed his lips and  tapped his fingers on the arms of his chair. “Eamon Corrigan does represent a faction in Ireland, Mr. Cartwright, but I’d be mightily surprised if they had any business dealings beyond … erm…importing,” he said dryly.

“Importing?” repeated Hoss, confused, though Ben’s face grew grim.

“Tell me, gentlemen, have ye ever heard of the United Irishman?” asked O’Reilly abruptly. “Or the Fenian Brotherhood?”

“The Fenians, yes,” nodded Ben, seriously, remembering the story of Patrick’s arrival last August. The only reason Adam had ever found out about his young son was due to the child’s mother’s death during a Fenian uprising in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen. “A faction of Irish Catholics struggling to fight the cause of a united Ireland, isn’t that right?”

“A simplistic definition, but relatively factual,” nodded O’Reilly. “The United Irishmen were founded back in the 1790s, a faction of Irish nationalists who wanted, through peaceful means, mind, to remove the oppression of the English tyrants in our country … present company excepted, gentlemen,” smiled O’Reilly.

Ben smiled wanly.

“The Fenian Brotherhood is an offshoot of the United Irishmen, that original group of Irish patriots. In 1867, the Fenians were brutally crushed in Ireland. The Crown had hoped that the movement was all but destroyed. They didn’t reckon on the number of Fenians who had emigrated here to this country during the Great Hunger. This country’s revolutionary philosophy had helped to spark the United Brotherhood in the very beginning. It stands to reason, don’t ye know, that Fenians here would find the perfect catalyst to grow and become strong again.”

“But what does that have to do with Corrigan?”

“Eamon Corrigan came from County Armagh, as did I,” nodded O’Reilly. His eyes grew faraway as he gazed at the fire crackling in the hearth, continuing to speak. “He was from a tiny village called Ballylynch … in the North.”

Hoss and Ben stared as they heard again the name of the town young Patrick’s Irish mother, Siobhan, had come from. Hoss surreptitiously glanced at his father, but Ben was hanging on every word of the Irish priest.

“All his life, he’d been an insurrectionist, most often with another lad named Padhraic Riordan. Ah, now there was a lad!” smiled O’Reilly sadly, shaking his head at his memories. “A big, handsome lad… and a God-fearin’ man was Paddy, with a fine wife, Maggie Leary she was, three fine strappin’ sons and a lovely lass of a daughter.” The old priest sighed at that point. “Paddy and Eamon were the source of much of the unrest in that part of Armagh for better than thirty years, between ‘em. Eamon was the hot-headed one; Paddy sought change through lawful channels and through peace, if he could get it. I suppose the painful irony of it all is that Paddy was the one who suffered the most at the hands of the Orangemen. Armed conflict they could understand and crush; intelligent, thought-out argument for freedom rankled them. In the end, ‘twas Paddy that was hanged for insurrection, and his sons with ‘im. Rioting had followed a peaceful attempt to vote in the elections, rioting that Paddy and his lads had nothin’ to do with. Eamon’s only bairn, his son Sean, was also on the hangin’ tree that day.” O’Reilly fixed his eyes on Cartwright. As a father of sons, he felt sure the man would understand a bit.

“From that point on, the cause of Ireland became everything to Eamon. His job in the Brotherhood – or at least it was – was to find money to buy guns … to import,” he said softly, with a wry smile at Hoss. “So, I suppose, aye, you could say he was a ‘businessman.’ ” His dry tone and cold eyes carried more weight than any words he could have spoken.

“You seem to know this Corrigan well,” said Ben, sensing there was more to the story.

“Aye, I ought to,” replied O’Reilly, his eyebrow cocked. “Until the hangin’ o’ Paddy Riordan, I meself was one of their number, an insurrectionist under cover of the cloth. After that…” he shrugged. “The fight went out o’ me. I imagine the good Lord in heaven was doin’ whatever he could to bring me back to the fold. I would say, lads, from the fleecin’ bein’ done here in Virginia City and Washoe Diggin’s, Mr. Eamon Corrigan has hit his own bonanza.”

Ben frowned and nodded his head. “I would tend to agree, Father. I’d tend to agree.”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Today, Corrigan’s backroom had relaxed from its Fenian doings and the men were engaged in a poker game. Corrigan had been surprised, but pleased, when Patrick showed up knocking at the door that morning around ten. Pat had hidden on the outskirts of town until then, slipping into the saloon district unseen by darting through empty buildings and alleyways, after begging Lafe at the livery to look out for Jack for the day.

“So, lad,” Corrigan had smiled, offering Patrick a cup of coffee as the boy lounged against an easy chair, not sitting but leaning, “aren’t ye supposed to be in school?”

“School be damned,” snorted Pat, accepting the cup.  “I ain’t goin’ back, not after yesterday.”

“Poor lad,” commiserated Corrigan, hiding the grin that played at his lips. “It’s sorry I am ye had to experience that.” He eyed the boy and tested the waters. “Was yer sainted father sympathetic, then?”

Pat grunted and straightened up, resting the cup and saucer on a nearby table.

“Sympathetic! He dragged me there, then stood and watched,” Pat muttered bitterly. “Never raised a hand to stop it.”

Corrigan clucked his tongue, while the other men in the room stifled chuckles. “A shame, that. But, ‘tis always the way with the Orangeman.”

Corrigan had heard about Patrick’s beating the day before and decided to play on it, mentioned beatings of his own at the hands of Orangemen back in Ireland, painting his own crimes to be as inconsequential as the ‘few little harmless pranks’ Pat had played.

Pat frowned a little as his conscience pricked at him, reminding him uncomfortably that he’d dug his own grave for that little episode yesterday, but tamped it down. I’ll never let anybody beat my child like that! Never, no matter what.

And in his current state of unhappiness, Pat latched onto the perceived injustice of it all and allowed his mind to put his adolescent naughtiness up on a pedestal as a blow against English tyranny … John MacDonald was a Scot, after all, and that was the next best thing to an Englishman, wasn’t it?

Corrigan said no more but was pleased to note the boy’s stubbornness taking over. Yes, there were definitely possibilities there. He had only a few days to work it, but he’d give it his best.

Over the last few days, Corrigan had made some quiet inquiries and knew that the Cartwrights often kept vast amounts of money in their safe at this time of year as they readied for the purchases necessary to make their spring cattle round-up … payrolls, money for supplies, money to buy breeding stock. It should all be there in the safe at the ranch house, and Corrigan was determined that before he left Virginia City he’d have figured a way to convince Patrick to get that money to him. But first, he needed to determine if what he’d heard was indeed true.

= = = = =

As the day wore on, Corrigan deftly turned the conversation to the spring in this area and asked Pat innocently what the immediate future held for the Ponderosa.

“Well, with the big cattle drive comin’ up, not much else,” replied Pat, sipping a beer Corrigan had ordered for him. “It takes weeks to get ready for this.”

“A cattle drive, is it,” commented Corrigan, eyeing the boy with feigned interest. “And what is needed to prepare for it?”

“Lots of things,” answered Pat.  After leaning against various pieces of furniture, he finally tried easing himself gingerly down onto an overstuffed chair. The boy fidgeted uncomfortably. He tried to appear indifferent as he waited to grow accustomed to the smarting. “My grandfather and one of my uncles placed an advertisement in the newspaper today for drovers.”

“Drovers?”

“Aye,” nodded Pat, slipping into the Irish vernacular pervading the room, “men to help drive the cattle.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Then there’s supplies for the chuck wagon to get laid in, getting all the gear checked out to make sure nothing’s broken that they might need.”

“Oh, it sounds grand, it does. Will ye be going, lad?” smiled Corrigan. He figured not; he imagined Adam Cartwright would insist on his son staying put in school instead.

“Are you daft?” Pat sighed. “My father won’t let me, says I gotta stay in school. But, since I ain’t ever goin’ back…” Pat frowned, pondering that one. He uneasily noted his stomach starting to ache again and resolutely put the thought out of his mind; he’d deal with that later, when he had to.

“Must be an expensive proposition, gettin’ ready for this … cattle drive,” observed Corrigan with interest, sipping his whiskey.

“Yeah. Uncle Hoss says it takes about five thousand dollars to cover everything. Granddad’s had the money in the bank all winter, but now it’s in the safe so it’s there when he needs it for pay outs,” chattered Pat blindly, his tongue loosened a bit by the beer and the headiness of feeling actually listened to. He was nowhere near drunk, but he was a little more open with his talk than usual.

Corrigan nodded sagely and smiled to himself.

“What an amazing thing, to have all the money in the world,” mused Corrigan.

Pat glanced back at the Irishman, cocking an eyebrow. “Whaddya mean?”

“Lord love ye, lad, think about what that money could do for the Fenian Movement,” Corrigan sighed, leaning back in his chair, and sipping his drink.

Pat did think and remembered the comment his father had made at breakfast the other morning.  “Are you using the money you get for guns and such, Mr. Corrigan? To ship back to the old country?” he asked quietly, studying the older man.

“And what else would ye spawn a revolution with, lad? Pen and ink?”

Pat managed a crooked smile. “The Americans did. It was called the Declaration of Independence.”

Corrigan chuckled and nodded. “Aye, that they did. But they backed it up with eight bloody years of war, lad. T’wasn’t a clean little insurrection, that. Tossing some British tea into Boston Harbor certainly wasn’t the extent of their rebellion, as ye well know.”

“No, sir. It wasn’t,” he replied, leaning his head back tiredly. Five thousand dollars. That’s what Granddad had in his safe. He had a pretty good idea how much ammunition, how many guns and explosives five thousand dollars could buy. Not to mention medical supplies … food for the starving … support for the widows. Pat shook his head and sighed. Why couldn’t his grandfather and his old man understand?

Corrigan glanced at the boy and decided to plant a little nugget for him to gnaw on. “Aye lad. All the money in the world.”

“There’s a lot of money in the ranch, that’s for sure, Mr. Corrigan,” replied Pat quietly, sipping his beer, “but it’s mostly on paper. Y’know, holdings, cattle, stuff like that.”

“And easily replaceable, then.”

Pat stared at the man, trying to figure where Corrigan was going with this line of discussion. “Why would they need to replace it?” he asked, curiously.

“Well,” said Corrigan, waving a hand, “you know as well as I, lad, that if that money disappeared, yer grandda could easily replace it with very little difficulty through his other investments. Isn’t that true, now?” He shrugged and studied his whiskey glass, swirling the amber liquid within it and gazing into its depths

Pat stared at him, not liking the uncomfortable feeling that was rising in his belly.  He sat forward in his chair, ignoring the smarting, resolute as he eyed the older man coldly. “What exactly are you implyin’?” he demanded.

At the change in tone, Corrigan slowly looked up from his glass and turned a pair of sharp, intense blue eyes onto the youngster.  The old Fenian’s gaze was just as cold as Pat’s. “Not a thing, lad. Simply that on Ben Cartwright’s ranch, five thousand dollars would mean a pinched season. For we Irish, that same five thousand would mean the difference between life and death for hundreds of thousands of men, women and children. That, sor, is all I meant.” Corrigan brought a stubby finger up to point sternly at Patrick’s nose. “So don’t be puttin’ any words in me mouth, ye wee amádan, understood?”

Patrick flushed a little, but accepted the rebuke, respectfully holding the Fenian’s gaze as he’d been taught to do. Corrigan was clearly waiting for a response, so he silently nodded, dropping his gaze for a moment.

The older man softened and reached out to pat the youngster’s knee. “Don’t become too complacent in yer newfound wealth, lad,” he said gently, tipping the boy’s chin up to force eye contact. “Never forget the poverty you knew as a bairn. It’ll keep you from taking poverty, hunger and deprivation for granted. If ye never forget what ye went through, ye’ll never allow others to suffer it if ye can help it. Will ye promise me that, Padhraic?”

“Yes, sir,” Pat said softly, taking the lesson to heart.

“Good lad,” nodded Corrigan, smiling and tousling the boy’s black hair. He rose to his feet and left Patrick there to think a bit as he walked over to the bar to chat with Michael.

The boy hung around for several hours, playing poker, listening as reports and plans were made. At three o’clock, he made his apologies and departed, knowing he had one more thing to do to stitch up this little tapestry of lies he needed to last out the week.

He sped through the alleys and back ways until he got to the yard behind Mrs. Hawkins’ boarding house. He’d heard that Wendy was confined to her room, too. He just hoped he’d be able to get her attention.

He glanced at the various windows of the house and wondered which one could possibly be Wendy’s room. He noted the big oak tree whose sturdy branches reached up to the second floor and made his decision. He tossed his hat to the ground behind the tree to keep it from getting tangled in the branches and started to climb.

Saints be praised! he crowed to himself as he peeped into the first room and saw Wendy stretched out on her stomach on her bed, doing nothing but staring disconsolately at her pillow. He looked around him, cursing that he hadn’t thought of picking up a couple of pebbles beforehand. He noted a few acorns still clinging to a branch and grinned. He leaned back to snatch them and flinched as his backside connected with the hard tree trunk.

“Ow!” he yelped, involuntarily. Wendy picked up her head in surprise, and glanced out the window, staring in shock at the image of Pat Cartwright’s face screwed up in discomfort as he vigorously rubbed the seat of his pants with one hand and hung onto a branch with the other. She grinned, shaking her head, and pushed herself up to go to the window.

She pulled up the sash and he raised his head, still wincing. “What in heaven’s name are you doing up there?” she asked, grinning and leaning on the windowsill.

“Lookin’ for you,” he said, composing his face. He grinned at her. “How you doin’?”

“Much the same as you,” she said dryly, looking at his hand still clapped to his rump. Hastily, he moved the hand and positioned it to more firmly secure his hold on the branch.

“I thought you had the measles?” she asked, smiling impishly.

“That’s what I come to talk to ya about,” he said earnestly. “I need ya to cover for me with yer ma.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you do, do you?”

“Yeah, I do,” he said seriously. “Wendy, please, if she asks –  and only if she asks – tell her I was in school, okay?”

“Pat, did you already fall out of that tree and bang your head or something?” she asked derisively. “Or don’t you remember what happened yesterday?”

“Believe me, I ain’t forgotten,” he replied dryly. “But I only need a few days-”

“Pat, you’re crazy. Isn’t your father already mad enough at you?!”  She leaned forward. “What are you playing hooky for, anyway?”

“I’m seeing that fella, Corrigan, I told ya about. He’s gonna be leavin’ this weekend so it won’t be for long, just this week.”

“Pat,” she sighed, shaking her head, her expression uneasy. “I don’t want to get into any more trouble.”

“C’mon, Wendy,” he begged. “I’d do it for you!”

“Yeah, well you’ve got a death wish!” she said, the beginnings of a grin forming on her mouth.

“You don’t have to say anything unless she asks, Wendy,” he wheedled. “Please?”

Wendy considered. He sure is handsome, she thought to herself, even hanging in that tree looking so … so … adorable! She shifted uneasily. “All right, but only for a few days.”

He shot her a dazzling grin and blew her a kiss. “Thanks!” he crowed. He looked below him. “I’d better be getting going, or they’ll be onto me at home.” He started his descent, then hesitated and looked back up at her, his expression very serious. “Wendy … I’m really sorry you got punished too, honest I am.”

“Oh, well,” she sighed, with a naughty grin. “It was fun while it lasted!”

Pat chuckled, winked at her and continued on down the tree.

Wendy watched him go, taking in his long, lean legs, his tousled black hair, and watched as his strong arms propelled him through the tree at breakneck speed. She really liked him a lot. She began to wonder what the future would hold if her mother and his father continued to court each other. Mama sure like Adam Cartwright. She shuddered a little, though, as she thought of how formidable a stepfather he might be. She sighed, though, as she realized that could never happen, not with –

“Wendy!”

She jumped, smacked the back of her head on the window sash and yelped. She pulled her head in and turned guiltily toward the door. Her mother stood there with a frown on her face.

“Yes, Mama?” she faltered, her hands behind her back.

“What are you doing?”

“Just getting some fresh air, Mama. It’s so stuffy in here,” she sighed, coloring with confusion.

Veronica studied her daughter, and set her lips, walking resolutely to the window. Wendy forced herself to remain calm. Veronica peered out the window, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, then looked back at her daughter suspiciously.

But Wendy looked innocent, if a little flustered. Maybe she was just feeling cooped up.

“Well, the air is cold in here, dear,” said Veronica finally. “Suppose you shut the window now, all right?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” nodded Wendy, doing as she was told as her mother left the room and closed the door.

Once the door was shut, Wendy whirled and looked out the window worriedly. She sighed in relief as Pat peeped up from around the side of the tree. With a wicked grin on his face, he scooped up his hat and waved it at her, then sped off across the yard to the neighbors.

Wendy shook her head and grinned as she watched him go.

 

---

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

 

Patrick stood at the edge of Jack’s stall and leaned on his pitchfork, lost in thought. He’d been working very hard all afternoon, conscious of his father poking his nose in every time he turned around, checking up on him. This was the first time all afternoon he’d felt like someone wasn’t looking over his shoulder.

Sighing, he shook himself a little and began to muck out the stall, his movements mechanical, his face serious and quiet. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t hear the footsteps behind him.

“Hi, Pat.”

Patrick jumped, whirling, pitchfork ready. Joe leaped back, eyes wide in shock, tripping over himself and landing hard on his backside on the barn floor.

“Judas Priest!” Pat wheezed, wiping a sleeve across his forehead and leaning on the pitchfork while he got his heart out of his throat and back into his chest. Grinning sheepishly, he shook his head and leaned toward his uncle, a hand outstretched. “Ya might want to let somebody know when ya walk up behind ’em like that.”

Joe, wincing, accepted the hand and allowed Pat to pull him up. “Well, I’m so sorry if I surprised you,” he said dryly, dusting off the seat of his pants.

Pat managed a small smile, then sighed and went back to work. Joe watched his nephew as he slipped his gloves on, climbing up into the hay loft to fork down some feed for the animals.

“Hey, Pat?” he asked quietly after the two worked silently for a few minutes.

“Yeah?”

“Look…I know how you feel, believe me,” said Joe quietly, tossing some hay down into the wheelbarrow. “I just wanted you to know…well, if you wanted to talk about anything, I’m a pretty good listener.”

Pat smiled to himself. “Uncle Joe, I appreciate it, but … ” he sighed and shook his head.

“You’re not the first member of this household to get himself into trouble, you know.”

Pat sighed, resting his weight on the pitchfork again. “Oh, I dunno… I don’t guess anybody’s as gifted at it as I seem to be,” he said glumly.

Joe grinned to himself. “It runs in the family,” he assured the youngster, steering the wheelbarrow over to the stalls and heaping hay into the troughs.

Pat looked over his shoulder at him, an eyebrow cocked. “Whaddya mean?”

Joe chuckled, leaning comfortably against the stall wall. “Well, let’s see… there was the time I got into a mess of trouble for stealing something from the mercantile and setting a livery stable on fire…”

Pat swung around in shock and stared at his uncle. “Yer kiddin’!”

“Nope,” sighed Joe. “Wish I was. Well, the fire was an accident. That was one heck of a long summer,” he said ruefully. “Then there was the time I ended up in an opium den in San Francisco. I was only seven. Y’know, to this day I don’t think Pa knows about that one. Adam managed to talk us around it with Pa, as usual. And it was around that same time your Uncle Hoss got himself in really hot water for busting up the traplines of some trappers. Boy, Pa was sure furious about that one!”

Pat gaped at his uncle and shook himself, in wonder. “I can’t believe it,” he said, a small smile tipping the edges of his mouth. “Uncle Hoss?” Pat sighed and picked up his pitchfork again. He had noted the absence of a mention of his father’s wrongdoings, though. Just as he thought. No blemish on his father’s record, that was for sure.

“Yeah, we’ve all been in pretty bad trouble at one point or another,” Joe continued, measuring out oats for each of the animals. “We all felt like there was no way out of it, and that Pa would never forgive us. He always did, though.”

“At least two of you,” grunted Pat, stretching his back muscles, tired now from bending over to fork the soiled straw into a pile.

Joe looked up at the youngster as he leaned over to fill Sport’s feedbag and grinned. “What, you think your father was some little angel or somethin’?”

Flushing a little, Pat shrugged, and looked down, dusting his hands off on the seat of his pants, and winced a little…he’d forgotten how sore he still was.

“Well, let me be the first to tell ya, that couldn’t be further from the truth,” chuckled Joe. “Ask him sometime about… nah, don’t ask him, he probably wouldn’t tell ya. Ask your grandfather about the time he caught Adam sneaking out in the middle of the night to go hunting with a Paiute chief’s son. From what I hear, he sneaked back into his room and nearly jumped out of his skin when Pa was sitting there in a chair waiting for him!”

Pat looked at his uncle, skeptically. Then he remembered a night in October when his father had done the very same thing when Pat had been sneaking out, late at night.[1]

Joe smirked. ” And the time he tied some pain-in-the-neck girl’s braids to the back of her desk so that she darn near pulled her hair out of her head when she moved. The summer he was about your age and Jake caught him drinkin’ whiskey with the Bonner Brothers at a church picnic.  Then there was the time he accidentally stampeded the herd with some firecrackers…took about six days to round ‘em all up, and, from what Hoss told me, almost that long for him to be able to sit down comfortable again after Pa was through with him.”

Pat laughed out loud at that one. “I don’ believe it!” he snorted.

“Believe it!” assured his uncle, grinning as he perched on the edge of a stool. “Trust me, kid. We’ve all been there,” he said gently. “It’ll blow over, honest. Just give yourself a little time.”

Pat soberly leaned against the wall beside his uncle, heaving a huge sigh that made it clear he felt the weight of the world sat on his shoulders. “It’s just that… well, he don’t understand me, Uncle Joe,” said the boy softly. “He can’t understand. He ain’t Irish. I know he loved my ma; really, I do. But lovin’ somebody don’t mean that you understand ‘em. I still don’t think he really sees why she couldn’t marry him. They were just too different.”

Joe’s brow furrowed; he wanted to be sure he said the right things. He tried hard to remember the conversations like this he’d had with Hoss or Adam, complaining that Pa didn’t understand. “Pat, are you sure it’s that he doesn’t understand? Or could it be that he just doesn’t agree with you?”

Pat looked at Joe, puzzled. “Whaddya mean?”

Joe sighed, frowning as he tried to gather his thoughts. Noting a good-sized, sock bag of feed to his right, he grinned, heaved it up and placed it beside him, patting it as he glanced at Patrick, an eyebrow raised.

Sighing, Pat slowly eased his butt down. His face registered some surprise as he noted it really wasn’t too bad, and glanced at his uncle, whose knowing wink told him he’d been in his boots – or, rather, his pants – before, too.

The two youngest Cartwrights each leaned forward, hands clasped and forearms resting on their knees as they talked. It was a strange feeling for Joe; he’d never been in the role of ‘big brother’ before. The anxiety to say the right thing, offer the best possible advice, was sobering. Now he had a little bit of an idea of how Adam used to feel, when he or Hoss went to him with their troubles. This was hard!

“Understanding how you feel and agreeing with you are two different things,” said Joe seriously. “I think your father understands more than you give him credit for. He cares a lot, Pat. He just doesn’t want you to get into trouble, and he doesn’t want you to get hurt. But he knows you’re going through a rough time, and that you’re feeling kinda torn between Ireland and Nevada.”

Pat shook his head and leaned back. “Uncle Joe, he doesn’t understand me. I mean, think about it,” he said wearily. “Passionate and fiery ain’t words I’d use to describe your brother. Would you?”

Joe grinned. “Well, at one time, yeah, I would. You didn’t know him at twenty-two or twenty-three.”

Pat cocked an eyebrow and snorted in derision.

Joe grew seriously thoughtful. “I can remember when the War Between the States was getting underway, and Adam was hinting that he wanted to go join up with the Union army,” he said quietly. “Pa went up one side of him and down the other, insisting it wasn’t our fight out here in the territory. He had just got back from college and was really tryin’ to figure out whether he wanted to be here or back east. You should have heard him, arguing that freedom for all should be everyone’s business.” The words were out before he could stop them, and Joe winced a little. The dark humorless chuckle that emanated from his nephew told him he’d said exactly the wrong thing.

“So… his feelings for people held in slavery only surface when it’s convenient for him,” grunted Pat, his hands clenching into fists as he stared at the ground.

” Pat, c’mon,” said Joe, uneasily, realizing he’d probably hurt rather than helped, “that’s not really fair, is it?”

“Life ain’t fair!” growled Pat, his blue eyes like hot flame as they pinned his uncle to the wall. Joe was startled at their intensity. “Ain’t that what he’s always tryin’ to ‘knock into my thick head’?” Pat pushed himself to his feet. “I got work to do,” he muttered as he stalked out of the barn.

Joe helplessly watched him go, then slammed a palm against the barn wall in frustration.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Patrick lounged in the Bucket of Blood’s back room, with his boots propped up on a low table, sipping a beer, two things forbidden to him at home. Fenian activities were winding down here with knowledge that Eamon Corrigan would be leaving within a day or so. Many of the Irishmen had gone back to their regular jobs or tasks, leaving Corrigan, Michael and Pat pretty much alone for the day. Pat had played hooky for three days, now, and he was beginning to get nervous about what would happen when the truth came out.

His worries made him quieter than usual. There were no grand tales of rebellion for him to which he could attach his frustrated energy, no poker games to distract him.  No rebel songs to sing, to bring back the memory of Hell’s Kitchen, and of his mother.  And that quiet created a prison of his own mind, trying to work out how in the world he would move forward, and in what direction now.

Corrigan noticed.  He stopped chatting with the one remaining Irish visitor, one of the smaller miners, and instead walked up beside the boy.  He gave a quick gesture with his chin toward the door, silently directing the miner to go in order to allow him and the boy to have the place to themselves. With a grin, the other man nodded and left the room.

“Ye seem a bit under the weather today, Padhraic,” observed Corrigan. In the last few days, he’d taken to using the Gaelic pronunciation of Pat’s name and taught him how to spell it.

“Nah…just thinkin’,” sighed Pat, his brow furrowed.

“Something troublin’ you, lad?”

“My old man,” he nodded, scratching his head. “I don’t guess I’ll be able to hide my playin’ hooky from him much longer.”

“Ah, I see,” nodded Corrigan, smiling at the youngster despite himself. In the last three days, Corrigan had found himself growing especially fond of this boy.  Bright, spirited, funny, the boy put a fresh perspective on everything Eamon said or did. As he grew to know the lad, he also began to see much of Paddy Riordan in him, and he found himself moving from exclusively wanting to use the boy for his family connections to becoming quite attached.

Pat had his Irish grandfather’s sharp wit, and his mother’s cutting tongue. He was as bright as a new penny and – also like Paddy – was observant as the devil, missing nothing. Corrigan appreciated meeting a fellow con artist, though the lad had a long way to go yet. This fondness, this sentimentality, disconcerted Corrigan to a certain degree, more than he cared to admit. “A bit nervous, wondering about what yer da is going to do?”

“Wondering?” snorted Pat, dryly. “I ain’t wondering… I know exactly what he’ll do, that’s what’s worryin’ me.” He got to his feet, sighing, and walked toward the bar, setting his beer down.  The alcohol was bothering his stomach.  He wanted a glass of water, not any more beer; it just wasn’t setting right..

“Mr. Corrigan?”

Eamon turned at the pensive tone and saw the boy leaning against the bar, staring into the mug of beer in front of him.

“Aye, lad?”

“What was my grandfather really like?” the boy asked softly.

Startled, Eamon leaned back. “Paddy?” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Paddy Riordan was an amazin’ man, lad. Big man, more than six feet tall. Black hair, he had, that looked blue or even purple in some lights, somewhat like yours, and those Riordan blue eyes.  Strong as a bull, he was, but gentle. And his heart was just as big as he was, lad. I’ll swear he could hold all the country in that heart; his caring and compassion were so grand. Yer grandma, Maggie, was a beautiful woman, a head of red hair on her like flame, and very light blue eyes as clear as the sky. He adored her. Most did,” he sighed, smiling at the memory. “They were good neighbors and good parents. Yer uncles were fine lads and your mother was…well, your mother was a lass I would have been happy to call me own. I almost did.”

Pat’s head came up at that last, his eyes confused. “Sir?”

Corrigan sighed and got to his feet, walking over to the bar. “Do ye remember me tellin’ ye about me son, Sean?”

Pat nodded.

“Sean and Siobhan were betrothed when he was hanged and she was whipped out of Ireland.”

Patrick stared at Corrigan, jaw dropped and his eyes wide in shock. “They was… was gonna be married?!”

“Aye,” nodded Corrigan. He felt no miseries of conscience in telling Patrick this lie. It should have been the truth; could have been, given enough time.. Sean had wanted to be betrothed to Siobhan, desperately, but she only loved him as a playmate, a friend. The two had grown up together and had been friends since babyhood, but she had not loved him in the way he did her. In his mind, given time, Corrigan believed Siobhan would have realized what a perfect match a marriage to Sean would be.

Pat leaned back against the bar, his mind whirling. “Then…”  His eyes narrowed as he thought.  “Then you’d a been my grandda,” he said softly, slowly raising his eyes in wonder to the man beside him.

“Aye, lad,” nodded the older man. “Ye wouldn’t have been raised in the slums of Hell’s Kitchen. Ye wouldn’t have been feelin’ the pull of yer Irish blood at war with the Orange.” He eyed the boy sadly.

Pat frowned, thinking about that. What if his father hadn’t been his father? God knows he’d given Dad a lot of grief over the last seven months, but… what if he hadn’t been Adam Cartwright’s son?

He shook his head and stared at Corrigan, feeling dazed. This was too much to take in. He needed to think. He got to his feet and walked toward the table, having to move, to do something.

Corrigan came up behind him and put an arm around the tall youngster’s shoulder. “Ye’d have been Irish to the core, lad, with both my blood and yer grandda’s runnin’ through yer veins, a natural successor in the fight.”

When Corrigan said grandda that way, Pat suddenly had images of his grandfather, Ben, swim in his mind. Granddad’s warm dark eyes laughing, teaching him a few tricks at chess to even up the score when he played with his father. Pointing out the stars in the heavens and explaining how he used to navigate by those very stars while at sea on The Wanderer.  Reading to him when he was sick or hurt. So many things! Pat remembered how gentle his grandfather had been when he’d first arrived and had such a hard time adjusting to life in Nevada after growing up in Hell’s Kitchen. He recalled being gathered in his strong arms and hugged when he was lonely and scared, and a few good talking-to’s, always followed by a tousle of his hair or an affectionate swat to the seat to reinforce that his Granddad loved him. And he remembered his grandfather telling him he was proud of him.

Haven’t heard that much in the last few weeks…

Pat closed his eyes, shaking his head in frustration.

“Ye aren’t happy at home, are ye, lad?” asked Corrigan quietly.

Pat said nothing, his fingers lightly tapping the table in front of him.

“I just want ye t’know, lad…” said Corrigan, drawing in a deep breath and taking the plunge, “… if ye ever wanted to renew yer ties with Ireland – your mother’s Ireland – and that of yer Grandda Riordan… Well, I’d be honored to have ye join me.”

Pat’s head snapped up in shock. “Join you?”

“I could use a man like you, Pat,” nodded the older man, speaking quietly. “Ye’ve a long way to go, learning to control that temper o’yours, but ye’ve the makin’s of a fine Fenian. Ye’re a lad of many talents. Yer grandda would ha’ been proud, lad.”

Proud.

Patrick miserably shut his eyes again. He wished he could have someone, anyone, be proud of him; he sure didn’t feel particularly proud of himself at the moment. A man like you… The words echoed in Patrick’s mind; no one at the Ponderosa took him seriously, took him for a man; they all treated him like a little kid. Pat sighed. Was that what he wanted? In order to find out about himself, to feel proud of himself again, did he have to follow in Corrigan’s footsteps, which would ultimately lead to those of his Irish grandfather?

“Well… I just wanted ye t’know how … how fond I am of ye, lad,” said Corrigan gruffly, turning away.

This was too much to take in, too much for him to struggle through right now.  Patrick abruptly turned toward the door. “I… I gotta go,” he said, his expression troubled.

Corrigan grew a bit alarmed; had he gone too far? “Sure, and it’s not three yet,” he said jovially, trying to read the boy’s mood.

“No, it isn’t, but I…” The boy shook his head. “I just gotta go. I’ll see ya, Mr. Corrigan.”

Corrigan watched him go, irritated, wondering if he’d had as strong a hold on the boy as he’d thought. If not, he could kiss that Cartwright money good-bye.

 

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

 

Pat galloped through the countryside, his mind muddled and his heart discontented. His talk with Corrigan had upset him, more than he’d thought it could. Even the persistent, dull ache in his backside didn’t stop him from riding hell bent for leather. He hauled Jack up as he reached the crossroads, trying to decide what to do.

Patrick frowned and looked toward home. He was awfully surprised to realize it, but he desperately wanted to talk to his father, wanted his sensible advice.

What a mess… Gee, Dad, whaddya think? Should I take off and help Eamon Corrigan finance an Irish uprising?!

He had no one to confide in now, not without giving himself away. Frustrated, Pat hung his head, desperately trying to think. What should I do? he wondered miserably. He raised his head again, angrily blinking his eyes at the tears that burned them, refusing to let them fall. How the hell did he always manage to end up in such a rírá?[2] Here he was supposed to be so damn bright…

He glanced toward the mountains and thought of the lake. There had been several times in the last seven months that the peace and quiet of Lake Tahoe had calmed him and helped him think through a problem.

Patrick wheeled Jack around and nudged him into a canter toward the soothing influence of the lake. There was nothing there that ever upset him.

 

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

 

The fire crackled cheerfully as Adam stirred the stew in the cook pot. He glanced up at Veronica who stood at the edge of the knoll looking out over the lake, smiling at the gorgeous view. Adam had chosen to picnic near the old shack, in case of inclement weather.

“Hungry?” he grinned at her.

“Ravenous!” she laughed, coming to sit by the fire, her hands outstretched toward the flames to warm them. He dished up servings of the savory stew, and they sat side by side looking out at the view while they ate in companionable silence.

“Adam, this place is so beautiful,” she sighed finally, setting down her bowl and staring out over the vista before her. “You must love to come here.”

“It’s a special spot for me,” he nodded, as he set his own plate aside. “Whenever I’m uneasy or troubled about something, I come up here… it seems to ease my mind, somehow.”

“I can believe it,” she nodded, gazing around herself then turning to meet his hazel eyes. “Such peace. And beauty.”

He sensed a sadness in her mood and wondered if she would react again as she had Friday evening.

“Veronica,” he said tentatively, “what’s wrong? Can I help?”

She nearly winced at his offer, and once again gazed out at the peaceful lake scene.

Patiently, he waited while she thought.

“No,” she finally said quietly. “I’m afraid you can’t. Except to just be here and be a friend.”

“A friend?” he murmured, taking her hand. “I’ll be that, of course, but… well, I thought we had agreed there was something more than… well, just friendship between us.”

She turned to him, her eyes sad. “Oh, Adam.” She shook her head, feeling helpless. “Life is so complicated.”

He reached out a hand to stroke her cheek, but hesitated, drawing it back again.  “I’m sorry. Here I promised I’d behave,” he said with a sheepish smile. He got to his feet gathering the bowls and carrying them down to the lake to be washed. He had a feeling, given her mood, she might appreciate a little breathing room to get herself settled once more.

 

= = =

 

Pat walked Black Jack through Sand Cove and breathed in the fresh, clean air. He felt a little better just being here. He dismounted and lightly wrapped his reins around some scrub nearby, giving the horse plenty of lead to be able to drink, then walked toward the water’s edge. Picking up a smooth flat stone, he let fly, watching it skip it over the water. He got perhaps four skips, before it sank into the water. He smiled to himself. Uncle Hoss said his dad had been able to skip a stone ten to twelve times before it sank when he was a boy. Pat stared out into the lake, finding it hard to imagine his father at his own age.  But maybe… maybe he looked like me?

His mother had never told him about a Sean Corrigan back in Ireland. In fact, she’d always said that the only man she’d ever truly loved was his father. Had she just said that, maybe to make him feel better? Pat shook his head. No. His mother had been the most honest person he knew, next to Dad.

He walked for a good half-mile before he realized it and, surprised, raised his head, sniffing… a wood fire? He was startled to see smoke rising just over the knoll which overlooked the beach. Frowning, he wondered what it could be. This is Cartwright land, he thought in righteous anger, no one should be trespassing. And, sure as hell, no one should be making fires!

As he hurried back to get Jack before going to investigate, it didn’t occur to him to wonder about the feeling of possession and pride when he referred to “Cartwright land.” After all, he was a Cartwright, too.

= = =

Adam stood for a moment at the edge of the lake, then bent to pick up a few flat, small stones and carefully taking aim, skipped them across the lake. Ten skips. He smiled. It had been many years since he’d done that. He was startled to be able to recall, as clearly as if had just happened, leaning down to his little brother Hoss, then only about four, to try to teach him how to skip stones. He grinned, shaking his head… twenty-five years. And he sighed, thinking of all that had happened in between. His stepmother, Marie. College. Siobhan.

Siobhan. He had so successfully managed to keep that painful part of his life buried for so long; he might not have forgotten the hurt of losing her, but he’d been able to bury it deep inside, along with so many other troubling thoughts and feelings that had tormented him since childhood. But with Pat’s arrival seven months ago, those feelings had been forced to the surface, compelling him to look back again. Slowly, he’d begun to feel as though he could imagine those blue eyes, that beautiful heart and spirit once more. Only now without the horrible emptiness that had consumed him when she’d left him; that awful ache and loneliness that had enveloped him, nearly destroying him.

Now, there was Veronica. So much about her reminded him of Siobhan; her spirit, her dark beauty. Was he trying to recapture that feeling with Siobhan again? Or was he seeing Veronica for herself, caring and loving her for her own sake, and not for that of an old flame, now banked to old, dying-out embers? He knew he’d never forget Siobhan. But he was surprised that his heart was allowing him to really think of someone in that same way again. Something beyond a casual affair, to ease physical needs, instead reaching far deeper for other needs he’d fought hard for fifteen years to deny.

Was it possible to find that kind of love again? It made him think of his father, and the loss of the three women he’d dearly loved. Ben was living proof it was conceivable to persevere, to allow yourself to love more than once, or even twice. Adam had always believed his father was a braver man than he; that he couldn’t open himself up to that again, it just hurt too much. But perhaps, he’d just needed time to allow himself to heal.

Or, it could be that the arrival of his son had forced him to face certain things about himself he’d previously pushed away from, in fear, or denial. His son, his and Siobhan’s. While the stresses and difficulties they were experiencing were uncomfortable, Adam knew there were worse yet to come. What about when the time came to really counsel his young son about the proper behavior with young ladies? He heaved a deep sigh as he realized he was the poorest possible role model. How could he possibly teach his son the rules when his son existed because he himself had not followed them?

Poor Pat. He frowned as he considered his young son, so unhappy right now. He supposed he must have felt like that at fourteen; for different reasons, perhaps, and maybe he hadn’t been quite as belligerent as Pat, but just as angry and confused. He sighed deeply.  He knew he wasn’t handling this situation with his son very well.  He studied the lake and felt like he was in the deepest part, with the water lapping over his head.

“Now who sounds like they need a friend?”

He started and turned. Veronica was beside him, wrapped in her shawl. Giving in to impulse, he smiled and put an arm around her shoulders to draw her gently beside him, so both could look out at the view.

“Just thinking,” he said quietly.

“About?”

“Oh, a lot of things… what the last twenty-five years have meant for me, and what might be ahead.”

Veronica laid her head on his shoulder. They stood quietly for a moment, and Adam’s desire began to peak again. After a few minutes he turned to look down into her dark eyes with his own and saw a matching passion there.

Without thinking, he bent closer and kissed her gently. She returned the kiss, and then rested her forehead on his chest, closing her eyes.

“Veronica,” he breathed, “we’d better stop now or I won’t be able to—”

She raised her head once again placed a finger to his lips. “This time…” she said softly, “I don’t want you to stop.”

He put her away from him just slightly and stared into her eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Adam, I’m sure.” She brought her hands up to his face, cupping his face and drawing him down to her.

= = =

Patrick tethered Black Jack further back from the old shack and inched forward, crouched low, using the thick scrub for cover as he slowly covered the scrubby, sandy ground that surrounded the knoll near the building.  In places, he dropped to his belly in order to remain unseen; winter had denuded much of the brush, leaving him unprotected from view.  And unprotected was something he did not enjoy being; he’d left his rifle at home, after all. Who needs a rifle in school? As a consequence, he warily approached the knoll, not sure of what he’d find. He peered up carefully over the edge of the knoll, taking in the sight of the buggy and horse.

Startled, he squinted at the animal.  Jeez, was that horse old Sandy? He saw the cook fire with the stewpot. And he heard… voices? Yes, more than one.  And, it sounded like a man and a woman’s voice.  What the hell…?

He carefully eased up a bit more to look down toward the lake where he heard the voices more clearly rising from.

And promptly wished he hadn’t.

Patrick gaped in shocked amazement to see his father in a passionate embrace with Wendy’s mother. Adam’s arms were around her, hers were first close to his chest, then wrapping around his back, clinging as they kissed deeply, barely coming up for air. Pat sank back a moment behind the knoll, feeling as though he’d been violently punched in the gut. All these months out here, never had his dad expressed more than passing admiration for a woman. Suddenly, all that had changed.  This woman had stirred his father, and Patrick was surprised to note he resented it.

Unbidden, images of his mother barraged him, memories of all the years of her solitude and loneliness. Even of the years of her trying to find happiness with others, like Ray Connelly, Tom Ryan, and even Jimmy O’Halloran…and failing because she couldn’t remove Adam Cartwright from her mind.

Crazily, those feelings careened along side by side with his own feelings of anger and abandonment as a small boy, wondering why he couldn’t have a Da like other boys, trying to understand why he was out in the cold, left without a protector beyond his mother.   All the feelings that had swirled around him in his first thirteen years every time he thought of this man who was his father. Swallowing hard, Patrick turned back to watch the two again, fighting down his feelings.

Pat sank a little lower when he saw the couple suddenly break apart and stare at each other intensely. With a swift movement, Adam effortlessly scooped Veronica up into his arms, right there at the water’s edge, and gazed at her once again, kissing her gently, then walked slowly with her to shack, her head resting quietly on his shoulder. Adam kicked the door to the shack open, then hooked his foot around it again to close it, shutting out the world….and his son.

Alarmed, Pat waited. And waited some more. But they didn’t come back out. Pat strained to listen but was too far away to hear much of anything. Wearily, he sank onto his haunches and buried his head in his hands. Pat was no babe in the woods; he had a pretty good idea of what was going on in that shack.  And he couldn’t really blame his father; Mrs. Carter was a beautiful woman. He tried to think this through: his father was an adult, he had a right to a life.

But still, Pat felt … robbed somehow, though he was too rattled to really be able to put his finger on why.

Dad was honorable.  He was a good man.  He always did the right thing.  He wasn’t prone to sudden impulses like Uncle Joe.  He was… well, dammit, he was Dad!

It was just that he felt as though the father who always did the right thing, who was always honorable, had been nothing more than a sham. Patrick felt cheated, lied to and betrayed. But when he tried to think of a reason why, he couldn’t come up with one. After all, his father was just being… well, being a man!  Pat had grown up in a saloon and brothel, after all.  It wasn’t like he wasn’t aware of men’s actions!

Pat squeezed his eyes shut, miserably holding back his tears, frustrated with himself.

“Aw, Dad,” he whispered in misery, “you ain’t the guy I thought you were.” And there was nothing his father could do, or say, to change that.  The man he believed to have been a perfect father would never come back.

Stop acting like a stupid kid!

He turned around and quietly slid down the knoll, resting his back against the cold ground, shaking his head, then staring up at the sky.

Wearily, Pat hauled himself to his feet and began the long trek home.

= = =

Ben decided that he should really have a talk with Adam; the tension in this house was getting thick enough to cut with a knife.  He stood in the kitchen listening to the cadence of the wood chopping in the yard and shook his head sadly. How many times had he heard Adam, Hoss or Joe attacking the woodpile like that, trying to work off a temper or a troubled mind?

From the kitchen window, the man studied his grandson in worry, also thinking of the toll this situation was taking on the whole family.  Hoss had taken to spending as much time away from the house as possible, and Joe was enjoying the fireworks way too much. Ben knew that there was something bothering his young grandson, more than just his usual peppery mood, and, he believed, more than his resentment from his caning earlier in the week.

What was harder for Ben to fathom was why Adam’s usual good sense when assessing his boy’s behavior seemed to be abandoning him. It certainly made it harder for Patrick to approach him when he believed his father would bite his head off or be unable to understand.

Ben sipped his coffee, hearing the front door bang, and walked out toward the great room.

Adam was unbuckling his gun belt, laying it quietly on the sideboard. Ben raised an eyebrow; Adam wore a quiet smile and seemed relaxed and refreshed.

“Well, you look pretty happy. Did the negotiations go well?” he asked, sipping his coffee.

Startled, Adam glanced up at his father and grinned. Happy? Oh, yes, he was happy! “Just fine, Pa,” he nodded. “Gregory agreed to our terms, and we have sixteen weeks before we have to start delivery.”

“Sixteen… how on earth did you talk him into giving us four months?” crowed Ben, a big smile on his face. That would make it entirely possible to hit the deadlines on that contract!

Adam cocked an eyebrow of his own and smiled. “Charm, Pa. My irresistible charm.”

Ben was about to retort in good-natured sarcasm when they both heard the kitchen door slam shut. Patrick came through, his arms full of wood and the ever-present scowl on his face. He didn’t even look at his father or grandfather as he walked into the great room and loaded the kindling and logs into the woodbox.

He brushed off his hands into the hearth, careful not to get chips and wood dust on the rug and shrugged out of his jacket. The silence was deafening as Pat carefully walked around his father to hang up his coat.

“Chores finished already?” asked Adam, pleasantly.

“Yes, sir,” grunted Pat, as he turned around toward the stairs. He stopped only when his father gently took his arm.

“Whoa,” said Adam easily. “How about a hello?”

Pat turned to his father, carefully removing his arm from his father’s grasp. “Hi.” Knowing what he knew, it was impossible for Patrick to look at his father without giving away his resentment and anger, so he decided not to look at him at all.

Ben’s jaws ground together, his brows knit in frustration.  He shook his head, walking away toward his desk.

Pat felt a pang of remorse at having upset his grandfather, and looked after him, hesitantly, then the scowl returned and he kicked at the floor with his boot.

“Can I go now?” he asked, impatiently.

“Pat, look,” sighed Adam, his hands on his hips. “If you’re trying to drive us all crazy in order for you to get out of being confined to your room, forget it. It isn’t going to happen.”

Pat rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, I know,” he replied, just a hair short of insolently. “Look, I don’t gotta be happy about this, do I?” he demanded.

Adam’s lips thinned. “No, I suppose you don’t,” he replied quietly. “But you have no right to impose your bad moods on everyone around you.”

“Well, then suppose I just go to my room, so I ain’t imposin’,” snapped back Pat, turning and stomping to the stairs.

“Patrick!’ Adam was beside him in two strides and caught his arm again, turning the boy around on the first step, making him nearly tall enough to look him in the eye.

Had Pat been less upset, he’d have noted the darkening of his father’s face, the brows knitting together and the unmistakable firming as he jaw clenched.  But at the moment, Pat was doing his best to simply not completely explode.

“Look, young man, I’m sorry you’re having a rough time, but I’d like to remind you that I’m not the one who broke restriction, who tried to deceive their father, or made pulling nasty practical jokes a new art form. If you’re upset with whoever did do those things, I suggest you go upstairs, look in the mirror and have it out with your reflection!”

That brought the boy’s eyes up and he glared directly into his father’s face. “I could say the same thing,” Patrick returned hotly, his blue eyes blazing.

“What?” demanded Adam, confused, thoroughly startled into blankness. Then he felt his temper bubble strongly at the boy’s demeanor. Growing red in the face, his hands found themselves planted on his hips, glaring into his son’s face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’,” Pat mumbled, looking down again, simmering. “Forget it.”

“Pat, what’s got into you?! You’ve been surly, difficult to get along with and downright mean the last few days. Nobody can talk to you without getting a smart-mouthed reply!”

“I been stuck in my room since Friday!” Pat grunted, crossing his arms over his chest belligerently. “I ain’t talked to anybody! And anytime I do try to talk, either I get laughed at, yelled at or told I’m having an … an … ‘inappropriate conversation!’”

Adam eyed his young son. “So, that’s still bothering you, is it? Patrick, I told you that the Ponderosa is not going to finance—”

“Yeah, you told me, all right!” snapped Pat, his feet set wide apart on the stair, arms akimbo. “Illegal insurrection!” The boy was ready for a fight now, and devil take the hindmost, he was going to have it! “Tell me somethin’, Dad…just how goddamn legal was the Continental Congress, huh? The American Revolution? Your ancestors were fightin’ the British, too! Probably your own great-grandfather! How can you stand there and tell me mine shouldn’t’a had the same chance at freedom?!”

“Don’t take that tone of voice with me, young man,” said Adam sternly, though Pat’s words dug at him. “And watch your language!”

“That’s right, when somebody says somethin’ that’s honest, just slap ‘em down! Ain’t that what you Orangemen always do?” sneered Pat, waving a hand derisively.

He took advantage of the shock the epithet raised on his father’s face to suddenly push past Adam on his way down the steps again, restlessly stalking in front of the fireplace. Whirling back, his fists clenched, he declared, “From what I hear, there used to be a time when other people’s suffering mattered to you! Uncle Joe said durin’ the Civil War you wanted to join the Union Army to free the slaves!”

Ben winced; oh, Joe…!

“Just what in hell d’ya think Corrigan’s doing?! He’s freeing the slaves, too! Except they ain’t got brown skin! They look like Eamon Corrigan, and Tim O’Brien, and… and Siobhan Riordan!”

The boy quickly skirted around his grandfather’s leather chair to keep out of his father’s reach when, at the mention of Siobhan’s name, Adam strode directly to his son. Despite that advance, Pat’s belligerent and fierce expression didn’t abate.

Ben stood near his desk area, helplessly watching the drama unfold, feeling as though he was reliving every fight with an adolescent Adam he’d ever had as he saw the pain and hurt in his grandson’s eyes and the answering anger in those of his son. Their arguments had been hot and angry, too; oh, the words and the reasons had been different, to be sure, but all the contradictory emotions were there. It hurt as much to remember them as it did to watch this new generation of Cartwright men battling for power and position. Adam had never openly challenged him as directly as Patrick was doing now, however, and Ben worried where these fireworks might lead. And if these words said in anger would open wounds that might never heal between the boy and his father.

“Stop it, Pat,” Adam said, his voice ominously quiet and his face white, his dark eyes inflamed. “Don’t say another word, or you’ll regret it!”

“The only regrets I got is believin’ that you had some honor!” Pat shouted. “But I guess we both know different, don’t we? Values and morals are words you only use when you’re yellin’ at me! Not for yourself! Oh, no! You toss ‘em out the window when the mood strikes, don’t ya? Just like everybody else, you take what ya can get when ya see it!”

Patrick was so angry that, unthinking, he came out from behind the relative safety of the chair losing his physical advantage as he openly challenged his father, a good six inches taller, with a ferocity that made the youngster seem taller than he was. His memories of his feelings about what he’d seen that afternoon at the lake pushed all sensible thought from his mind and he lashed out, his next words as sharp and stinging as the flails of a whip. “After all, I’m livin’ proof you ain’t above a roll in the hay when it’s available, ‘specially with an Irish barmaid!”

The violent slap across his cheek snapped Pat’s head back and rocked him a few steps on his heels, nearly toppling him backward into the hearth. But the boy regained his footing, shaking his head a moment to clear it, the imprint of his father’s hand blazing on his cheek, and glared at the man, his fists clenched at his sides. There was absolutely nothing childlike about the fourteen-year-old facing the bigger man; this battle was man to man.

“Adam!” Ben cried, starting to come between them, but a single fury-ridden glance and an outflung finger pointing from his son rooted him to the floor momentarily. Then, grimly, Ben strode forward, despite his son’s warning and stood between them.  “Both of you, that’s enough!”

“Stay out of this, Pa!” Adam growled. Quick as a snake he reached around his father and furiously grabbed this son by his shirtfront, hauling him around and bringing him up on the toes of his boots as he glared down into his face

Ben remained at the ready, watching, feeling helpless, though prepared to intervene if necessary.  Adam… dear God, boy, use your reason!

“Don’t you ever, ever talk about your mother like that again! How dare you insult her that way? What the hell is wrong with you! She was no floozy, and you know it! She worked hard, and she was the most honorable person I ever knew. I would never have hurt her! And let me tell you something, you arrogant, foul-mouthed little brat, she’d be ashamed of you right now!” Adam released him with an angry push, that nearly tottered him again, furious that he still saw defiance and not shame or at least a little contrition in those hot blue eyes. “Go to your room, and don’t come down again until you’re ready to apologize!”

Pat’s breathing was ragged and fast, the white mark of his father’s palm now reddening, a stark contrast to his pallor. Without another word he stalked past his father and up the stairs to his room, slamming his door behind him.

Adam put a shaking hand out to the fireplace and leaned against it, spent from the intensity of the argument, his head down and his eyes closed.

“What in the world was that?” demanded Ben, coming around to the side of his son.  “What was the boy talking about?”

“I don’t know.” Adam lifted his head and stared at his father. “And I didn’t see much ‘boy’ in that just now, did you?” he demanded. “He’s got a mean streak a mile wide!”

His black brows knit together, Ben glared at his eldest son.

“I think it must be something more than that,” ground out his father tightly. “Pat’s a sensitive boy. Ignoring it or expecting him to just ‘get over it’ hasn’t worked, has it!?”

Adam clamped his mouth together, afraid if he didn’t he would say something totally unforgivable to his father.

“There’s absolutely something bothering him, and I’m sure our reluctance to help support Corrigan has something to do with it!”

“Well, he’d better get over it,” Adam snapped, straightening his shoulders again. “I won’t tolerate it!”

“Won’t tolerate what?” demanded Ben, hands on his hips. “His rudeness, or his arguments? They were well thought out, you know.”

“Pa, stop!” said Adam through tightly clenched teeth.

Ben frowned, realizing that Adam was too angry to reason with. “Alright, Adam, fine.  I’ll stop.” Ben waved his hand in frustration and started to walk away. But he couldn’t let it go, and turned around, punctuating his words with a finger firmly poking his son in the chest.  “But I still say there’s something bothering that boy and if you don’t get to the root of it there’s going to be the devil to pay. Otherwise, you’ll find this lovely little scene is only the beginning!”

 

[1] As Ye Sow, Pat Thompson-Dumas, 1997

[2] rírá – Irish word for ‘uproar’ or ‘hubbub’

 

---

 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

Friday morning dawned cold and rainy. Pat stared out his bedroom window at the weather which seemed to mirror his mood while he buttoned his shirt. He’d gotten next to nothing for sleep the night before. He’d been too upset after the violent argument with his father to eat and too wound up to sleep. His father had left him strictly alone. Dad had meant what he said, no doubt about it.

Pat had spent most of the early part of last evening feeling sorry for himself, building up a tremendous boiling pot of anger, but even his formidable stubbornness began to crack under the stress of keeping his own words from echoing in his brain. When the chink in his armor widened enough to allow them to ring in his mind, he was done in. The only tears wrested from him after all the misery of yesterday were shed last night in the dark as he thought of the way he’d spoken of his mother. Dad was right, he had insulted her. He’d been willing to say anything he could think of to hurt his father, and instead had hurt the memory of his Ma, which had in turn hurt himself.

The boy shook his head and grimaced as he tucked his shirttail into his pants. Never had ever met anyone who could piss him off more than his old man! He sank down onto his bed and pulled on his boots,.

Also rolling around in his thoughts all last night and this morning were the revelations from Corrigan. His mother and Corrigan’s son…what could have been. He bit his lip as he pulled his mother’s image into his mind, seeing her again as she’d been before she died. He thought of her features and then of his own. Except for his nearly blue-black hair and his intensely blue Riordan eyes, no one would have ever connected the two as mother and son. He got to his feet and walked to his bureau, looking at the mirror hanging on the wall. He studied his face and sighed.

There was no mistaking whose son he was. Pure Cartwright.

The shape of his eyes and brows, his nose, his mouth, even the shape of his head. He couldn’t look more like his father if he’d been his father! And so much more than his looks… he had his father’s hardheaded stubbornness, his dry sense of humor, his attention to detail. He fervently wished to God he had his father’s common sense, or he’d never have found himself in this mess to begin with.

If he hadn’t had Adam Cartwright for a father…well, he wouldn’t be.  It wasn’t just his looks.  According to Corrigan, he might have grown up in Ireland, not Hell’s Kitchen. So much of who and what he was rested in his mother’s struggle to raise him in the squalor of the New York City slums. Patrick sank slowly onto his bed again, knowing that if he’d been Corrigan’s grandson instead of Ben Cartwright’s, everything he was, everything he’d ever been, simply wouldn’t exist anymore. How could he wish for that? It’d be like wishing he’d never been born.

These thoughts had also made him rfriendship butse members of the family downstairs were also a part of him now: his Uncle Hoss, whom he loved dearly, despite his propensity for making him the butt of his practical jokes; his Uncle Joe, with whom he had more of an armed truce than a friendship, but knowing full well that Joe’d be there for him in a heartbeat if he needed him; his grandfather, whom he adored. And his father… Jaysus…

Corrigan would be leaving tomorrow or the next day. He had to make up his mind. Would he run off with Corrigan, or would he stay and face the music? And, brother, what a tune it would be! Patrick shivered as he thought over his crimes: cutting school, lying to his father, forging his father’s signature, lying to his teacher in a roundabout way, making his friends lie for him…and that lovely little scene they’d had yesterday. It galled him, but if he was going to get to Corrigan and make any decisions about whether to stay or to go, he’d have to swallow his pride this morning and spit out something that at least sounded like an apology.  Oh, God….     

Half an Irishman, half an Orangeman. His future didn’t look promising, no matter which way he went. Maybe he oughta go with Corrigan, where he wouldn’t be causing so much unhappiness. Pat decided his leaving would be best for everyone. Setting his face in a stubborn scowl, Pat gathered his things and prepared to face Corrigan with the news that he’d have a new fighter in his crusade.

= = = =

Downstairs, Adam and Hoss were the only ones left at the breakfast table. Ben and Joe had gotten an early start, since they were supervising the hiring of the hands for the cattle drive to begin next week.

Hoss was, as usual, simply finishing his oversized breakfast and that made him a bit late getting out the door. Adam was quietly waiting, hoping that his son would come to his senses and make his apologies. He’d half-waited the night before for Pat to follow his usual pattern and appear late in Adam’s room, self-consciously and uncomfortably saying sorry in the privacy of his father’s bedroom. It didn’t happen. Consequently, Adam had gotten very little sleep, worrying about his young son, wondering if he’d lost his temper over nothing yesterday.

Pat’s words had nagged at him… ‘a roll in the hay’. The uncomfortable implications that phrase raised made him think of Veronica.  He examined his thoughts and actions over and over again to be sure that wasn’t all their love-making had been yesterday. No; no doubt about it. Adam intended to ask Veronica to marry him, if she’d have him. This was no casual physical relationship, any more than it had been with Siobhan. He wondered idly how his half-grown son would react to having a stepmother. Well, if Patrick couldn’t accept it, that was just too bad. He’d have to learn to live with it.

Adam, startled, realized he could have been talking about himself, twenty-five years earlier when Marie had first appeared on the scene. God, how he’d resented her! He’d made her life a hell for the first two years of her time at the Ponderosa; once Joe had been born, they’d managed a wary truce. It wasn’t until Adam had been much older, long after she was gone, that he’d begun to realize that it was his own latent adolescent yearnings for Marie that had muddied the waters of his acceptance of her as his stepmother.

“Hey, Adam.”

Brought back into the present, Adam snapped his head back to his younger brother. “Sorry, what was that?”

“You was a million miles away,” smiled Hoss, sipping his coffee. “You okay?”

Adam sighed. “Yeah, I suppose so. Just thinking.”

“About Pat?”

Adam nodded, “Among other things,” he said quietly, pushing his food around on his plate. He had no appetite; he wasn’t surprised considering the turmoil he was going through right now. Maybe it was true what they said about being in love putting a fellow off his feed.

“Pa told me about yesterday,” Hoss sighed, pushing his plate away; three heaping servings of everything had been enough. “That kid’s so much like you it’s scary.

Shocked, Adam picked up his head in surprise. “Are you kidding?” he asked incredulously. “I never talked to Pa the way Patrick spoke to me last night!”

“Only ‘cos you grew up knowin’ Pa would skin you alive and tack your hide to the barn door if you tried,” countered Hoss, leaning back in his chair. “Just ‘cos you didn’t dare give Pa the same kinda lip Pat gave you yesterday don’t mean you weren’t thinkin’ you’d like to.”

Adam cocked his head to one side and looked at his brother in amusement. “I can’t decide whether you’re insulting me by calling me a coward compared to my son, or if you’re saying I’m just smarter at knowing when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Neither,” shrugged Hoss. “Jest different. ‘Sides, Pat’s temper is hotter than yours. He’s a thinker, too, like you, but he’s also saddled with a fuse like Joe’s… short! He get that from his ma?”

Adam chuckled. “Oh, yeah… Siobhan could get mad faster than anybody I ever met, except maybe Marie.”

“You think maybe you’re bein’ a little hard on him? Trying to force him into bein’ somebody he ain’t?” asked Hoss very quietly.

Adam planted his elbows on the table and rubbed his temples with his fingers. “I don’t know, Hoss. I don’t think I am, but he’s sure bucking me hard,” the tired father sighed.

“Like he’s gettin’ too much spur, maybe?” mused Hoss. “You’re one of the best horse breakers I know, Adam. You know full well too much spur and yanking too hard on the reins makes a young bronc buck harder and longer than bringin’ him along gentle.”

Adam chuckled and raised a sardonic black brow. “Are you taking over preaching parables on Sunday, younger brother?”

“Nope,” grinned Hoss. “Just tossin’ some o’ your own back at ya, older brother. Think about it. You used ta get riled at Pa for what you called ‘lettin’ Joe get away with it.’ Maybe Pa just knew that pushin’ Joe any harder would make him worse and he decided let him learn on his own.”

“Learning on his own got him into pretty serious trouble sometimes,” said Adam soberly, thinking back on some of Joe’s escapades.

“Yeah, but they were his mistakes, Adam. He took the consequences and he learned from it. Better than any time me, or you or even Pa tried to protect him from makin’ ‘em, if ya remember. Course, Joe did have a whole passel o’ mistakes to learn from, I’ll grant ya that.”

Adam sighed and looked into his cup, as though hoping to read the future in his coffee grounds. He said nothing, pondering what his brother was saying. Hoss decided to let him think on it and started to rise, then turned as he saw his young nephew coming down the stairs. Hoss’ face grew concerned as he watched the boy slowly approach the table.

Pat looked utterly exhausted. His face was pale, his eyes were circled, and he looked like he hadn’t slept at all. Pat met his uncle’s eye and managed a small smile. “Mornin’, Uncle Hoss,” he said quietly.

“Mornin’, Pat,” smiled Hoss. “I’ll see you out at the branding corral later, ‘kay Adam?”

Adam nodded absently, getting to his feet. He slowly turned to his son, his expression calm and bland. His son’s obvious discomfort and unhappiness bothered him, too.

Patrick couldn’t read his father’s mood. But it was getting late; he might as well get this over with. “I’m sorry for the way I talked to you yesterday,” he muttered, his hands jammed in his pockets and his eyes on the floor. He glanced up at his father for some idea of what he was thinking, then dropped his eyes again when he couldn’t gauge his father’s mood.

“I think we both got more upset than we needed to,” nodded Adam in return, relieved that apology finally came through. He didn’t know what he would have done if Patrick had remained stubborn about it this morning. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

Startled, Patrick looked up again.

“I guess my reluctance to help Corrigan must seem pretty contradictory to you,” he said quietly. “Patrick, your mother told me all about the miseries she left behind in Ireland. When I asked her marry me, I wanted her to come out here, to be able to leave all that behind. I guess… well, I guess having Corrigan here, stirring all that up in you, just reminded me too much of what lost your mother to me.”

Pat gazed at his father, thinking hard. Drawing in a quiet breath, he tipped his head to one side, and asked softly, “How can ya leave behind part of who you are?”

Adam looked at him, intrigued. “Is that what you feel I’ve been trying to make you do? Leave behind a part of yourself?”

Uneasily, Patrick frowned and shrugged. “I dunno… maybe,” he conceded. This conversation was heading nowhere the boy wanted to go right now.  He didn’t need anything else to complicate his thoughts at the moment, and his father doing some weird turnaround would definitely complicate things.

“Pat, I’ll make a deal with you,” said his father, uncomfortably forcing himself to give in a little. “You promise to knock that chip off your shoulder you’ve been carrying around the last few weeks, and I’ll promise to try harder to … to… oh, I don’t know. I guess to just let you be yourself. Deal?”

Adam was disappointed at the lack of warmth in the, “Sure, Dad,” that Pat muttered in reply as he walked toward the door to put on his coat.

But then Adam closed his eyes in shame, remembering the slap he’d delivered. Shaking his head, Adam firmed his mouth. He supposed he ought to be pleased his kid was talking to him at all.

Pat read the silence as success; he’d managed to keep his father from feeling complacent; Dad hadn’t won this time. Pat hung onto that feeling of triumph, not allowing himself to analyze it. In the very back of his mind, he knew he’d need it when the time came for his sharp mind to justify running off.

Without saying good-bye, Patrick donned his hat, picked up his saddlebags filled with schoolbooks he wouldn’t use again today, and walked out the door.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Patrick sat quietly in the Bucket of Blood’s back room, sipping a beer, and thinking. He hadn’t yet told Corrigan about his decision. Eamon had been busy packing up his things, and his right-hand man, Michael, was supervising the shipping of their larger items: trunks, large cases, and the like.

The money had been banked and a cashier’s check issued. Corrigan was pleased with the amount, but glanced over at the boy, knowing that the five thousand dollars sitting in the Cartwright safe could certainly sweeten the pot quite a bit.

“Padhraic, hand me that bag over there, will you, lad?” he asked easily, hoping to get the boy to open up. Eamon Corrigan had watched men, young and old, and their reactions for years and knew that there was a major decision either being made or being thought over in the boy’s mind.

Pat slowly got to his feet and obeyed, walking the bag over to the older Irishman. Eamon pretended to be unconcerned, casual, and watched the boy out of the corner of his eye.

“You can look me in the eye, y’know,” Patrick said quietly with a small smile.

Corrigan chuckled. “Well, lad, you’ve had somethin’ on yer mind, t’be sure. I was just wonderin’ what it might be.”

“I’ve decided to take you up on your offer,” said the boy quietly, sipping his beer as he leaned against the bar, watching Corrigan pack personal items into the bag.

“Offer?”

“To join you.”

There; it was out.. With the words finally uttered, Pat felt himself relax.

Eamon Corrigan slowly turned to the boy. “I’ll not have ye runnin’ away, Paddy. It can’t be that way.” Bristling, Patrick scowled and started to speak, but Corrigan held up his hand to forestall him. “I mean it, Padhraic. It cannot be an escape ye seek. The work is too serious. Ye must be running toward something, not away from it, lad. Do ye understand what I’m tellin’ ye?”

Silently, Patrick studied the older man and nodded. Honesty, frank and clear-eyed, shone from his face.  “Yeah, I understand. I want to be part of what my mother and grandfather and uncles fought for.  Died for. The work ain’t done. I want to help.”

Corrigan looked deeply into the boy’s eyes. He saw no confusion, but he wasn’t dissuaded; he was sure the boy was running from something, but all of his life, he’d known men that had joined the cause to escape something that hadn’t allowed them peace in their lives. If Patrick had Riordan blood coursing through his veins, it was likely he’d be the same. Paddy Riordan had been a pacifist, ‘twas true. But the injustice of the plight of the Irish had still forced the man to fight; for his sons, for his daughter,  and for the daughters and sons of all of Ireland. Paddy had had the gift of seeing people as both a group and as individuals. It had been his undoing, in Eamon’s opinion. He was unable to set the pain of the one aside in order to justify the ruthlessness needed to make social change.

His grandson, from what Eamon was able to determine, did not suffer from that personality flaw. Corrigan had done some snooping around town and had learned that in the seven months Patrick Riordan Cartwright had been in Virginia City he’d established himself as a youngster who was unafraid to gain an end and later justify the means. With proper training, that would prove to be a strength in the boy’s growth as a Fenian insurrectionist.  Corrigan thought he could have been the one to do it, too. But… he firmed his lips.

“All right, Padhraic.” Corrigan leaned back against the bar. “And your family? Yer sainted father?”

“If we play this right he won’t know until I’m long gone.”

Corrigan cocked an eyebrow. “Will we, now? And how do ye propose to do that, lad?”

“You’re leavin’ tomorrow, right?” asked Patrick.

“Aye.”

“At night?”

“Right again. Ye win the prize,” said Corrigan dryly.

“Then we should have eight hours lead on ‘em. Where are ya heading. San Francisco?”

“Just outside. A ship will be picking me up at a less… public…. harbor,” smiled Corrigan.

“Better yet,” nodded Pat seriously. “Then they can’t trace us. I’m tellin’ ya, it’ll be a snap,” he said, illustrating with a snap of his fingers.

“And ye think they’ll follow ye, do ye?” asked Corrigan quietly, frowning slightly.

Pat sighed. “I’d like to think they would,” he muttered, looking at the top of the bar, then steeling himself and looking up at Corrigan. “But even if they do, they won’t find us. I’ll make damn sure of that.” Those Riordan blue eyes were almost steely gray in the dim light of the back room.

Corrigan eyed him seriously, then nodded quietly. Michael entered the room at the point, several carpet bags in his hands, an eyebrow rising to see Patrick here again.

“Ye’ll be climbing into one of the trunks next,” the young Irishman said dryly, glancing at Corrigan then back at the boy. “Isn’t it past the witchin’ hour, when ye have to get home before yer daddy knows you’ve been misbehaving?”

Pat bristled a little but knew that he was a low man in rank, and silently accepted Michael’s comments. One day, he’d have the man laughing out of the other side of his face, that was for sure!

“Yeah, I’m goin’,” he said lazily, getting to his feet.

“Padhraic?” Pat turned to Corrigan as he shrugged into his coat. “Do ye think ye could come back tonight at’all? All of the Fenians will be gatherin’ for a farewell drink, don’t ye know,” said Corrigan quietly.

“If ye are indeed t’be one of us, then ye should be there.” The old Fenian smiled at the boy, accurately hitting on exactly the bait needed to hook and reel him in.

Patrick’s eyes shone as he nodded. “I’ll be here!” he said enthusiastically, his chest swelling with pride, thrilled to be included with the rest. “What time?”

“Stroke o’ midnight,” declared Corrigan after a half-second of thought.

“You bet I’ll be here, Mr. Corrigan!” grinned Pat as he put on his hat. He glanced at the clock. “I gotta go, Michael’s right,” he said, seriously. His head high, Pat gazed coolly at the bartender. “Wouldn’t wanta be turnin’ into a pumpkin, after all.”

Michael’s lips thinned at the insolent tone and watched the youngster go in irritation. Once the boy was gone, he swung on Corrigan. “Ye’re a fool, Eamon!” he snapped, slamming the bags onto the floor beside him, angrily. “Ye can’t take that kid with us! The Carwtrights will be turning every town between here and New York upside down to find him!”

“I’ll handle the bloody Orange Cartwrights,” said Corrigan coldly, brushing a finger across his lips.

Michael, open-mouthed stared at the older man. “Eamon… dear God in heaven, Eamon. Think! The lad is not Sean!”

Glaring at the younger man, Corrigan’s eyes were hard as flint as he replied, “Is it jealous ye are, Michael Nolan?! Have I ever given ye reason t’believe that you’re any less in me estimation? Must ye be thrusting the death of me son in me face?!”

“God, Eamon,” groaned Michael, shaking his head in dismay. “How can we be draggin’ a wee spalpeen like that along w’us?”

“He’s fourteen, hardly an unweaned babe!” snapped Corrigan. “You leave the worryin’ t’me, Michael!”

Michael threw his hands in the air and gave up. “Whatever ye say,. ‘Tis not me affair,” he said gruffly, turning away, his face flushed. His back ramrod straight, Michael finished his packing.

Eamon wearily rubbed his eyes. He, too, had thought about Adam Cartwright and what his reaction to Patrick’s flight would be. But Eamon had been two steps ahead of Orangemen all of his days. He wasn’t likely to stop now.

“Michael, use yer head. We want that money out of that safe, do we not?” he asked softly, an eyebrow cocked.

“Aye,” replied Michael, his tone noncommittal.

“And who would be best to help me get it than Master Patrick?”

Michael, confused, stared at Corrigan. But his thought processes were as fast as his employer’s and dawn broke. “Dear God,’ he breathed. “Ye’re leadin’ him by the nose, ye are! Ye had no real intention of bringin’ him along with us!”

Eamon frowned into his glass.

Michael sagged a little, almost feeling sorry for the little amadan. “Oh, Eamon…t’is a very angry lad ye’ll be contendin’ with.”

“If I have to lead him with us all the way to the wharf, I will, but I’ll have that five thousand, Michael.” Corrigan sipped his cognac. “And when all is said and done, Master Padhraic Riordan Cartwright will have learned a valuable lesson.” He looked up at the other man. “Never to think with his heart; his grandfather made the same mistake and swung from a hangin’ tree for his pains. ‘Tis a favor I’ll be doin’ the lad, Michael. A hard lesson to learn, but necessary.”

Without another word, Corrigan rose to his feet and slowly walked out of the room, his shoulders sagging. Michael watched him go, unsure of which of the two would be more pained by the lesson: the boy, or the old Fenian.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

 

“Miss Masterson, I truly believe that it’s time to shut the school down for a short time,” said Mr. MacDonald seriously, looking at her attendance records. “There’s another five cases this week… Cassandra Yates, Thomas Sanders…Patrick Cartwright?!” he said in surprise, glancing up at her.

“Yes, we got a note from Adam Cartwright on Tuesday that Patrick woke up that morning with all the symptoms,” sighed Liz.

“Really,” mused MacDonald, dryly. “He looked fine when I saw him this afternoon.”

Liz slowly raised her head and stared at the school board president. “This afternoon?”

“Yes,” nodded MacDonald, his eyes narrowed. “I saw him riding out of town, as though all the devils in hell were chasing him, around 3:30 this afternoon. And you say you have a letter from his father?”

Liz walked to her desk and opened the drawer, pawing through papers and pulling out a sheet of foolscap, and handed it over to MacDonald.

He looked over the note, shaking his head. “In pencil? And on foolscap? Miss Masterson, let me assure you that Adam Cartwright would never have written a note to you this way,” he said thoughtfully, shaking the paper gently at her, with a small, grim smile. “Patrick Cartwright has struck again.”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Patrick walked to the woodpile behind the kitchen and saw that with about an hour’s work this afternoon, he’d be caught up until Uncle Hoss brought the new load of logs in tomorrow. Now that he’d made his decision, Patrick was determined to make sure he’d left his chores finished, everything shipshape. Stripping off his jacket, he got to it, working up a good sweat. In single-minded concentration, Pat focused on the chore, chips flying as his powerful shoulders bent to the task.

Adam watched him from the window, wondering what was going on in the mind of his young son. His face was so serious; not a scowl, not angry. Just a serious, sad expression. Adam hadn’t seen that look on his face in months, not since right after his mother had died. Hop Sing had to keep stepping around him and was beginning to get annoyed.

“You want watch boy, go outside!” scolded Hop Sing after walking all the way around the table four times in the last six minutes when a simple two steps the other way would have gotten him where he wanted to be.

Sheepishly, Adam flattened himself against the wall as Hop Sing bustled by, snapping in Chinese. Adam chuckled, shaking his head, and slipped carefully back into the dining room. His father was just rising from his desk, stretching.

“What was Hop Sing yelling at?” grinned Ben, coming over to the dining room table.

“Me,” sighed Adam, eyebrows cocked. Ben chuckled. “I was just watching Patrick … he’s putting a lot of energy into the woodpile this afternoon.” Adam walked to the fireplace, thoughtfully. “How did he seem when he came in from school today?”

“Quiet,” shrugged Ben. “He dropped his books off, got changed and went right out to his chores. Didn’t talk much.”

Adam shook his head. He just couldn’t keep up with the boy’s mood swings.

“Did you get a chance to talk with him this morning?” asked his father quietly.

Adam chuckled without humor. “Yeah, some. He wasn’t particularly communicative. I guess after yesterday I can’t really blame him.”

“As long as you can get him to talk to you, you’re doing all right,” said Ben quietly.

“He didn’t talk…much. I tried to explain why this thing with Corrigan bothers me so much,” sighed Adam, sitting down on the oak table and looking into the flames. “But he either wasn’t listening or just didn’t care.”

Ben walked over and stood beside his son, then rested a hand on Adam’s shoulder. “You can’t give up, son. Lessons often need to be reinforced over and over with boys that age. And you’ve had to talk through a bunch of them with him, from the concept of doing what has to be done even when you don’t want to, down to the premise of discipline handed down outside the home.”

Adam frowned, stiffening.

Ben tipped his head to the side. “You… you did explain why John had to get involved, didn’t you?”

Adam’s brow furrowed, as he tried to remember the sequence of events.

Ben closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging. “Adam… you remember Mr. Ohrbach, don’t you?”

Adam, flushing a little, glanced up at him. “Of course. In fact, I remembered it Monday morning while Pat was waiting his turn.” Adam swallowed.

“You didn’t talk to him about it beforehand?” Ben sat in his chair, staring intently at his son. “Adam…”

“Pa, he’s not five years old!” Adam protested. “He knew exactly what he did that was wrong!”

“No, he’s not!” rumbled Ben, purposefully. “But he’s also not been raised in the same circumstances as you were! Did it not occur to you that his concept of public punishment wasn’t getting his backside whacked in front of his schoolmates? That it was his mother being flogged?!”

Adam looked up in shocked surprise, then winced as his father’s words sank in and he sagged.

Ben sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. He rose to his feet and shook his head. Then he placed a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. “Well… as long as you can get him talking at all, you’re moving in the right direction. Give him some time, son. He’s confused and upset.”

“Yeah,” sighed his oldest son. He thought about what Hoss had said this morning and smiled to himself.

“What?”

“Oh, just thinking about something Hoss said this morning. Said I ought to consider easing up on the spurs.”

For a moment, Ben stood there, a bewildered expression on his face, then he drew the parallel and smiled.

“Not bad advice,” he nodded, raising his eyebrows. Squeezing his son’s shoulders, Ben ambled off toward the kitchen, leaving Adam to continue gazing in the fire.

---

 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

 

Hop Sing finished setting the table and called in the four Cartwright men and was carrying out platter after platter of supper just as Patrick came in the kitchen door, wiping his forehead on his sleeve, and pushing back a lock of his black hair. He was tired, but the job was done. He walked to the pump and washed his hands and rinsed his face.

He sniffed the air, closing his eyes. Hop Sing’s roast beef. What I wouldn’t give to be able to share supper with the family one last time…

He soberly walked out to the dining room, and saw everyone enjoying their meal, while Hop Sing put together a tray for him. He stood quietly to the side, waiting.

“Last night of solitary, huh, kid?” grinned Uncle Joe.

“Yeah,” he said softly, with a tiny smile. “Wish I could bust out.”

Hoss chortled and dug into his supper. Pat accepted his tray, thanking the cook, and walked upstairs.

Later, in his room, Pat tried to plan the best way to sneak out that evening without being caught. He finished packing the bag he’d take with him tomorrow, glancing around for any last-minute additions to the carpet bag. He glanced at his night table and saw the daguerreotype of his parents, encased in its gold frame. Standing beside it, he ran his forefinger down around the filigree frame, then sighed. No, that would have to be the last thing he packed before leaving. If his father came in, he’d notice that was missing first thing. He turned to his bookshelf and tossed in a couple of his favorites; titles that had become like friends to him. Having them with him, he hoped, would keep his resolve strong as he traveled with Corrigan. A piece of home.

He quietly pushed the bag into his wardrobe and laid down on his bed, starting on his back, then tiredly turned over onto his stomach and buried his face in his pillow.

He heard a knock on his door and wearily pushed himself up on his elbows.

“Come in.”

His father poked his head around the door. “Finished your supper?” he asked, peering at the tray on the desk, the plate still half-full.

“Yeah, it was good,” murmured Pat, forcing a smile. “Thank you.”

Dad pondered him for a moment, then came over to sit on the bed beside him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he nodded, rolling over onto his back.

Adam smiled, but tilted his head a little to the side, considering the boy. “I figured you’d be thrilled, no more evenings stuck in your room.”

Pat sighed; boy, Dad, if you only knew! “Yeah, well, I guess I’m just tired. It’s… uh… been a long week. I think I’m gonna read a little and hit the sack early.”

Adam continued to gaze at him but Patrick was able to perfectly maintain the quiet facade. Giving up, the man  wearily got to his feet. He stood over his son, and sighed, feeling defeated. “If you need to talk, you know where I am.” He headed to the door.

“I thought I had to stay in my room,” his son answered quietly with a small smile, an eyebrow cocked.

Adam came back to him the bed and studied him, seriously, then leaned over, stroking his cockscomb of hair off his forehead.  “If you need to talk,” said his father, very gently, “you just come to me. Okay?”

Pat swallowed hard, lowered his eyes and nodded. “Okay,” he managed to choke out softly. He opened his eyes, and despite his best effort, tears welled. “Thanks, Dad.”

Adam grew more worried and sat back down. “Hey, buddy,” he said gently, putting his big, strong hand over his son’s slightly smaller one tenderly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Pat struggled and got his emotions back under control. “Honest, Dad, it’s just been a real rough week,” he gruffly, swiping at his damp eyes with a shirt sleeve. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Adam sat for a moment longer, then squeezed his son’s hand. “All right. Get a good night’s sleep, okay?” He got to his feet and smiled at his young son, picking up the supper tray. “See you in the morning, son.”

Pat nodded, smiling back wanly. When the door closed behind his father, his eyes closed and he sighed sadly.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Joe glanced uncomfortably at the dancers, where even Hoss was having a good time dancing with Sarah Jane Martin, and managing not to step on her toes. Everyone seemed to be having a wonderful time… except Liz and him.

“Liz, look, I don’t know what I’ve done to make you upset, ” he began, concerned and worried, “but I -”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, it isn’t you,” she sighed, putting her small hand on his, “I’m just worried about something… someone….”

“Can I help?” he asked gently.

She sighed, a wry smile on her face, but even that faded quickly. “Not this time. Oh, Joe, I’m so sorry but it’s about Patrick.”

Joe stared at her in surprise for a moment. “Not again! What the heck has he done now?!” he demanded angrily.

“Hush!” she hissed, looking around. “Come on, let’s go outside to talk.”

Joe angrily got to his feet and escorted her toward the door, stopping long enough for her to gather her wrap.

“Now calm down,” she said, seriously, pulling her shawl firmly around her shoulders against the late February chill

“Liz, I am so sick and tired of that kid and his tantrums and his moods and his attitudes! He’s a brat!”

“Joe, please stop and listen to me!” she scolded. Joe furiously stared at his boot tips and forced himself to settle down. He drew a few deep breaths as Liz pulled her shawl higher around her shoulders and neck.

“Are you calmed down now?” she asked quietly.

He nodded silently, raising his head and staring out over the street. “So, what did he do in class now?” he asked tightly.

“Not a thing,” she answered quietly, after drawing in a deep breath.

Joe’s eyes swung back toward her, confused. “Then what—”

“He hasn’t done a thing in class because he hasn’t been in class.”

Joe’s eyes widened at her and his jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

She shook her head, looking down. “He hasn’t been in school since Monday. The last time I saw him was when I sent him home, sick.”

“But – but that’s crazy!” cried Joe, hands on his hips. “He’s been leaving every morning, coming home every afternoon – ”

“He’s obviously been playing hooky,” she said helplessly. She sighed and stared up at the stars for inspiration then at the handsome young man beside her. “Micah Devlin brought in a note Tuesday morning, saying he’d gotten it from ‘someone’ from the Ponderosa,” she said. Then she chuckled, ruefully. “I can guess who the ‘someone’ was.”

“What did the note say?” demanded Joe.

“That Patrick had awakened that morning with a runny nose and a fever, and it looked like it could be measles. Several of the hands have it, don’t they?”

“Yeah. Hank Meyers is real bad, Doc Martin says it’s pneumonia now,” affirmed Joe. Then he glanced at her, thinking, and he almost groaned. “Oh, no… He forged it, didn’t he? He signed Adam’s name?”

She nodded, miserably. ” I couldn’t believe it when Mr. MacDonald told me he’d seen Pat in town today. He asked to see the note and said that Adam would never have written it on cheap paper with a pencil.” She chuckled sadly to herself. “Frankly, that never occurred to me. I suppose I’m so used to seeing papers with writing in pencil … ”

“Oh, God, Liz, Adam’s gonna kill him,” breathed Joe, leaning back against the building.

She nodded sadly. “I’m sorry, Joe. Adam has to know, and I think it might be best if you told him before he had to hear it from Mr. MacDonald.”

Joe closed his eyes shaking his head. Adam would be so embarrassed. Angrily, he slammed his hand against the building. “What the heck has gotten into that kid?!”

“He’s mixed up and upset,” said Liz quietly. “He didn’t want to go to school in the first place, and it’s been nothing but misery for him. He hates it. And that awful caning on Monday didn’t help.”

“He’s fourteen years old,” said Joe sternly. “He’s got to learn that there are some things you just got to do!”

She smiled tenderly, touching his arm. “Didn’t you ever do anything stupid when you were fourteen?” she asked gently.

Joe glanced at her, and blushed, chuckling. God Almighty, if she only knew! He breathed in the cold air and saw her shivering. “Well, look, there’s nothing we can do about it tonight, anyway. Why don’t we just go into the dance and have a good time. I’ll tell Adam about it when I get home, if he’s still up. If not, I’ll tell him first thing in the morning.”

Liz sighed, unhappily.  She was disappointed in young Pat Cartwright, but just as much in herself for having been so gullible.  “Oh, Joe, I don’t know.  I don’t feel much like having fun… ”

“Now, Miss Schoolmarm, school ended at three o’clock this afternoon—”

“No, it didn’t,” she said wryly. “Mr. MacDonald closed the school early today. Too many children are out sick with the measles. That’s how he found out about Pat.”

Joe shook his head and chuckled. “You know, he might have gotten away with it if everyone else hadn’t gotten sick. Gotta give the kid credit, he plans a good prank.”

Liz rolled her eyes but giggled despite herself.

“There, you see? I knew you could remember how to laugh!” he grinned. “C’mon, I’ve been wanting to dance all night, and you, ma’am, have been standing me up. How about it?”

Liz turned her ear toward the music and listened, hesitating, then smiled and turned back to Joe. “Mr. Cartwright, I would be honored.”

They walked back into the dance hand in hand, and though Joe put a happy face on it, he was awfully worried about his young nephew. His older brother was definitely not going to be happy.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Patrick listened as his father and his grandfather moved around downstairs. He was frustrated when it seemed to take forever for them to come upstairs to bed. Usually on a Friday night, his grandfather would come to bed early but apparently with both Joe and Hoss out, he was going to be the good papa and wait up for his ‘boys.’ Despite his nervousness he had to chuckle to himself. He wondered if Granddad still checked on his father before going to bed!

Speaking of that, his father tended to peek in at him to make sure he was asleep before turning in himself, and considering how emotional he’d gotten earlier, Dad was likely to put in an appearance tonight. Patrick pulled off his boots and his shirt and hung it up, leaving on his socks and his pants, and slipped on one of his nightshirts. He was just in time, too, because he heard his father’s and grandfather’s voices as they came up the stairs. He scrambled to his bedside table and blew out his lamp, diving into bed and pulling up the covers, burying himself.

“Good night, Adam,” he heard his grandfather say warmly. “Sleep well, son.”

“G’night, Pa.” He heard his father come down the hall, stop in front of his door and quietly turn the handle. Pat lay still, feigning sleep. His father walked in quietly and stood beside the bed for a moment.

Adam gently reached out a hand to stroke his son’s hair.

“Sweet dreams, buddy. I love you.” He stood for a moment, lightly caressing his son’s cheek, then sighed and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

For a long time, there was silence in the room. Then Pat pushed the covers back and sat up in bed, pulling his knees up and, leaning his crossed arms on them, rested his head.

“Aw, damn,” muttered Pat, scowling into the dark.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

It was just after midnight when Patrick finally made it to the Bucket of Blood’s backroom. It had been nearly stripped by now, but there was a poker game going on, and Corrigan was in the middle of it.

Eamon was pleased and relieved to see Patrick finally there at the door, fingering the brim of his hat, looking exhausted. “Dear God in Heaven, lad!” he cried, drawing the boy inside. “’Twas beginnin’ t’ wonder if ye’d arrive at all, I was! Lads, gather round!” he crowed, an arm fondly around Patrick’s shoulders. All activity stopped, as they turned toward the older man with an arm around the young son of Adam Cartwright.

“‘Tis proud I am to welcome a new member to our midst! Padhraic Cartwright will be joinin’ Michael and me in our trek east and back to Ireland!”

Every man in the room had been briefed and sworn to secrecy. It was difficult for some; they’d been friends of the Cartwrights for years and knew that this would not set well with Adam. But their loyalty to their homeland was stronger. Many figured Adam would catch up with the three and regain custody of his son, anyway. It was a lark for the boy, and Eamon wanted it this way. That was good enough for them.

Several of the men eyed the boy sternly, and Pat coldly returned the gazes. He glanced back at Corrigan. “I’m sorry I’m late. I know it’s past midnight, but I couldn’t get away any sooner.”

“Not at’all, lad, not at’all,” the older man smiled. “Michael! Pour young Paddy a pint, if ye will! Lad, suppose ye get yerself into the game?”

Pat glanced at the table, he found a few welcoming faces in the throng, relaxed a bit and looked back at Corrigan. Then he grinned, nodded and slipped into an empty chair, pulling out his small wad of “poker money.” Even though his father had made it clear there was to be no more gambling, he’d slipped in now and again to play with Lafe, the owner of one of the livery stables. Lafe was about the only one who gave Pat any kind of a real challenge at poker, and Lafe liked the kid. Both kept their secret close to the chest.

Corrigan quietly walked over to the bartender. “Michael, lad,” he said softly, gesturing to him. The tall, lanky bartender came along side him. “I want ye to keep the lad’s glass full, don’t let it empty. Don’t make a big deal out of it and try yer damnedest to do it out of his sight. But see to it that he keeps drinkin’.”

Mike glanced at Corrigan. “You want the lad drunk, do ye?” he asked, dryly. “Is it not enough ye’re ripping him from his family, ye want his da to kill him, as well?” Michael had the good sense to blush under the severe scrutiny of his mentor. Sighing, the younger man nodded. “All right. It’s drunk ye want him, then.”

“Aye, I do, but not quickly,” said Corrigan sternly. “While under the influence, I’ll manage to wrest from him a promise to help with the liberation of his family’s wherewithal… then I’ll put him on his horse and send him home,” he chuckled.

In the course of about an hour, Pat drank a total of about five beers without realizing it. He knew he was getting a bit tipsy, but it was so gradual that he was drunk before he knew it. Around one-thirty in the morning, Corrigan sat beside him again with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses, pouring a shot; he’d been surprised, thinking after three beers the boy would be out cold.

“Let’s drink a toast!” he said jovially.

Blearily, Pat set his four cards (he’d insisted drunkenly that he could play just fine with only four cards, thank you very much) down on the table and swaying dizzily as he turned to the older man.

“A toast?” he asked thickly. Glory, but his tongue didn’t seem to want to work right! He giggled a little. It seemed remarkably funny…

“Aye, lad a toast,” said Corrigan with a grin; it wouldn’t be long now. He hauled Pat up on his wobbly legs and with his eyes gathered the other men up with him. “Here’s to Ireland, lads! Sliante!!”

With a Gaelic howl, the others at the table shouted their echoing toasts and each downed a shot of whiskey. Pat felt the shot glass pressed into his hand and frowned at it a moment. Then sighing, he desperately tried to raise the glass to his lips, but it seemed to go in the wrong direction…

“Damn thing,” he muttered, bringing his other hand up to guide the silly thing to his mouth and down it. His eyes widened in shock as it felt like a fire erupted in his stomach. Coughing desperately, he wheezed in air, his legs turning to jelly. Corrigan immediately slipped an arm around his back and under Pat’s arm to support him, grinning sadly. Poor wee amadán, he thought, you’re going to be sick as a dog in the morning…

“Good lad!” he approved, filling the glass again. “Listen, Paddy, lad, there’s something I’m needin’ to talk w’ye about.”

Blearily, Pat nodded. “Sure…wha.. whaddya wanna talk about?” he asked, frowning as the room spun.

“Well, it’s a little matter of financin’ yer trip, lad, ” said Corrigan quietly.

= = = =

An hour later, Patrick was completely and totally drunk. It had taken several tries, but Corrigan had managed to weasel a promise of theft out of Patrick. As expected, first the boy had balked, even inebriated, at stealing from his grandfather’s safe. But as Corrigan hammered at him the amount of money Ben Cartwright had; the wealth the family possessed compared to the average Irishman; how easily that money could be recouped; how Patrick’s allowance alone would support a family of six for a week in his mother’s village; how many medical supplies, clothing and food that five thousand could support. After all the wheedling and persuading – and the alcohol – Patrick caved in and agreed to help liberate the funds from the safe in the wee hours of Sunday morning when Corrigan and Michael Nolan came to fetch him.

Now, his promise completely forgotten along with most of everything else, Patrick was having a very hard time keeping on his feet, his eyes focused and awake. Corrigan had switched him from beer to whiskey halfway through the hour, and Pat was desperately finding the room swimming.

He didn’t notice that the room was now just about empty and had been for a while; the only ones remaining now were Patrick, Michael and Corrigan. Michael was aghast at the sheer volume of booze that Pat had consumed and was still upright, Eamon chuckling as he remembered the head for alcohol his old friend Paddy Riordan had had.

“And now, lad, a toast to yer sainted grandfather. Lads, let’s raise a glass to Padhraic Riordan, a true Patriot of Ireland!”

Corrigan eased the glass into Pat’s hands again.

“Oh, no, I don’ think I wan’ any,” protested Pat, shaking his head, and regretting it. He groaned, befuddled and fuzzy-brained, as the room spun around him.

“Lad, for shame!” scolded Corrigan, gently. “No toast to the man whose blood runs in yer veins? Yer sainted mother’s own da?”

Pat weakly looked at Corrigan and sighed. “He’d be ‘shamed o’me,” he frowned, nodding, and picking up the glass. This time, he was so inebriated that Corrigan, chuckling to himself, had to guide the glass to the boy’s mouth with his own hand.

“To Paddy Riordan!” Pat howled, knocking back the whiskey in one slug, tipping his head back, and kept on falling backward, out cold, right into the waiting arms of Michael.

Corrigan chuckled gently as he eyed the boy, now out like a snuffed candle, and lifted his glass. “To Padhraic Riordan, lad…and Padhraic Riordan Cartwright!”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“ ‘ He was born and bred in Ireland….’ “

“Patrick, shut yer mouth, ye silly spalpeen!”

“ ‘Jack Duggan was his naaaaammmmee…..’”

Corrigan had ridden out with Patrick to the Ponderosa. Halfway out, the fresh air had revived the boy a bit and he had been stubborn about which way was home, lengthening the ride. Corrigan had to draw on every bit of patience he had and, by 4:30 in the morning, they were just a stone’s throw from the Ponderosa ranch house.

Pat had left Black Jack at home, sure that when Uncle Hoss and Uncle Joe got back from the dance they’d notice him missing. It had damn near broken his heart to leave him, but he’d had no choice. He rode out on one of the ranch stock, broken to saddle but nothing exciting and certainly nothing any of the hands would come out to check on. It was this plug that Corrigan was leading by the reins as he held Pat in front of him on his own horse, one arm securely around the boy. Lord God, don’t let him start pukin’ on me, he prayed in desperation.

Pat continued to sing at the top of his lungs, horribly out of tune and mixing the words to about three songs at once.

“Dammit, Patrick, shut up!” hissed Corrigan, as he dropped the boy to the ground, the boy landing flopped like a ragdoll in the dirt, laughing his fool head off.

“I fell off!” he cackled.

Corrigan rolled his eyes and sighed, dismounting. He hauled up the other horse, and thanked God Pat hadn’t been heavier…he was still quite a dead weight. The boy must weigh nine stone! he grunted as he hefted the boy up into the saddle.

“Paddy! Can ye hear me?” he hissed, shaking the boy’s arm.

It took a moment, but Patrick finally realized that something was tugging on his arm and he turned in the saddle looking for whoever was behind him.

“Down here, ye fool!” Corrigan grated.

As the boy peered at him, fuzzily, Corrigan realized he had as much of Pat’s attention as was possible, under the circumstances.

“I want ye to ride home now, lad, just around the barn and into the yard. It’s sleepy ye are, lad, time to go to bed,” he said firmly.

Pat nodded. “I’m awful tired, Mr. Corrigan,” he agreed, sniffling.

“Aye, you are, lad and a good night’s sleep is what you need, but not until ye’re in yer own bed, lad, understand? Will you promise me, son?”

“Yeah…” nodded Pat, then regretting it. “Owww…. My head hurts….”

“You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, lad,” grimaced Corrigan, sending the boy into the yard. “Now lad, be ready at midnight tomorrow. Michael and I will be fetching ye then.  Can ye remember that?

“… ‘Member wha?” asked Pat fuzzily, weaving dangerously in the saddle.

“Midnight, lad. Michael and I will be here at midnight! Say it!” hissed Corrigan in exasperation.

“…Oh… yeah… .mi’night,” agreed Patrick, giggling to himself.

Corrigan sighed. There was nothing for it. He’d have to hope Patrick could remember their talk from earlier that evening. Shaking his head, Corrigan steadied the boy one last time, then said urgently, “Sing lad! Sing for all ye’re worth!” And luckily Pat heard him, beginning a delightful chorus of The Whistling Gypsy, singing it horribly out of tune but at the top of his lungs. Corrigan grinned; there was no way the household would sleep through that!

He watched as the boy amazingly held his seat on the horse and made it right up to the damned porch. Dear God, was the silly spalpeen plannin’ to ride the foolish horse into the house?!

Sure enough, lamps were winking on all over the house upstairs. Corrigan sighed sadly. Oh, lad, after yer daddy sees ye, ye’re goin’ to wish tomorrow’d never come. He sat back to watch the fireworks.

Patrick was trying to figure out what he was supposed to do next, while he sang. He was high up… on a horse? He giggled. Ridic’lous… well, o’ course I’m on a horse!

The front door flew open and out tumbled Ben with a dressing gown wrapped around him and Adam struggling into his boots, shirt open and pants unbuttoned at the waist. Ben’s eyes were wide as saucers and Adam’s jaw damn near hit his chest as he stared at the picture before him.

“Patrick?” Adam breathed, in amazement.

Patrick slowly brought his head around to look blearily at his father. “Uh oh…” he mumbled. Patrick did his best to sit up straight in the saddle and promptly tumbled off his mount.

Adam bolted forward, as Hoss and Joe, in various states of undress, hustled out the front door as well.

Ben still stood on the porch with an absolutely black scowl on his face.

Pat giggled on his back on the ground, looking a bit like a turtle, shell down and unable to regain his footing. He stopped giggling long enough to get his breath and stare up blearily at his father.  Somehow he had the impression he shouldn’t be smiling.  “Hi, Dad,” he said simply, closing his eyes.

Adam’s look of terrified worry rapidly turned to fury.

“You’re drunk!” he declared, tightly, staring down at his son.

Pat winced at the loudness of his father’s voice. “Oww….” he groaned, rolling over onto his side to try to get to his feet. He made it to his knees, but only after a great deal of effort.

Joe groaned and closed his eyes, grinning ruefully as shook his head. This kid was gonna be dead in the morning; especially after what he’d have to tell Adam. His father and brother had already been in bed by the time he and Hoss got home from the dance.

Furiously, Adam grabbed Patrick by the waistband of his pants and hauled him up to his feet – Pat somehow grabbing his hat from the ground through a stroke of luck – and turned him around to face him. He closed his eyes, turning away, nearly reeling from the reek of whiskey and beer on his young son. He brought his head back to his boy, who was trying very, very hard to compose himself as he set his hat crookedly on his head.

“I really ain’t so drunk, Dad,” he said, very solemnly, trying to achieve a look of innocence in his bleary, bloodshot blue eyes. Adam sighed, shaking his head.

“Sure, you’re not,” he said grimly. Adam kept one hand on the boy’s jacket and marched him over to the trough.

“Aw, Adam, don’t!” protested Hoss, miserably.

But inexorably, Adam removed his son’s gray Stetson, grabbed a handful of coat collar and plunged the boy headfirst into the ice-cold water to his shoulders.

The wailing and sputtering that ensued almost made Corrigan give his position away from mirth. Oh, the poor wee lad, he moaned to himself, weeping and shaking with silent laughter.

“Dad, I’m drownin’! Save me!” Patrick wailed, arms flailing as his father pulled him up for air, then grimly plunged him in again.

Joe was leaning weakly against a porch upright by this point, laughing so hard he was out of breath, earning him a furious glare from his father.

“Get in the house!’ snapped Ben. “Now, Joseph!”

“Yes, sir!” he choked, tears flowing from his eyes as he nearly collapsed in hysteria as he staggered back inside.

By this point, Adam had hauled Pat to his feet again, shivering and alert, but still absolutely, totally, dead drunk.

“I guess … I guess …” Pat sputtered, trying to focus on his father.

“You guess what?!” snapped Adam, furiously.

“I guess I’m in big trouble now, ain’t I?” he asked miserably, and promptly passed out, caught by his father.

“You bet your ass you are!” growled Adam, as he picked up his boy, tossed him over his shoulder, and marched into the house with him.

Ben stared out at the horse, where Hoss had quietly walked, planning to put the animal up in the barn and himself as far away from his older brother as possible.

Bewildered, furious, Ben threw his hands in the air and stomped into the house, slamming the door behind him hard enough to shake the rafters.

 

---

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

 

“And then whoosh!” laughed Corrigan, wiping his eyes, “headfirst, right into the horse trough with him!”

Michael, too, roared with laughter as the two men packed the last of their belongings. Eamon calmed down first, his chest aching with laughter as he dried his eyes.

“Ahh, the poor lad,” he sighed, shaking his head with a sad smile. “His head must be big as a house today.”

“Ye had to do it, Eamon,” grinned Michael. “He wouldna have agreed ta help ye get that money from the safe had ye not. I wonder if he remembers any of last night? And if he does, if he’ll honor his promise.” Michael grew serious for a moment, thinking. “Drunk as he was, Eamon, it took an awful lot of convincing on your part to get him to agree. He may back out on ye.”

“He’ll not renege on a promise, Michael,” said Eamon, with a grunt. “His Riordan blood wouldn’t allow it, even if his Orange blood did.”

“But, Eamon, he’s stubborn, is that one. Will he be able to forgive you, or himself, for thievin’?”

“Well,” sighed Eamon, “he’ll get over it, I’m thinkin’.”

“Do ye, now?” asked Michael, thoughtfully. “Sure, and he drives me mad, but he’s an honorable lad, underneath it all.”

Eamon stared at his young protégé in surprise. “Ye’ve accepted him then?”

“And what choice did I have?” grimaced Michael, a little irritated. “Ahh, pffft… He’s all right,” the younger man conceded, with a small shrug. “But ye’d better have a plan in place to keep Mr. High and Mighty Adam Cartwright from findin’ us after we’ve departed. Ye know he’ll be lookin’.” Michael peered at his mentor, hoping the man could see that the boy’s father wouldn’t rest until he found his son.

“Aye, he will, to be sure,” nodded Eamon seriously. “That’s why I believe we’ll be collectin’ young Master Patrick a bit earlier than we planned. Try to get more of a lead if at all possible.” Eamon glanced around the room. “Are ye finished w’ yer packin’?”

“Aye. We’ll ship the bulk of it, and ride out tonight. After—”

“After we’ve liberated Mr. Bloody Orange Cartwright of his five thousand dollars,” declared Eamon, darkly.

Michael silently studied the older man. “Y’know, we’d best be hidin’ in the hills, I’m thinkin’, before Cartwright finds out exactly how his little angel got himself addle-pated last night.”

“Not a bad idea, that,” nodded Corrigan, tossing the last of his things into the carpet bag. “Get the horses, , and we’ll ride out to the shack we found near that lake. We can hide out there for the day, and then tonight, after the … visit… to the Ponderosa, ‘tis on our way toward San Francisco we’ll be.”

Michael nodded, his face still reflecting his concern. He’d done his own soul-searching in the last day or two and had decided, no matter what, he’d stick by Corrigan, and Eamon knew it. He was not unaware of the risk in taking the boy along as hostage, in a manner of speaking,  would present.

“Don’t fret, Michael,” said Corrigan gently, squeezing the younger man’s shoulder. “T’will all work out. I promise ye.”

Michael sighed and seriously eyed the old Fenian. “I hope so. For your sake,  for mine  and for the lad’s.”

Eamon was left staring thoughtfully after his younger friend, hoping to God his promise could be kept.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Breakfast was awfully quiet at the ranch that morning. After Joe had reluctantly shared Elizabeth’s message with his brother, Adam’s stony silence set the mood for everyone else at the table. Even Hop Sing walked gingerly around the table as he served quietly.

“Pa?”

Ben looked up from his breakfast at his youngest son, a baleful look on his face.

Joe swallowed and glanced at Hoss. “I know this probably isn’t a good time to ask, but…” he trailed off, uneasily pushing at the food in his plate.

“Well, speak plain!” snapped Ben, irritably setting his fork down.

“Yes, sir,” Joe nodded, gulping. “Hoss and I took care of the chores this morning. I know we were gone at the dance last night, but… well, do you have any problem with us going to the box social tonight, too?”

It was so absurd that even Adam managed to find humor in it.

After a little laughter lightened the mood, Ben sighed and leaned back in his chair. “No, I don’t see any problem with you going to the box social,” he smiled wearily. He glanced over at Hoss and chuckled to try to get the worried look off his middle son’s face. “You going to take someone, Hoss?”

“Miss Sarah,” he said sheepishly, blushing a bit.

“That sounds like it’ll be fun for you two,” nodded Ben.  He picked up his coffee cup and glanced over at Adam and was startled. His eldest was looking surprisingly pale this morning. He almost commented on it, then sighed, realizing he probably hadn’t gotten much rest after their rude awakening just before dawn. “Was Patrick still—” began Ben.

“Sleeping it off?” interjected Adam, dryly.

Ben frowned, while Joe and Hoss exchanged glances, Joe’s knowing and Hoss’ uncomfortable.

“Yes, he was still asleep when I came down.”

“He’s gonna feel rotten when he wakes up,” smirked Joe.

“He deserves it,” snapped Adam, putting his fork down. He realized he’d lost his appetite and rubbed at  his forehead. He didn’t exactly have a headache; he just felt like there was one waiting to happen. “And it’s about time that youngster got up and faced the music.”

Adam rose from his seat and threw his napkin down next to his plate, starting for the stairs.

Joe and Hoss glanced at each other uneasily, then Hoss looked in appeal at his father.

Frustrated, shaking his head, Ben exhaled in irritation and got to his feet. “Adam?”

“Pa, please,” Adam over his shoulder halfway to the stairs, knowing what was coming.

“Now, just a minute!” snapped Ben.

Adam recognized the tone, and thirty-five years of training made him stop and reluctantly turn back, sulking impatiently. Ben almost smiled; how many times in the last week had Patrick given his father the same exact look? Softening his tone, Ben walked to his son, his head down. “Adam, I want you to think about something.”

Adam exhaled, staring at his boots. “Pa, I don’t need a lecture.”

“No, that’s true. But at this point in time, I’m not sure Patrick does either.”

“Pa! For God’s sake, listen to yourself!” snapped Adam, hands on his hips, his eyes blazing in his pale face. “You heard Joe this morning! The little monster lied, he forged my signature, he ditched school, and he got himself royally, dead drunk! And I’m supposed to go up there and pat his little head and say, ‘Poor baby, it’s alright?!’”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” snapped Ben, sternly, hands planted on his hips and black brows knit into one line of bulwark across his forehead.   He closed his eyes, drew in an irritated breath, attempting to keep his own temper under control and counted to five. Once back under control, he opened those dark eyes, and they bored right into the hardwood that he imagined to be his eldest son’s head. “What I am saying is that he’s going to be miserable for the next few hours, and I don’t think you’re really going to get through to him in the state he’ll be in.”

Adam started to retort, then stopped as his father’s words sank in. Abruptly he shut his mouth, then scowled down at the floor, furious. Dammit… he’s right.  Isn’t he always?!

He slowly raised his eyes and almost nailed his father to the wall with them. “All right, I see your point. He can sleep for this morning, but so help me God, he’s going to get his sorry butt out of bed for chores this afternoon, and then I’m going to give him a tanning he’ll never forget!”

And with those ominous words, old Ironpants marched up the stairs to his son’s bedroom.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

There was somebody bangin’  an anvil someplace… God, it was loud… And there was also somebody groanin’ fit to die.

His eyes felt as though they were glued shut, and something was sittin’ on ‘em, they were so heavy to open. To hell with it. He’d keep ‘em closed for now.

Slowly, sensation came back to Patrick, and he’d have preferred it hadn’t. That anvil was inside his head, and it was getting louder by the moment. And the person groaning was him. Jaysus, but my head hurts!

He moaned, afraid to move. He stopped making noise, only because the sound grated on his ears like chalk on a blackboard. It even hurt to breathe. “I’m gonna die,” he moaned in a tiny whisper.

“No, you’re not,” said a voice nearby, making him wince again, slowly bringing his shaking hands up to his head. Though the voice had been quite soft, it felt as though whoever it was had blared the words in his ear.

“Owwwwwww…” he whispered miserably. Slowly, he felt more of himself coming together, and the more that arrived the worse he felt. He winced and tried to open his eyes again. After a mighty effort he succeeded, then slammed them shut again, whimpering in pain.

Pat heard what sounded like a stupendous waterfall in his ear and flinched again.

Adam quietly dipped a cloth in the basin of cold water on Pat’s night table and squeezed it out, folded it and placed it on the boy’s forehead. He shook his head with a dour smile, and sighed.

The cold cloth made his headache a fraction of a bit better and Pat shakily raised a hand to his eyes to block the light from his eyes, then, wincing, tried to open them again. It hurt abysmally, but he made a gargantuan effort and tried hard to focus. A blurry, fuzzy figure sat in a chair at the side of the bed. With a little more effort and patience the blur came into focus and Patrick saw that  it was his father sitting there, with a knowing look on his face.

“Feel like hell, do you?” he asked, softly sarcastic.

Pat groaned again, closing his eyes. “Wha’ happened to me?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember,” said his father dryly, an eyebrow cocked.

Right now, Pat’s head ached so badly he couldn’t think at all, much less remember anything. But it didn’t take long. Suddenly memories of singing songs of Irish rebellion crept into his agonized awareness; then recollections of a swift, cold dunk in icy water made him groan again, shivering.

“Oh, God…” he whispered, closing his eyes against the dark, cold ones staring at him so sternly. He was gonna die….or wish he could. “I’m sorry,” he moaned… oh, Jaysus, was he sorry!

“ ‘Sorry’ doesn’t quite cut it, does it?” asked Adam, quietly, eyeing his boy.

Pat tried to offer a better apology, then clamped his mouth shut as the room started to spin around him. “Ooh,” he whispered through gritted teeth, squeezing shut his eyes, gulping hard. Shakily, he tried to reach out to hold onto something, desperate to grasp something in the room that wasn’t moving.

Adam, alarmed, could see what was coming and quickly got to his feet getting the wash basin from the dry sink in the corner.

“Dad…. ” Patrick panted desperately, struggling to sit up, fighting the nausea, but he had trouble figuring out which way was up. “Gonna be sick…” he groaned, trying to swallow. Finally, it didn’t matter anymore. “Dad…..?” he whimpered in agony, again reaching out a hand blindly to find his father.

“Yeah, I know,” said Adam grimly, quickly getting the basin under him. Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Adam sighed and gently supported Pat’s forehead with one hand  and held the basin with the other. Pat was unable to do much more than make miserable little mewling sounds in between his violent sessions of retching and heaving, trembling hard all over and soaked in sweat. He couldn’t talk, he couldn’t think. is whole existence was focused on emptying the contents of his stomach. His head hammered with each heave, but he didn’t care. His body was fighting the battle, and he was just stuck going along for the ride. He was so sick he couldn’t even cry.

Adam shifted his position to better support Pat’s head; he could feel that the boy was totally dependent on him to keep his head up. Despite having been determined to be angry, Adam felt a pang of sympathy.

Pat cried out, leaning over the basin again, except that now the heaves were dry; there was nothing left to bring up.

“Try to relax,” said Adam softly, bracing him. ‘Take deep breaths.”

“… so…..sick…..”  Pat whimpered, gripping his father’s arm desperately.

Adam gave up on being stern and severe; in all likelihood the poor kid was still drunk, considering how totally loaded he’d been when he arrived home earlier. Adam waited until it appeared that the boy’s stomach had settled down a little, then eased Pat slowly back down on the bed, while the boy cried out in pain as his head protested being shifted in position. Pat shakily raised his arms and wrapped them around his head in total misery, as if he were afraid it would fly away…or actually wished it would.

For several long minutes Patrick lay still, biting his lip and making tiny sounds of suffering. He was completely unaware that his father had left the room for a little bit, first to empty the basin, replace it at Pat’s side on the bed, and then to get a bowl of fresh, cold water. When Adam came back in, he found his son curled up on his side in a ball, his arms wrapped around his stomach and his face as green as an old cheese.

Adam sighed, setting the basin down on the night table; even that slight sound prompted a flinch and a whimper from Pat. Adam dipped a fresh cloth in water and squeezed it out, gently wiping his son’s face and the back of his neck, then he rinsed it again and folded it, placing it on Pat’s forehead. Pat hadn’t opened his eyes, and continued to pant, fighting the pain and nausea and the pounding in his head.

Adam covered him with his quilt, which had luckily escaped being soiled, and sat back down beside him. There was no point talking to him now, the man realized reluctantly. Even if the boy heard him, there was nothing he could say or do that would make the poor kid feel any worse than he was feeling right now.

Adam studied him as he lay there, pale and sick, and was reminded of the times he had been in a similar state from too much to drink, although he had to admit he couldn’t ever remember feeling as ill as Pat was obviously feeling, and certainly not at the age of fourteen! Thank God, now that he’d emptied his stomach, Pat would probably start to feel a little better soon.

Over the next forty-five minutes, the boy didn’t utter a sound, lying absolutely still, his breathing shallow, gripping tightly his father’s hand for comfort.  Occasionally, he pulled his knees up in pain when his stomach would spasm and force an occasional repeat of dry retching.

From Pat’s perspective – extremely narrow and limited – the only reality he had was his effort to stay as still as he could to keep from puking, and to keep his headache from escalating; when he remained completely  still it was excruciating, but when he moved at all it was unbearable.

Finally, Adam noticed the pattern of the boy’s breathing changed a bit, and he leaned a little closer. Pat had at last fallen into exhausted sleep. Though one arm was still wrapped around his belly, the hand not in Adam’s was relaxed. Adam removed the cold compress and saw his forehead was still creased in discomfort and shook his head with a sad smile. Poor little devil, he thought, rinsing out the cloth once again. He stroked his forehead, making Pat sigh and shift in his sleep, but not waking. Adam replaced the compress, covered him up to his chin, and left him to finish sleeping it off.

 

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Around three-thirty in the afternoon, Adam came downstairs, fully dressed for something, though Ben couldn’t imagine what. In his current state of mind, Ben didn’t figure he’d be joining his brothers at the box social.

“Pa, I need to go into town for awhile. Are you planning to be home this evening?” he asked, his forehead creased a little.

“Don’t you remember? I’ve got to go talk to Dave Shepherd after supper about that stallion of his he’s putting out to stud,” reminded his father, eyeing his oldest son. It wasn’t like Adam to forget things. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired,” Adam sighed. “Will Hop Sing be home, do you know?”

“He said he needed to write some letters,” nodded Ben.

“Well, that ought to be all right then. Patrick will be going to bed right after supper, so he shouldn’t have any trouble with him,” Adam nodded. “I just wanted someone here to supervise.”

“Why do you need to go in? Is there something wrong in town?”

“No,” answered Adam, getting a little color in his cheeks again as he thought of the person he planned to visit, “there’s just someone I need to see.” And his mouth clamped itself shut, brows knit and face closed.

Ben knew that look, and sighed.  A prybar and about two hours would be needed to get anything more out that oldest boy of mine when he’s wearing that expression! He’d have given a lot to know what was troubling the man but accepted the deflection Adam sent him.

“Joe and Hoss already take off?”

“Yes, they had to pick up their young ladies, and then get on to the social,” smiled Ben. “I’m glad to see Hoss going with a young lady, instead of stag.”

“Yeah, Sarah seems like a real nice girl, too, Pa,” nodded Adam, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. Adam had spent most of the day with one ear tuned to his son’s room; he’d been so weary he’d tried taking a short nap after lunch but was too restless to relax. “Well,” he sighed, glancing at the stairs, “I think it’s about time I rousted up my young miscreant.”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Pat had slept like a dead man from the time his father left his bedroom that morning until the present. As Adam looked at him, he could see he was still pale; there was no doubt the youngster was still going to be suffering when he woke, but he didn’t think it would be quite as bad.

He walked over to the bed, and gently but firmly shook his son’s shoulder. “Patrick. Patrick! It’s time to get up.”

He was greeted once again with a cacophonous groan, but at least Pat was able to move around a bit this time. Wincing, the boy put his hands to his head. He moaned, starting to turn over again, but his father firmly rolled him onto his back.

“Unh unh… nothing doing, sonny,” he said firmly. “It’s time to get up. You’ve got chores to do.”

“But, Dad,” he protested weakly, “my head aches!”

“That’s no less than you deserve,” said Adam firmly, hauling him up, wincing, into a sitting position and tucking a couple of pillows behind him, and allowing him to lie back a little and rest. After rinsing out the compress, and reapplying it, Adam pulled up a chair and sat down beside his son, leaning back and crossing his legs. “So. I think you owe me an explanation for last night, young man. And for the little bit of deception you pulled this week playing hooky, and your lovely try at forgery. This time, let me strongly suggest you consider telling me the truth.”

Talking made Pat’s headache even worse, but he could see that there was nothing for it.  It was time to finally come clean.

In somewhat confused jumble, Patrick haltingly put together an explanation, some of it honest, some of it a bit of blarney.  It mostly consisted of him wanting to learn more about his Irish relatives by talking with Corrigan, of admitting he had been wrong to play truant and hide out in the back room of the saloon.  But he tried to make his father understand that he’d been driven by his need to know more…about the Riordans, and about himself.  When he got to last night’s debacle, celebrating Corrigan’s last night in Virginia City with the Fenians, he was careful to be sure not to arouse his father’s suspicions about running away.

As he spoke, Pat sincerely hoped he’d feel well enough tonight to attempt it. In the process of telling his tale, he also remembered with horror the promise he’d made; to help steal that money from the safe. His present physical misery luckily covered for the new waves of guilt that hit him as he recalled this promise made while drunk.

Pat’s confession required a few quiet, pointed questions from his father to make sense of some of it, but by the time he was finished Adam just shook his head in amazement.

“Pat…” Adam tossed his hands in air, giving up.  “God almighty, Patrick, what am I going to do with you?”

“I’m sorry,” the boy murmured, resting his hands on his stomach which was still dreadfully unsettled. He felt so ill that he almost didn’t care what his father did to him; surely he couldn’t feel much worse than he did already.

Adam looked at his son and his face grew very stern.

Pat tried feebly, “I didn’t mean to lie to you, but—” -”

“Didn’t mean to? This entire episode was one whole tissue of lies, young man!” snapped his father.

“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” muttered Pat miserably, hanging his head. “You probably never told a lie in your whole life!”

Startled, Adam sat back a moment. Then he just couldn’t help it; he laughed.

Pat winced, then glanced at his father in reproach, then away, heartbroken.

“Is that what you think? That I walked through life without ever disobeying my father or telling a falsehood?”

Pat shrugged uneasily, unable to look at him.

“Son, of course I made mistakes. Of course I lied! It’s not something I’m proud of. I’ve worked very hard to make my adult life reflect my belief in honesty, even when it’s hard. I always remember something my father told me, that ‘the hurt you feel when you tell the truth is shorter and a little less painful than the hurt you feel when you don’t.’[1] And don’t kid yourself; there were more times than I‘d like to admit that I knew exactly how much it hurt when I didn’t tell the truth,” he said dryly.

Patrick slowly raised his eyes and studied his father. “You mean… Granddad….” he said tentatively, eyes wide. “What did he do…after he found out?”

Adam’s face hardened. “He punished me. The same way I’m going to punish you.”

Pat swallowed hard and shrank a bit. Here it comes…

“But, right now, you’re going to get up out of that bed, get cleaned up and dressed. Then you’re going to do your chores. After you’ve eaten something, you’re going to bed. Immediately.” Adam leaned in close to his young son, forcing eye contact. “Then, tomorrow, Mr. Cartwright, you and I are going to have one very, very serious conversation. I’m not going to get into it today, because I want you in a condition to fully appreciate it. Do you understand me?” His stern frown left nothing to the imagination.

Patrick held no illusions as to what form that little “conversation” was going to take.  “Yes, sir,” he whispered, penitently. In his guilt and shame, Pat forgot that he wouldn’t be here tomorrow.

“Now get up,” said Adam firmly. And rose to his feet and left the room.

= = = = =

Pat came slowly downstairs a few minutes later, stepping very carefully to nurse his headache, only to find his father dressed in his coat and hat, Granddad at his desk working, and Hop Sing dusting the tables in the great room.

“It’s about time,” said Adam severely. Pat looked down, shamefaced, and stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m going into town for a while. Your grandfather is going to be here until after supper, then Hop Sing is in charge tonight. You will do whatever either of them tells you, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” he said softly.

“Good. Your uncles covered your work this morning, so you’ll do all the evening chores.” Adam glanced at his son, waiting for a comment, secretly pleased that there wasn’t even a roll of the eyes. Pat merely nodded fractionally, studying the floor, very quiet and subdued. Adam picked up his gun belt and strapped it on, sniffling a bit. Annoyed, Adam reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and blew his nose. “You will stay in the house, or in the yard or barn. You are not to set foot elsewhere, understood?”

Pat nodded again. Adam studied him a while longer, making Pat uncomfortable, but the boy did nothing more than redden and shift his feet uneasily. Adam sniffled again and turned to the Chinese housekeeper.

“After supper, he’s to go straight back to his room for the night. If he steps out of line, you have my permission to use that wooden spoon of yours in any way you see fit.” With his back turned to his son, Adam gazed at Hop Sing’s calm, knowing face and allowed the edges of his mouth to turn up in a slight smile, and winked at the older man.

Hop Sing nodded, not giving a thing away, glancing sternly at the boy, who was wilting a bit at the severity of his father’s voice and words.

“I don’t think they’ll have any trouble, eh, Patrick?” asked Ben, cocking an eyebrow at his grandson as he slowly walked toward the little grouping by the front door.

Pat looked up, embarrassed, at Ben. “No, sir,” he said quietly, glancing uneasily at Hop Sing.

“No trouble. Otherwise, big trouble,” insisted the houseman, jabbing a forefinger at the boy. He harrumphed and returned to his work dusting and tidying.

Ben turned back to Adam with a small smile, that faded into a frown when he saw his son’s pallor. Adam didn’t look any better than he had that morning. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright?” he asked, studying him.

“I’m fine, Pa” nodded Adam, a little testily. “I won’t be late.” Putting on his hat, he fixed his son with a potent glare. “You behave yourself.”

Pat nodded again, harder than he’d planned and winced as the movement did nothing positive for his headache.

Without another word, Adam turned and left the house. Pat quietly turned a bit toward his grandfather, unable to look at him fully. He was terribly embarrassed, knowing his crimes must be known to the whole family by now…and that the worst was yet to come. “I guess I better go start the chores,” he said softly.

“Yes, you probably had better,” agreed Ben, his own hands in his pockets as he strolled toward his grandson, “or you’ll miss your supper.”

Pat winced, his face a little green. “I don’t think I’m gonna want to eat much anyhow,” he said, uneasily, as he dragged his heels to the door.

 

[1] From “Love Me Not.” Season 5 Episode 22, written by Frank Cleaver

 

---

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

Patrick found it necessary to stop occasionally in his barn work to go outside for a breath of fresh air. His stomach was still not entirely calm, and the heady odors of the barn were proving to be a challenge. Having to stop and start also impeded his usual ability to throw himself into his work and forget his troubles. Instead, he found himself thinking over and over again of his sins.

What depressed him even more was the knowledge that he was leaving this place tonight…and possibly leaving with his father believing him to be a thief.

Patrick wearily leaned against a pitchfork as he struggled to keep his stomach in check, and thought about how to remove the money from the safe, and still keep his honor. I’ll pay it back, he swore to himself, eyes welling. They had to believe he would. Someday, after all this was over, Patrick would pay back every dime along with an accounting of the good the five thousand dollars of Cartwright money had done for his countrymen. Surely if his father and grandfather found out that their money had fed starving children, provided doctoring for ailing widows, kept roofs over the heads of families, and helped an entire people to gain their freedom, any anger or hatred they felt towards him might ease.He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall of the barn, praying for the first time in days. “Please, God, someday let ‘em forgive me,” he whispered brokenly.

Should I just forget this idea of going with Corrigan? Should I just try to forget it all and try to make things right with Dad?

He shook himself, and angrily swiped away at his tears, setting his jaw in a stubborn scowl that was so much like his father’s. He couldn’t back out now. He’d been begging aloud for days, and to himself for months, for the chance to find his roots, to find out what his mother had felt was so important she had been willing to die for it. Finally, with the opportunity Corrigan presented to him, he had a chance to really understand her as he’d never been able to while they were in Hell’s Kitchen.

Oh, he’d believed her. He did believe she meant every word she said in defense of the Catholics in Ireland, he saw her fire and passion. He’d just never been able to completely share it or comprehend it. It all had seemed so far away, and so bloody useless. The here and now, that was an issue to fight for, he’d always thought. Not the plight of people dead and gone centuries before.

When she’d died, after the horror and the numbness, he’d spent hours thinking of how totally unnecessary her death had been, how completely needless her solitary life had been. She had deserved so much more than she had. He saw her as so much better than he was because of her selfless desire to better the plight of the Irish, and to refuse to become the possession of a man whose ancestors had oppressed hers. All he’d felt was the pain of rejection; his father hadn’t loved him enough to want him.

No matter what his mother had told him, it simply didn’t make sense to a small boy, and so he’d turned his anger and resentment onto the broad shoulders of Adam Cartwright, the man who’d fathered him, and in his eyes, abandoned him.

As he’d grown older, Pat realized his mother hadn’t lied to him; the man  who’d fathered him knew nothing about him. But since he loved and adored his mother, there had to be a reason why she wouldn’t have married this man. Pat reasoned he must have been a horrible person, treated her badly, or been an ogre of some sort. As Pat matured, he  found himself once again forced to shift his beliefs and ideas to fit a new mold.

But then he’d finally met his father and learned what kind of a man he was. Since August, he’d found it almost impossible to justify her reasoning, and to believe that politics could really have robbed him of a family. This man was no demon; he wouldn’t have beaten her or thrown her in jail. He’d loved her, so much so that Patrick could still feel the shockwaves of it, like the tremors after an explosion in the mines nearby.

Pat put a hand to this cheek, frowning as he remembered the vicious slap that had nearly knocked him into the fireplace.  Anger the likes of which the boy hadn’t seen often from this complex man who was his father. He loved her, for sure.  He couldn’t have acted like that if he didn’t.

For these past few months, it had been difficult for the boy to avoid feeling angry and resentful every time he thought about his mother’ defiance of the mores and values everyone else in the world seemed to live by! When all was said and done, it hurt him terribly to realize that her love of Ireland had ultimately proved greater than her love of him and his future.

Now…now he had a chance to understand it, to have his questions answered. Such as why she felt it impossible to raise a child with a father, just because his heritage was one of English blood? Why should it matter so much to her? To such an extent that she was willing to allow her child, and herself, to be exposed to hatred and scandal?

Patrick was desperate to understand. Maybe if he understood, he could begin to forget the past and look to the future.

So much rested on tonight. And the knowledge he hoped to gain set his resolve to go through with it. He would take that money. And he, ultimately, would repay it. Every last penny. And in the process he hoped to buy himself an understanding of the circumstances which had both created him and kept him a prisoner of one single word….

Bastard.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Adam sat in Veronica’s parlor, sipping a cup of coffee and resting his head back against the easy chair, closing his eyes. Almost unconsciously, he felt a tickle in his chest and tried a couple of gentle coughs to clear it. God, he was tired. It had been a hell of a night, he thought wryly.

She came in with a dish of pastries, setting it down on the table beside Adam’s chair and placed herself beside him, gazing at him. He looked so awfully pale and weary today, Veronica thought sympathetically, realizing how much Patrick’s antics of the evening before must have taken out of him. She closed her eyes, thinking sadly of the news she must share with him and battling her own desire to curl up and weep. But it must be done; this couldn’t continue. They would soon be caught up in a maelstrom they wouldn’t be able to escape from if she didn’t.

“Adam, we must talk,” she said softly.

He opened his eyes slowly and wearily, looking down at her. He hadn’t missed the beaten tone of her voice and wondered if she regretted Wednesday’s picnic and what had transpired. He’d felt a little guilty about that all week, even though they both had given in to desire and passion that afternoon.

“What’s wrong?”

She sighed and rose to her feet walking to the fireplace and staring into the flames. She was grateful Wendy was caring for a neighbor’s children tonight and wouldn’t be home. She was also thankful that the Widow Hawkins had gone to Carson City to visit a friend. What she had to say could only said while they were alone. And she wasn’t sure she had the courage, even now, in the best possible circumstances. “I haven’t been…”  She swallowed hard, and clasped her hands together tightly.  “Altogether  truthful with you.”

He studied her, concerned, but tried to lighten the mood. “Seems to be the norm for me lately.” He offered a self-deprecating smile.

When she didn’t smile in return, he realized this was really serious and got to his feet coming over to the fireplace with her. “What is it, Veronica? What’s troubling you?”

She inhaled deeply and turned to him.

“We have to stop seeing each other.”

Startled, he stared at her in surprise. “What? Why?”

“Because….” She turned away from him again, firming her mouth and steeling herself for the barrage of anger she expected from him, “because I’m not a widow. I’m still married.”

With her back to him she couldn’t be sure of his reaction but miserably thought she could imagine it. Slowly she turned and saw disappointment and bewilderment in his face, his eyes glassy and unfocused as though in shock. “I wish I could say this in a way that won’t hurt you, but I can’t. We cannot see each other any longer.”

“Where is your husband?” asked Adam quietly.

She chuckled. “He isn’t sure, these days,” she said sarcastically. Then she bit her lip and turned away. “I’m sorry. That was cruel and unfair of me.”

“Did he treat you badly?” he asked gently, misunderstanding.

“No!” She cried, whirling on him. “That’s just it, Adam, he didn’t treat me badly at all! He was the gentlest, kindest, sweetest soul God placed on this earth. And it was cruel! It was so cruel!!” Tears slid down her cheeks as she paced frenetically. “I watched my dear, caring loving husband crumble before my eyes into a …a… something I couldn’t recognize. Doctors couldn’t understand it, couldn’t help him.” The tears continued to stream unheeded down her cheeks as she halted by the window, staring out. “In answer to your question, Adam, he’s in an insane asylum.”

Adam’s eyes closed and he shook his head.

“I’ve been the next best thing to a widowfor nearly six years. My husband is no longer my husband, at least no longer the man I married. But legally and in the eyes of God, he is my husband.”

Confused, Adam got to his feet and walked toward her, though stopping himself a few paces away, to give her space.

“He’s not dead,” she continued resolutely.”He’s very much alive, and though his mind is no longer allowing him to be James Aloysius Carter.”  She turned to him, her lovely eyes welled with tears.  “Attorney at law, upstanding member of the Springfield, Illinois community, Wendy’s adoring, loving father, and my wonderful husband. His body is perfectly healthy. He’ll live for years. Dear God, I can’t even have the peace of grieving for the husband that is dead to me!” Her face crumpled in desolation and she buried her face in a shaky hand as she wept.

Adam’s shoulders sagged as he exhaled, and rubbed his aching temples. He was having trouble taking this in.  It seemed astonishing to him that every relationship he attempted to have ended in this kind of pain, this kind of deceit… or just ended, period.

God knew loss had been his companion most of his life, but there had been moments of hope.  Moments that he believed he might be spared the loneliness of navigating this world on his own.  Siobhan.  Regina.  Ruth.  Perhaps even Anne. Margarita, if she hadn’t been spoken for already.

Giving of himself was a vulnerability he didn’t want to repeat ad infinitum. It just hurt too much.

Fearfully, Veronica looked back and him and her heart broke at the anguish she saw on Adam’s face as he slowly eased himself down into the chair by the fireplace. She came to his side and sat at his feet, resting a hand on his knee. “Adam, I’m so sorry. Wendy and I came out here because I have an aunt in San Francisco who is trying to find me a position. She and Mrs. Hawkins were old friends.  Aunt Margaret suggested that I stay here until she’s able to get a position solid for me.  I’d be among friends and Wendy and I would be safe.  And the Widow’s asking price for my aunt was extremely reasonable.”  Her lips trembled and her face flushed with shame as she gazed at her hands. “Jim’s and my savings are all but gone, and I have to support Wendy somehow. Aunt Margaret’s letter came today. She’s found me a fine position as a librarian. We leave next week.”

Adam felt his old coping tool of removing himself from hurt through withdrawing falling into place, almost without him even realizing it.

“Oh, Adam, I wish I could make you understand.”

He managed a small smile. “I do understand, Veronica. Really, I do.”

“No, you don’t,” she said firmly. “I know you’re hurt, and I’m sure you feel used. You must believe me, this isn’t something I’ve made a habit of. You’re the first man in the six long years of this nightmare that I thought I could possibly make a life with. And after Wednesday, I seriously thought of going back on my faith and divorcing Jim. But I can’t. I simply cannot do it and be able to look myself in the mirror or look at Wendy.”

“But what about you? What about your life?” he asked, finally turning to her. He couldn’t hide the anguish filling his voice as he entreated her.  “Veronica, you’re a young woman! You should have the chance to be happy, too!”

“Oh, Adam,” she sighed sadly, reaching out and stroking his cheek. “I was. With you, I was. But it was a fleeting happiness…one that was glorious when we were together, but which turned into unbearable guilt when we were apart.”

He swallowed hard, and cleared his throat again, frowning. “I’m sorry I made things more difficult for you,” he said softly.

She gathered his hands in hers and gracefully rose to her feet, leaning over him and kissing him tenderly, gently. “God help me, but I’m not sorry. What we had…oh, Adam, I will treasure it always, it will be something to get me through the hard times ahead. I love you very much, you know.”

He looked into her eyes as she leaned toward him. And he saw the truth there; his heart nearly broke in two.

“God, forgive me, Adam…but can we have something for me to remember…one more time?” she breathed softly, her desire implicit in her eyes.

“Veronica…” he groaned, shaking his head, “how can I let you go?”

“Because you must let me go, you know you must. We would never have a life together with Jim between us…but we could have one more short time together, that we could remember always,” she said, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Call me what you will… wanton … a slut…a brazen hussy,” she said with a sad smile, “but I want you. I want you desperately!”

He reached out a hand to her face and shakily brushed away the tears. He felt miserable; he hadn’t hurt this much in years, but he wanted her, too. Despite his pain and anguish, he groaned as his body responded to her touch, the sweetness of her breath on his skin as she kissed him, passionately.

He allowed her to pull him to his feet and gently walk him to the stairs.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

After leaving behind instructions for the shipping of his boxes and cases, Corrigan and Michael rode out to the shack by the beach at Sand Point. Michael had been a bit disturbed to discover that someone had been there since they visited the site last weekend.  However, Corrigan pointed out that they would only be there for a matter of hours, and then gone again, so it wouldn’t be a problem, even if someone did show up.

Now, as sunset dusted the mountains and chilled the ride from the lake to the ranch house of the Ponderosa, Corrigan thought about his trip here to the western part of North America. He pondered the remarkable irony of having to come so far only to  meet up with Padhraic Riordan’s grandson.

He chuckled to himself thinking of how Paddy would have laughed out loud at the humor of the situation… Paddy always was the one to find the funny side of things and leaven the bitter taste of their daily bread of tyranny with a dash of laughter and self-deprecation. That was what made his men love him so. It was what had made so many, including Corrigan’s own son, cleave to his ideal of peaceful means, for all the good it had done them, the sorry sods! Dancing at the end of a hangman’s rope… Corrigan no longer shrank at the image; he’d lived with it for nearly sixteen years now.

Then, the man sobered as he thought about his old friend’s grandson.  Siobhan’s lad. Truth be told, Eamon would have given a great deal to really take him along. To train him in the art of Irish insurrection.  To hone his already burgeoning skills.

If he was honest with himself, Eamon knew that, having the lad as part of their entourage wouldn’t have taken away the pain of losing Sean. Nor would it rekindle any chance to glory in his son’s potential successes. But it might have eased the agony somewhat.  For that’s exactly what it still was, even now, almost seventeen years later.

Still and all, Michael was right.  Adam Cartwright would never stop hunting until he found his son.  Nor would he stop until he brought the man who’d endangered him to justice.  Eamon recognized that single-mindedness; how could he not?  He possessed it himself, in spades.

Well, then…  The man firmed his lips, once again burying the dream of having a youngster at his side as completely as he’d buried his lad all those years ago, still weak as he’d been from his own flogging.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Ben watched his grandson throughout the afternoon as he dragged his weary tail through his chores. Ben had never let his sons see his amusement at any time they’d come home the worse for too much alcohol, and he really didn’t find Patrick’s antic funny. But he was sympathetic to the boy’s condition.

Adam had told him, in frustration, about how Corrigan had invited the boy to the Fenian farewell. Ben had gently tried to make Adam realize the pressure that had put Pat under to attend. What fourteen-year-old wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to be included with “the men?”

Ben had chosen to wait for Patrick to finish his chores to eat. He had a feeling that his young grandson would need someone to talk to after the rough week he’d had. He hoped that, at least. When Adam was Pat’s age, he’d been as uncommunicative as a clam, and pulling information out of him had been as painful and difficult as pulling a festered tooth. Since Patrick’s arrival Ben had somehow managed to create a rapport with the boy. He prayed that rapport would put him in good stead tonight and let Pat get some of his feelings off his chest.

He sat at his desk, smiling as he heard Hop Sing mutter and complain about the lateness of the meal, then raised his head as he heard the measured steps of Patrick coming in from the barn area. That step was tired and dragging.

Patrick entered the house and quietly hung up his coat, removed his hat and gloves and rubbed his hands on his pants as he walked slowly into the great room, looking around. His eyes fell on his grandfather at his desk, and he flushed a little, turning away; he was still embarrassed, thought Ben with a smile.

“All through?”

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. He was no longer confined to his room, he could sit downstairs for supper, but he still felt a bit queasy, and his head ached, making bed look awfully enticing. And what was to come tonight bothered him terribly. It made looking at his grandfather impossible.

“Why don’t you go let Hop Sing know he can serve?” suggested Ben.

“Granddad, I’m sorry, but I still don’t feel so good,” he said uncomfortably. Between his guilty conscience and his queasy stomach, Pat wasn’t at all sure he could sit through a meal at the table alone with his grandfather. “Can’t I please just go up to bed?”

“Well, young fella,” said Ben as he came around his grandson and slipped a gentle arm around his shoulders, “you haven’t had a thing to eat all day, and that may be part of why you’re feeling sick, as well as your… condition of the early morning hours.”

Pat gulped a little and looked away.

“You’re going to have to try to eat something, whether you like it or not,” Ben continued, more gently. “You need something in your stomach. Go on, now. Go get washed and tell Hop Sing we’re ready to eat.”

Sulking a bit, Patrick did at he was told. After washing his hands, he returned to the table and sat down in his usual spot, on Granddad’s left, with a sigh. As he waved open his napkin and placed it on his lap, he looked around. “Boy, it sure is quiet around here. I don’t think I’ve ever had dinner like this.”

“Yeah, the four of you in this house does tend to make for a bit of noise now and again,” smiled his grandfather as he gratefully accepted his steak and baked potatoes from Hop Sing. Pat was relieved to see only a bowl of Hop Sing’s good broth come before him, but still frowned a little at the thought of having to eat.

“Fatha say you eat…ev’y dlop!” warned Hop Sing with a small smile at the boy. Pat made a face and picked up his spoon in resignation. Ben watched out of the corner of his eye, sympathizing with the youngster as he put a few drops of soup onto the spoon and slowly brought it up to his mouth, worriedly sipping. If he’d been as miserably sick this morning as Pat had been, he’d have been nervous about putting anything in his mouth, too.

Pat sat still for a moment, staring at the tablecloth as though waiting to see how his stomach would react, and Ben grinned a little to himself.

“Granddad,” asked Pat quietly, a few moments later, “just between us…why wouldn’t you help Mr. Corrigan?”

Ben studied his grandson, eyes narrowed. The voice was dull; almost dead. No curiosity. Just a flat question. “Patrick, I have trouble supporting anyone who is less than honest with me.”

Pat winced, and looked away, setting down his spoon. “What makes you think Corrigan is less than honest?”

“He came to Virginia City, claiming to represent a … faction … in Ireland for the purpose of international financing.” Ben glanced at Patrick to see if he was following.

The boy’s blue eyes were fixed on him.

Sighing, he continued, “Instead, I’ve learned he’s spent a great deal of time garnering funding from Irish miners…mine owners,. businessmen. But never has he made it clear what the funds were to be used for.”

Patrick’s face grew paler and his eyes snapped. “It’s for freedom, Granddad. For freedom!”

“But what does that actually mean, Pat?” asked Ben seriously, setting down his water glass and eyeing his grandson.

Pat set his mouth. “Medicines, food -”  he bit out, his eyes narrowed.

“Guns? Ammunition?” asked Ben, seriously.

“Yes!” returned back his grandson, slamming down his spoon. “And anything else we need to make the goddamned English get off our backs!”

Ben’s eyes smoldered, and he struggled to keep his temper. What made it harder was that Patrick glared at him almost triumphantly. “Watch your language! And what do you mean, ‘We’? ‘Us?’ ” he demanded

Patrick glowered down at the table, drumming his fingers in irritation on the tablecloth.

“I suppose Corrigan has convinced you that only way to gain freedom is through revolution?” demanded Ben, sternly.

Pat set his lips. He refused to be dragged into this. Not now. He shot to his feet, his face white. “May I be excused?” he demanded through gritted teeth.

“No, you may not,” snapped his grandfather. “Sit down and eat your supper.”

“I ain’t hungry, dammit!”

“That’s immaterial! And this is the last time I’m going to warn you!” said Ben, his eyes boring into his grandson. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head or so help me, I’ll march you into the kitchen and wash out your mouth with soap. Do I make myself clear?”

Patrick was dismayed. For the first time, he truly felt the power of Benjamin Cartwright glaring out at him from those dark eyes. This was a whole new side of his grandfather he’d not really contemplated before. Suddenly, it was awful easy to see how his father might have tried to hide the truth of his wrongdoings. Facing this angry version of Ben Cartwright was more than a little daunting.

His thoughts made him hesitate; one moment too long. In a flash, his grandfather bounded to his feet and was at his side, thrusting him harshly down into his chair. “Now, pick up that spoon and eat! And don’t move from that seat until I give you permission to do so!”

Pat slowly picked up his head and stared furiously at his grandfather. Ben returned to his seat and fixed a cold glare on the boy. “Patrick, pick up that spoon. Now.”

Without a word, Patrick picked up the spoon and choked down his soup, fuming all the while.. And all the more sure that his decision to leave was the right one.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Well, Joe, all’s I can say is it weren’t no fair that I ended up with the sorriest box supper of ‘em all!”

Joe giggled as his older brother sulked on their walk from the grange hall down the street toward their horses, with his hands stuck in his pocket and a scowl on his face. It had been bitter irony for Hoss that he ended up bidding on a boxed meal that had less than half his usual intake of food. But then, there weren’t many of the boxes that would have met Hoss’ needs anyway.

“Now, Hoss, you know darn well that really good, rich food should be eaten in small doses!” Joe chuckled.

“It ain’ jest that there weren’t enough of it, Little Joe!” snapped Hoss, rubbing his growling stomach, “it was also some of the worst grub I ever et! I don’t know how anyone could ruin fried chicken the way that woman done… and the pecan pie!! It tasted like… like linseed oil!!’

“You been hittin’ the linseed oil again, Hoss? Pa’d let you have brandy if you’d asked him nicely,” teased Joe, giggling.

He’d had a wonderful time. He and Liz had talked and chatted all evening while enjoying the meal she’d cooked. Sshe’d told him which basket was hers, and he had no trouble bidding on it. She’d made chicken fried steak, fried apples, and cornbread, and he’d loved every bite!, while poor Hoss and Sarah Jane had to make do with their poor substitute for a meal.

Sarah had laughed, and assured Hoss that the cooking wasn’t hers! She’d had to work and her aunt had prepared the basket for her.

“Hey, older brother, how about this,” suggested Joe. “It’s early yet. Why don’t we go get a beer? I’ll bet Sam’d put together a sandwich for ya, and you could have somethin’ to tide ya over until we get home.” Now, with Liz deposited at her boarding house, he relaxed in his speech patterns, worn out with having to think through every single sentence he uttered.

“Well, we’re gonna have to do somethin’ purty quick, little brother, ‘cos my belly’s startin’ ta think my throat’s been cut!” snapped Hoss irritably.

Joe giggled again and led the way toward the saloon.

It was a busy night at the Silver Dollar and Sam was hopping to fill orders from those bellied up to the bar as well as keep up with those coming in from his barmaids. But it was a good night, for the most part. The only drinker in the place who worried Sam was the one over in the corner, and the barman was a little stumped as to what to make of him. Sam had sent one of the new girls over to him only to have her told politely but firmly to give him the bottle and leave him alone.

“Hey, Sam!” grinned Hoss, “what’s a feller gotta do to get a drink around here?”

Joe sidled up to the bar, too, and smiled at Sam, who glanced back at them and grinned in relief. “Hiya, boys! I’m real glad you showed up, I was gettin’ a mite worried about ‘im.”

Hoss and Joe glanced at each other. “Who?” asked Joe, nonplused.

Sam nodded toward the back corner and both brothers turned to look.

To their amazement, Adam sat there, his back more to the door of the saloon, scowling into a glass of whiskey with a three-quarters full bottle beside him. He was very pale, with two reddish marks in his cheeks, his eyes circled and sunken as he sipped at the whiskey and stared out into space.

“What the – when did he get here, Sam?” demanded Hoss, staring at Adam.

“I dunno, ‘bout an hour ago, maybe?”

“Tell me that ain’t his second bottle,” breathed Joe, looking back at the barkeep in dismay. Could only an hour’s worth of time end up with Adam drinking THAT much?

“Nah, he ain’t really drinkin’ hard,” said Sam, uneasily. “He just don’t look too good to me.”

Hoss hadn’t taken his eyes off his elder brother and knew something was very wrong. When Joe started to walk to the back, he halted him with a hand on his arm. “No, Joe. Let me, all right?”

“Why? What’s the matter with you? I thought you were hungry?” demanded Joe irritably. “You can get a sandwich and I’ll—”

“No, Joe,” said Hoss very firmly, surprising the younger man. “There’s somethin’ ain’t right here, and I don’t think you’re the one to approach him right now.”

“Well, of all the—” began Joe, indignantly.

“Little brother, drink your beer,” advised Hoss, calmly, but sternly. “I’ll go talk to him. I don’t tend to rile him the way you do. It ‘pears he’s riled enough for tonight.”

Joe muttered something and turned back to the bar. It was always at times like these that he tended to feel most like the youngest… and somewhat left out. There were times that certain things were shared between Hoss and Adam that he just couldn’t be part of. In this instance he wasn’t really surprised. Of all of them, Hoss or himself, Hoss was usually the one who could best reach Adam when he was in a bad mood.

The hell with it! he thought. If Hoss wanted to go back there and get his head bit off, that was his problem. “Gimme a beer, Sam,” he sighed.

Hoss picked his way back to the table Adam was sitting at and slowly came around the side, trying to get a feel for his brother’s mood. It was true he was scowling, but he looked more sad than angry. And Sam was right; Adam actually looked pretty sick.

“Hey… Adam,” he said softly.

His brother started and turned, looking up. “Oh, hi. How was the box social?” he asked quietly, sipping his whiskey. Hoss gingerly slipped into the chair alongside.

“Been to better,” he answered easily. “Food weren’t the greatest, but the company was pleasant.” He knew Adam had had plans for earlier this afternoon and evening but didn’t anticipate him drowning whatever sorrows he had here in the saloon. “What’re ya doin’ here, big brother?”

Adam leaned back in his chair, clearing his throat and wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Drinking. What does it look like?” he grunted.

“Looks like you’re feelin’ dadburned awful, that’s what it looks like,” said Hoss easily. Adam raised his eyes and glared at his brother, who looked back at him totally benignly. The days had long since passed when Hoss was that easily intimidated by his older brother. “Now, either you’re gettin’ sick, which is what it ‘pears to be, since I ain’t seen nobody more feverish-lookin’ than you look right now… or there’s somethin’ else on your mind. Could be both. But I’ll betcha that rotgut ain’t helpin’ either your frame of mind, or the state o’ your health.”

“Thank you, Dr. Cartwright,” muttered Adam, knocking back the rest of the whiskey in his glass and coughing… a hard, wracking cough. Damn cheap whiskey… “Look, Hoss, just let me be, all right? I’d like to be alone.” Morosely, Adam poured himself another shot.

“Yeah, well, you can be alone at home,” said his younger brother leaning forward. “You’re ready to clobber your young’un for comin’ home drunk last night… you plannin’ on showin’ him up?”

Adam was about to retort, then turned his bloodshot eyes to his brother and saw the serious question there. Irritably, he thought about Hoss’ comment. How could he punish Patrick when he went out and did the same thing? Great example he was setting for his son. And he hadn’t had anyone trying to get him drunk!

Adam sighed, shook his head and managed a wan smile. “All right. Let’s go home,” he gave in, shoving himself to his feet. He was surprised to note how badly his head ached when he pushed himself up, and how wobbly his legs felt. He couldn’t have had more than three drinks, but he felt dreadful!

Hoss kept a careful eye on his older brother while observing his long, normally graceful and agile fingers shaking as he rested his hat on his head. Then, weaving a bit, Adam made his way toward the door determined to do so under his own power. Hoss could tell that Adam was really ill, even though his stubborn brother probably wouldn’t admit it yet. In the fifteen years since Adam had been home from college, Hoss had watched his older brother – nearly dead drunk – pace a straight line from saloon table to the batwing doors.  He’d seen him fondle a saloon girl’s… erm… flounces on the way by, without breaking stride.  But right now, his elder brother was having trouble dragging one foot in front of the other to get to those doors and out into the fresh air of the street.

Joe had watched the last of the exchange between his brothers from the bar, getting a little alarmed at the amount of glaring Adam was doing. His two older brothers rarely fell out with each other; that was usually a pastime of Adam’s and his, with poor Hoss stuck in the middle trying to mend fences. He breathed in relief when his oldest brother pushed himself to his feet, and he, too, noticed an uncharacteristic wince as Adam’s hand went to his temple, appearing to try to rub out the pain in his head.

The three brothers met outside. Hoss stayed with Adam while Joe gathered the horses, and Joe looked at Hoss in concern; he wondered if Adam would be able to stay in the saddle.

“Adam, you got a fever?” asked Hoss quietly as he came up beside his brother. Adam had stopped a moment while checking the cinch under Sport, leaning an arm against the saddle and resting his hot forehead against it, trembling.

“Yeah…. I think I do …”  came the soft response, and Hoss could hear the slightly rapid breathing. Hoss nodded and turned to Joe.

“We’ll keep him between us, Joe,” he said brusquely, guiding Chub around the side of Sport and nodding for Joe and Cochise to do the same. “Fever.”’

“For God’s sake, you don’t need to talk about me as though I’m not here,” Adam said crossly, coughing, hard. With his two younger brothers positioned on either side in case he started to topple over, Adam wearily swung into the saddle and headed for home.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

The ranch house was softly lit and quiet when Corrigan arrived. He’d left his horse out in the woods about a quarter of a mile from the house. He didn’t wish to be heard, after all. And five thousand dollars in cash could easily be carried in a bag.

A quick survey of the barn reassured the Irishman that Patrick was likely the only one home, except perhaps for the Chinaman. Pat’s mount, Black Jack, was the only horse in the main barn area.

He quietly stole around the side of the house to the kitchen; the Chinaman was washing dishes in the kitchen and finishing the clean-up after supper, Corrigan assumed. He figured that was the likeliest place to enter. Corrigan watched the Chinese as he sang some heathen tune while cleaning up the kitchen. Silently, Corrigan eased the door open and slipped in, rushing silently behind the man and knocking him out with the butt of his pistol before the Chinaman even knew he was there. Corrigan caught the slight form in his strong arms and eased him to the floor. He yanked short lengths of hobbling rope out of his pocket and swiftly bound his hands and feet, stuffing a gag into his mouth and quietly shoving him into the pantry.

Quietly, Corrigan stole into the main part of the house, listening intently. He heard footsteps above, a door shutting and steps approaching the stairs. He moved quickly for so large a man, to the side of the hearth, concealing himself from view, and hoping to God he hadn’t misjudged.

But, no; the footsteps belonged to Patrick Cartwright. His hands jammed in his pockets, and a despondent look on his face, Pat had come down the stairs, looking to either side, and quietly stole toward the safe.

Eamon grinned to himself. He knew the boy would persevere! He knew he hadn’t lost him last night! If anything, the drinking spree had solidified him as a son of Ireland. Corrigan watched as the boy studied the safe while squatting on his haunches. Eamon’s heart caught briefly in his chest as he saw the boy try the handle, only to have it remain shut.

But then, his heart began to beat again as the boy closed his eyes in concentration, then opened them and began spinning the combination mechanism.

One time, that was all it took. Eamon grinned in admiration as the boy had steady-handedly opened that safe on the first pass. He heard the pleasing clunk! of the tumblers falling into place and the squeal of the safe door as Patrick opened it.

Patrick sensed rather than heard the movement behind him, and with his heart in his throat, spun around. He breathed again and sagged in relief to note who it was.

“Well done, Paddy, lad,” said Corrigan softly. “Well done, indeed.”

 

---

 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

Ben walked his horse back toward the Ponderosa slowly, grumbling in irritation. First, he has to put up with his grandson’s moods and his mouth, now his own damned… darned horse had to throw a shoe and go lame!

Hopefully, Shepherd would understand. There was nothing Ben hated more than showing up late for an appointment or, worse yet, not showing up at all! He hated it done to him, and he abhorred doing it to others. Surely there’d be another evening he and Shepherd could work out their deal of stud fees and times. The man certainly had an impressive stallion that had qualities that would blend beautifully with the Cartwright line.

Ben’s feet hurt by the time he was half a mile from the house. All he wanted to do was soak his feet, sip a brandy, and read a book by the fire. It was cold out here!

Ben found himself thinking again of his argument at the table with Patrick. Poor boy, he’s awfully mixed up. Perhaps once Corrigan leaves town things will get back to normal. Pat and Adam have some significant things to sort out between them!

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Hoss set the pace for the ride home, careful not to go too quickly and end up unseating Adam from Sport but moving as quickly as he could to be sure they got home soon and got his older brother to bed.

Adam slumped in his saddle, his fever already climbing to the point that he was a bit fuzzy. The world around him seemed out of focus a bit, and normal woodland noises were either muffled or unnaturally sharp.  He knew he was holding Sport’s reins, because he could see it, but had trouble matching the sensation of his grip to what he could see.  It was all very odd.  And he ached; muscles, joints, head, back… everything seemed to ache with a sharp bite.

“Hey, Adam?” Joe’s voice was insistent, trying to keep his brother alert.

“What?” asked Adam hoarsely, struggling to sit up a little straighter in the saddle and pay attention.

“About last night…” Joe murmured uneasily. “What’re you gonna do?”

Adam was confused, unable to follow the conversation.

“Patrick?” reminded Joe.

“Oh… well, you were there, you heard me,” he croaked, then coughed hard. He winced as the wracking cough made his chest hurt along with everything else.

Hoss glanced at him and steered Chub a little closer, ready to shoot out an arm to support his brother if it looked as though he was going to fall.

“But…well, you saw how sick Pat was this morning,” said Joe, quietly. “Don’t you think he’s been punished enough?”

“Joe, please,” groaned Adam, rubbing his aching temples. “I don’t feel like talking about it.”

“But Joe’s right, Adam,” said Hoss, insistently. “I mean, I remember the times you come home drunk and snuck in without Pa catchin’ you.”

“I wasn’t fourteen years old, for Chrissake!” snapped his older brother, glaring at him.

“That was only because there weren’t no saloons around here when you were fourteen,” grinned Hoss, knowingly. Adam was too ill to see the humor, or to argue.

“Just shut up, both of you, and let me die, will you?” he grimaced, closing his eyes in discomfort and slumping again in his saddle. Hoss shrugged and glanced at Joe, who grinned, nodding; they’d keep working on him.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Patrick stood before the older man, licking his lips, hesitating. When Corrigan had told him where Hop Sing was, suddenly the strength of his convictions was shaken.

“You’re doing the right thing, Patrick,” Corrigan encouraged.

“Didja think I was backin’ out?” snapped Patrick as he turned back to the safe and uneasily began unloading money.

“I wasn’t sure, lad,” said Corrigan quietly, an eyebrow raised.

The boy looked back over his shoulder. ‘You didn’t have to hurt Hop Sing, y’know,” he accused.

“He’ll survive just fine, lad,” reassured Corrigan, glancing over his shoulder. “Now, hurry it up, lad.”

Violence; just like Granddad said. Was his grandfather right all along? “Corrigan,” said Pat, quietly turning and looking at the man, “before we go I gotta write a note. They’ve got ta know I’ll pay ‘em back.”

At first, the man’s face was blank, then Corrigan’s jaw dropped.  Eyes widened until the whites were completely visible around the blue irises, and his eyebrows climbed nearly into his faded red hairline. The man gaped in astonishment. “Pay ‘em back!?” he all but choked out, incredulous.

“Yeah,” nodded Patrick. Drawing in a deep breath and narrowing his eyes, he took the plunge, almost afraid of the response. “And I want your word this money won’t be used for guns or ammunition.”

Corrigan eyed the boy, hesitant, then shook his head as if to clear it.  Easy now, Eamon, ye daren’t spook the lad, not this close to the finish line…

“Lad…” he began, uneasily.

“No. This ain’t negotiable.”

Corrigan’s dander rose as he heard the unmistakable tone: Paddy Riordan, all over again. “Now, listen here, lad. How that money is t’be spent is not up to you,” he said darkly.

Patrick rose to his feet, his blue eyes dark and stormy, hands on his hips.  Anyone knowing his father or his grandfather would have recognized the stance unmistakenly: a sure sign of a Cartwright just about to go off with a bang!

“Then there ain’t gonna be any money to worry about.”

“Patrick, enough o’this nonsense!” barked Corrigan, losing patience and striding over to him. “Get that money in the bag, now! We don’t have much time!”

Patrick scowled and tossed the money back into the safe and whirled back to face the man. “No. Not without your promise!”

The boy watched the older man face almost comically rise in color, a dozen emotions from disbelief to fury dancing across his features.  He raised his chin a bit belligerently, with a tiny bit of a sneer on his handsome face, arms crossed over his chest.  “That’s a lot of money, Mr. Corrigan. You don’t want to leave without it, do ya?”

Corrigan stared at the boy in amazement. “Is it daft ye are?! What’s got into you?”

“I want your promise that this money won’t go to guns and ammunition, that’s all,” declared Pat firmly. “There’s other things this money can go toward.”

“Patrick, think about what you’re saying…” said Corrigan, a wry smile on his face. “This money can easily be diverted into other sources and buy whatever the hell Sinn Fein wishes. Did ye really think you could have a say?”

Slowly, Patrick lowered his head, then leaned over and firmly shut the safe with a clang! locking the handle.

“Ye damned spalpeen!” sputtered Corrigan furiously, pushing the boy aside and reaching for the handle, without result. He whirled on the boy. “Open it!”

“No.” It was a flat refusal, and Pat’s black brows knit together over steely blue eyes and a scowl.

“Patrick, open the safe. Now!”

“No!” snapped back Pat. “Without your promise, I-” He stopped abruptly, his eyes widening.

Cold, gunmetal grey steel was pointed directly at his middle.

“Padhraic, open the safe,” stated Corrigan coldly. “Now. I’m sorry, lad, but I don’ have time t’deal wi’ yer childishness.”

Patrick swallowed hard as he stared at the barrel and wished to God he’d gone to bed as he’d been told.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Ben finished putting up Buck and wearily trudged his way to the house. He was surprised to note all the lamps were lit. It had to be past ten o’clock. He shook his head. He’d have to speak to Hop Sing. Lamp oil costs good money. With no one home but Hop Sing and Patrick there was no need for that kind of waste!

He hoped that Patrick had obeyed his father and gone to bed. Ben was in no mood to be dealing with a stubborn boy tonight! Considering the amount of trouble that young man was in, Ben found it remarkable that he’d been so difficult at supper. When was that fool of a boy going to learn when it was wise to keep his mouth shut?

Thoroughly out of sorts, Ben stalked up almost onto the front door porch, then stopped short and glanced down at his dirty clothes and muddy boots.  He sighed. He’d best go in through the wash house and remove his filthy gear or Hop Sing would give him a hard time he didn’t need tonight.

Grumbling to himself, he walked around toward the kitchen door, wondering exactly who was in charge in this house!

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Ye heard me, open the safe, lad,” said Corrigan testily. “Enough o’ this nonsense. I – we have a boat to catch.”

Pat hesitated, brow furrowed in worry, licked his lips, then sagged, unable to figure out any other way out.  He gave in; the pistol pointing at his middle helped foster his decision. Slowly he turned back to the safe and dialed the combination.

Just as he pulled the latch on the safe, he jumped as he heard the unmistakable growl of his grandfather’s voice.

“Patrick Cartwright, step away from that safe!”

Patrick whirled in shock, eyes wide, and saw his grandfather in the odd position of holding a gun on Corrigan while in his stockinged feet. Pat glanced quickly at Corrigan and his heart stopped. The Irishman had quickly sidestepped beside the boy, his gun trained on the older Cartwright but kept the youngster within reach. “A good evenin’ to ye, Mr. Cartwright,” smiled Corrigan, his easy expression belying his stanced:  his weight was balanced evenly between both legs, knees just slightly bent, and his body appeared as if coiled, ready to spring forward if needed.

“Patrick, I told you to step away,” declared Ben sternly.

The boy wavered, scared, peering uncertainly at Corrigan, who smiled in triumph. “Stay where ye are, lad,” replied the Irishman calmly, not taking his eyes off his opponent. “As ye can see, Cartwright, he’s realized that his allegiance lies with me.”

Ben’s mind rapidly ran through comments and events of the last few days and realized that this had been the plan all along. Corrigan had nurtured this ‘relationship’ with Patrick in order to make the contents of the safe his. He nodded, his eyes black with fury. “So, you’re not above using children to get your way, are you?”

No longer bluff with scorn, Pat was beginning to get scared.  His face pale, his eyes continuously darting back and forth between the gun in Corrigan’s hand and at his grandfather, Patrick tried to step toward him but immediately halted as Corrgian emitted allow growl.  Once again, licking his dry lips, Pat muttered, “Granddad…” uneasily.

“Quiet, lad, I’ll handle this,” ordered Corrigan quietly.

“Where’s Hop Sing?” demanded Ben, his eyes darting around the room, though not moving his stance at all.

Pat swallowed hard. “Corrigan tied him up in the pantry,” he admitted unhappily.

“Patrick, gather the money out that safe and put it into the bag, as I told ye before.” Corrigan’s voice was cold as ice.

Suddenly, Ben’s eyes widened as he realized exactly what was going on here, though he kept his pistol trained on the other man. He had seen the speed with which Corrigan had recovered and turned his gun on Ben; it had surprised him, considering the other man’s age and bulk. Like Hoss, Corrigan could move fast when he had to.

“Oh, Pat,” he breathed quietly, sorrowfully.

“Granddad, you gotta understand,” begged Pat miserably. “I was gonna write a note, and leave it there on your desk – “

“Patrick! The money! Now!” insisted Corrigan sternly.

“Don’t do it, Pat,” said Ben quietly, his eyes not leaving Corrigan’s face and hands. “You can see how far he’ll go to win, Pat. You’re better than this!”

“Don’t listen to him, lad!” snapped Corrigan, cocking the hammer on the pistol.

Pat nearly lunged forward, but stopped himself just in time. “No!” he gasped, caught in an agony of fear.  He whirled on Corrigan, pleading. “Don’t!  Don’t shoot him!”

“Look at him, Pat! He’s willing to kill! Are you?” demanded Ben. “Today, he’s asking you to go against everything your mother and father taught you! He wants you to steal! How much longer before he demands that you become a killer?!”

“There’ll be no killing here if the boy is wise and obeys me!” snapped Corrigan, angrily.

“Today! There’ll be no killing today!” pounded Ben, his voice dripping with cold ruthlessness. “What about tomorrow? Or the next day! Are you willing to take that chance, Pat? Is that what your mother wanted for you?”

Patrick swallowed hard, panting, his his heart hammering, and looked desperately between these two men. His hands flew to his head, then lowered them in a panic as he saw Corrigan start with his movement, baring his teeth in a grimace.   The boy twisted his frantic hands in the tail of his shirt, as though they had a mind of their own, crumpling the cotton. This had gone so much further than he’d thought it would.

“Padhraic, lad, remember what I told you.”  At the sudden change in the Irishman’s tone Pat’s head snapped around, surprised, thrown off even further.  Gone was the sternness, replaced with an almost beseeching tone, smooth, as though Corrigan and Patrick were the only two in the room. “Remember, lad.  That money will make possible life… life for hundreds of your countrymen!”

“No! That money will be used to kill, Patrick!” implored Ben, desperation entering his tone, wishing to God he could catch his grandson’s eyes, but know he was dead if so much as blinked away from Corrigan’s gaze.

Both guns were steady, but Pat’s resolve was wavering hard.

“I don’t know!” he cried, glancing feverishly between the two men:  his grandfather, and his grandfather that could have been. “I don’t know what to do!” Mouth trembling, he wanted so badly to obey Ben, but the boy was terrified that he could do something that would enrage Corrigan, and end up putting his grandfather down like a rabid dog.

“Trust me, lad!”

Ben opened his mouth to rejoin but really heard the torment in his grandson’s voice.  He understood; Patrick didn’t know how to obey him and not be the cause of possibly getting him killed.  And Ben found he just couldn’t do it. Five thousand dollars simply wasn’t worth his grandson’s safety.

“Patrick! Look at me!” he barked, praying that the seven months here had meant something.

Pat’s eyes jerked to his grandfather, his blue eyes glistening with frightened tears. He didn’t feel like a man anymore; he felt like a scared kid who desperately wanted someone to tell him what to do.

“Son, I’m lowering the gun,” said Ben carefully, his actions matching his words, as he watched Corrigan carefully.

“Granddad! No!” cried Pat, glancing back at Corrigan in terror and shifted fast to the side so that he could see both men, implore both men to stop this.

“Your safety means more to me than that money, Patrick,” said Ben firmly, setting the gun carefully down on the sofa table at his side.

Then Corrigan made his fatal error.

He allowed his expression to dissolve into a feral grin, his triumph over Ben Cartwright clearly showing. A grim scowl fell over Ben’s face in reaction but he didn’t move.

Patrick, however, saw Corrigan’s look, too. His expression shifted astonishingly fast from fear to one of absolute fury. There was nothing left to decide.

Without thinking, the boy lunged hard, knocking Corrigan back. In pure reaction, Corrigan squeezed the trigger.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

“Hang in there, Adam,” said Hoss, encouragingly, “we’re almost home.”

“Good,” muttered his older brother hoarsely. “I don’t know how much longer I can stay upright.”

“If you feel like you’re gonna fall, say something,” said Joe, worriedly.

“If I feel like I’m gonna fall,” Adam croaked irritably, “I’d probably pass out before I could say anything!”

Joe immediately moved a little closer to his older brother, concerned. Adam noticed the movement and smiled weakly.

“I’m alright, Joe,” he sighed. “I’ll make it, don’t worry.”

“I ain’t worried,” snorted Joe. “But you look like you are.”

All three managed a small chuckle at that one. Hoss picked up the pace a little, anxious to get Adam home.

The three brothers were no more than half a mile from home when they heard the report of a gun from the direction of the house.

“What the hell?” demanded Joe, staring at his brothers.

Sick as Adam was, he kicked his horse into a gallop and led the charge to investigate. What in God’s name has my impossible son got himself into now?!

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Patrick slammed Corrigan’s gun arm up and the bullet harmlessly discharged into the broad beams of the Ponderosa’s great room ceiling. The boy had pushed the bigger man off balance, but one hard swing had clipped the boy with a vicious slap that sent him sprawling into the grandfather clock, smacking his head and dropping him like a rock.

Cursing his grandson’s recklessness under his breath, Ben reacted like lightning and took the tiny chance that the boy’s lunge offered. He was on Corrigan in a moment, his powerful shoulders and arms attempting to pin down the Irishman.  He was honestly shocked by the strength the other man possessed as the two tussled, rolling on the floor, overturning furniture, setting a lamp – thankfully unlit! – and small bric-a-brac tumbling and smashing to the floor. Corrigan’s teeth bared as he did his level best to bring the gun up between them.

Pat pushed himself dizzily to his knees. He raised his swimming head, and his eyes widened as he saw the struggle before him. The two older men were evenly matched and supremacy seemed to waver between them.

Just as Ben thought the man might pull it off he summoned one last surge of strength rolled them over again, with him on top and simultaneously gripping Corrigan’s gun hand.

Pat shook his head again to clear it and looked straight ahead trying to latch onto something to focus; his eye fell suddenly on the pistol his grandfather had set on the sofa table. Without thinking, he made a mad dash for it.

Corrigan was on his back, the heel of his left hand against Ben’s chin, viciously pushing upward, while Cartwright grimly straddled the man, struggling to keep the hand holding the gun flat on the floor.

“Hold it!” Patrick shouted, both hands steadying the pistol in his hand – and steady it was! Uncle Joe’s lessons hadn’t all been for naught.

Both men stopped suddenly, heads turned seeing the loaded gun in the boy’s hands pointed at Corrigan’s head, their eyes wide with shock. But Ben’s shock rapidly turned to outraged indignation at his grandson’s foolhardiness. Furiously, Ben made a mental note to take that boy over his knee and give him the worst tanning of his young life as soon as he was free of this Irish fool. His adrenalin allowed a final surge of strength that freed his arms from Corrigan’s grip. He still had one haymaker left in him, and slammed his right fist into Corrigan’s jaw, knocking the Irishman off balance, giving Ben the leverage he needed to overpower him.

Breathing hard, Ben viciously hauled Corrigan’s right arm behind his back, making the Irishman yelp in pain. “Patrick! Put that gun down! Carefully!” Ben demanded.

Silently, Patrick obeyed, and looked at his grandfather, wide-eyed and shaken.

Ben breathed a little more easily. “Now, go find something to tie him up with!” he barked.

“Yes, sir,” the youngster whispered, hurrying into the kitchen. Moments later he came back with a ball of twine and a sharp paring knife.

“Tie him up,” said Ben, spreadeagled over the furiously squirming Irishman, panting with the effort of keeping Corrigan pinned.

Silently Pat obeyed, cutting several lengths. While Ben held Corrigan firmly, Patrick bound his wrists.

By this time, the Irishman had recovered and was angry and defiant. “I knew ye didn’t have it in ye to come w’ me, Patrick,” Corrigan spat out, blindly angry at this point. “A shame to Padhraic Riordan’s name, ye are!”

“If I am,” muttered Patrick, tightening the knots on his wrists painfully, “then I got no interest in livin’ up to ‘is name, believe me!”

The three in the ranch house heard the pounding of hoof beats in the yard and picked up their heads. Ben and Patrick glanced at each other, unsure of whether or not it was more of Corrigan’s cohorts. Ben immediately grabbed Corrigan’s pistol, quickly gripped one of the Irishman’s arms and placed the gun to his head, standing in view of the doorway while Pat lunged for the pistol he’d put down moments before, positioning himself by the sideboard, gun trained on the door.

“Do not fire unless you’re sure, you got that?!” hissed Ben, furiously. His grandson continued to glare at the door, but nodded once, sharply. Ben held the pistol under Corrigan’s chin, determined to use the man any way he had to in order to protect his grandson and himself.

The door flew open as Hoss and Adam exploded into the houses, guns drawn and ready; a heartbeat later, Joe flew around the corner of the kitchen into the dining room, his gun drawn as well.

Astonished, Hoss and Adam stared at the disarray of furniture overturned, the shattered lamp and ornaments around the room; their father, wild-eyed and with white hair standing up on end, his face a mottled red and white from effort as well as what looked like some heavy scratches or gouges, and gripped in his strong hands a hogtied Eamon Corrigan, looking just as worse for wear – or perhaps worse, as he wasn’t free –  as Pa did.

And Patrick, white as a sheet, his blue eyes just about bugged out of his head, but a pistol trained remarkably steadily on them as they stood staring in shocked amazement.

Quickly assessing the situation, Adam and Hoss lowered their guns, and Joe hurried into the great room. Recognizing them, both Ben and Patrick sagged in relief.

“What in hell—” began Adam furiously, trembling hard with fever and exertion.

“Everything’s under control,” Ben assured them, pushing Corrigan roughly into Hoss’ hands. “Mr. Corrigan just thought he might like to help himself to the contents of the safe.” Pat flushed as his grandfather glared at him, tight-lipped, and firmly extricated the pistol from Pat’s hands. Ben turned back to his sons and stared at Corrigan. “Sorry to make you go all the way back to town, boys, but I want you to take him into the sheriff. Now.”

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eyes, Ben watched Adam’s knees buckle and start to topple forward. While Hoss held tight to Corrigan, Ben and Patrick both lunged forward and caught Adam before he fell.

At a single touch, Ben felt tremendous heat radiating from his oldest son and grimly reached up a hand to his forehead. “Adam, you’re burning up!” he said between clenched teeth. When his son didn’t answer, Ben glanced back at Hoss and nodded toward the Irishman. “Throw him in the back of the buckboard and bring him into Roy. Then you be sure to bring Doc Martin back with you.”

“Yes, sir, Pa,” nodded Hoss, pushing Corrigan toward the door.

“Joe, you go with him,” grunted Ben struggling with Adam. He turned to his grandson, “Pat, help me get your father to bed.”

Without a word, the boy got under his father’s arm and tried to support him as they tried to walk an unsteady Adam to the staircase. Pat, too, was shocked by the amount of heat pouring off his father.

“Adam, try to step up, son,” grunted Ben, trying to hold most of his son’s dead weight. “Adam!”

Adam seemed to revive a little as he was walked to the staircase and summoned enough energy to lift his legs wearily up the steps. As they got to the landing, Ben suddenly remembered Hop Sing.

For the first time in his stay at the Ponderosa, an astonished Patrick heard his grandfather swear.

“Oh, God damn it to hell!” Ben fumed. “Pat, I’ll take him from here. Go back downstairs and help Hop Sing!”

 

---

 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

Ben found himself struggling to get Adam to his room without dropping him. At more than six feet tall and nearly two hundred pounds of dead weight, his son made a gangly load to lug up the stairs and down the hallway.

“All right, one foot in front of the other,” grunted Ben, urging Adam to walk under his own power. He was dismayed by how quickly the fever had climbed. Even if his body temperature had been milder earlier in the day, it had taken less than eight hours to climb dangerously high.

Ben gently eased Adam down on his bed, and the young man wearily flopped onto his back, his breathing shallow and rough.  The older man grimaced and shook his head, hands on his hips.

“Adam,” murmured Ben quietly, “sit up. Let’s get you out of those clothes and into bed.”

“…too tired,” his son mumbled, hoarsely. His handsome face was pale; his features twisted into a grimace.

“C’mon, son,” insisted Ben, gently pulling Adam up to a sitting position again. “Take off your shirt.”  The firm tone got through his son’s feverish haze and, frowning, Adam began to fumble at his buttons. Ben turned to the bureau and, after rummaging a bit, plucked a nightshirt out of the drawer. He turned and stood there a moment, watching Adam struggle, then sighed shaking his head. Adam hadn’t gotten very far before a severe coughing attack hit him, leaving him wheezing and breathless.

Ben reached down and finished the job for him, with a sad smile. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to undress you for bed,” he murmured, hoping to get a rise out of him as he gently eased his son’s sweaty shirt off.

Adam sniffled uncomfortably, and glanced up, his eyes red-rimmed and sore-looking. “I can’t believe how bad I feel,” he mumbled, wincing as his head throbbed.

Ben quickly slipped the night shirt over his head then shucked his boots and pants. He was alarmed by his son’s feverish trembling, so violent that Adam’s teeth were chattering.

“I’m cold…” Adam muttered, as he fumbled with the bedclothes and climbed underneath.

“There, now,” said Ben, firmly, tucking the quilt in around him, “just relax and rest and I’ll go down and get you something hot to drink.”

Adam settled back on his pillows and heaved a sigh. He did feel a little better in bed. “Thanks, Pa,” he said weakly, managing a tiny smile. Ben patted his shoulder gently and left the room, sagging momentarily against the hallway wall. What a night! Shaking his head, Ben continued on down the hall.

He turned the corner of the hallway and started downstairs to find Hop Sing lying on the settee with Patrick tending him with a cold compress for the lump on his head.

“Boss!  I quit!” howled the Chinese man, struggling to sit up, and wincing in pain as the movement made his head throb.

Ben rolled his eyes and glanced at Pat. “How is he?” His voice was cold enough to make Patrick shiver.

“Lump the size of a goose egg back there, but it don’t look too bad. Didn’t break the skin,” Patrick replied, still obviously shaken by the events of the evening. “Bet it hurts, though.”

“Well, you stay with him, understood?” grunted Ben, sternly.

“Yes, sir,” nodded Patrick, guiltily. He got to his feet as his grandfather continued on toward the kitchen, and risked his grandfather’s anger, by asking worriedly, “How’s – how’s Dad?”

“Burning up,” said Ben grimly over his shoulder.

Pat bit his lip and glanced up the stairs, then back at Hop Sing who was rubbing his head and muttering angrily in Chinese.

Hop Sing looked up blearily. When he saw Pat’s consternation, he managed a small smile. “Go to fatha. I be all right. Go.”

“But Granddad said—” began Pat uneasily, glancing toward the kitchen. He didn’t want his grandfather any angrier at him than he was already.

“Go! Missa Adam need you,” snapped Hop Sing just as Ben rounded the corner from the kitchen and into the dining room with a hot cup of tea and a basin in his hands.

“Now, Hop Sing—” he started firmly, dark brows knit in consternation.

“Missa Adam sick, need both fatha and son,” the Chinese man insisted stubbornly. “Hop Sing just got hurt head. Go.”

Pat glanced at his grandfather in appeal.

“Oh, all right,” grumbled Ben, handing Patrick the tea and heading for the stairs with the basin of cold water, “but it’d sure be nice if somebody in this house would do as I ask for once!”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Ben, Hoss, Joe and Pat sat downstairs in front of the fire waiting while Doc Martin examined Adam upstairs. Patrick had balked at going to bed, desperate to be allowed to wait to hear how his father was and had dozed off in the blue chair before the hearth. Hoss had gently spread a knitted throw over him, as the March wind continued to pick up around the house and chilled the great room. Hoss shivered a little as he recalled the wicked tongue-lashing Patrick had received from Pa.

Ben had understood that Pat was still shaken and upset from the confrontation earlier but wanted to make it abundantly clear that his behavior was not going to be forgotten. Pat had squirmed as Ben had first yelled at him demanding to know if he’d completely lost his mind. Trying to steal! From his own family!!

Pat tried to explain, but his tongue seemed frozen solid and Granddad wouldn’t have let him get a word in edgewise anyway; he was too furious. Then Pat really began to understand what worry was when he heard Granddad’s voice get quieter and his dark eyes bored into him like an awl through hardwood. Pat quaked; Boy oh boy, but Dad sure comes by that temper o’his honestly!

After being raked over the coals for the attempted theft, Ben moved on to picking up a loaded gun and pointing it at him.

“But, I was pointing it at Mr. Corrigan!” Pat protested weakly.

“How could you tell?! We were fighting! You could have hit either of us! And that’s not the point! You have no business using a pistol, you’ve not been shown how! Nor should you know how, at your age!”

Pat wisely decided this wasn’t the time to bring up that he had already been shown how.   He glanced nervously at his uncle Joe, who turned slightly away, his face alarmed, hoping that Pat wouldn’t spill the beans that they’d been practicing for months, target-shooting with Adam’s old six-shooter.

Luckily, Ben was so furious, he didn’t notice Joe trying to innocently inch his way to the rear of the storm area.

“And let me tell you something else, young man!” snapped Ben finally, winding down and wagging a finger under Pat’s nose. “If it weren’t for the fact that your father is up there in bed, and I don’t know how ill, I’d have long since put you over my knee and whipped you within an inch of your life for your ridiculous behavior!”

Patrick hung his head, blinking hard and his lower lip trembling. “I’m sorry, honest I am,” he said very softly.

Ben harrumphed, his temper finally cooling. He was startled to notice that Hoss and Joe were in the room; he’d forgotten they were there. As angry as he was, it went against his sense of justice to scold the boy in this public a forum. Hands on his hips, he drew in a deep breath and shook his head. “Well,” he muttered, finally, “this discussion is far from over, young man, believe me! But right now, I’m too worried about your father to contend with it.” Ben jabbed a finger at the blue chair by the hearth and glared at his grandson. “Sit down over there and keep still, understood?”

‘Yes, sir,” Pat sniffled and obeyed instantly. The boy turned away from the rest of his family, still feeling the painful sting of shame for his part in the evening’s drama, and instead stared sadly into the flames waiting to hear the verdict on his father’s condition. It had been a long, miserable day for the fourteen-year-old; he was so worn out it hadn’t taken long for gazing at the fire to lull him to sleep.

Half an hour later, the three older Cartwrights picked up their heads as they hear the door close upstairs and Paul walked slowly down the hallway. Doc stretched as he walked down the stairs, looking exhausted.

Ben rose to his feet and met his friend at foot of the stairs. “Well, Paul?”

“Well, Ben?” smiled Paul, gently teasing his old friend.

When Ben’s brows knit together in a scowl, Paul chuckled and patted his arm. “Now, don’t take on so. He’s sick, it’s true, but it’s just the measles. If we keep those lungs clear, he’ll be fine in a week or two. Fever just started today?”

“I dunno, Doc,” said Hoss, glancing at his father and brother. “Seems as though he’s been feelin’ bad for a day or so, mebbe.”

“Well, then it’ll like be another couple of days before the rash erupts, maybe longer, maybe less. Until he does, he’ll have the fever, and the runny nose and coughing. Now, Ben, we’re going to have to keep a shade of some kind on his window; there’s only to be very dim lighting in his room, since his eyes will be sensitive. And the rule is no reading.”

Joe picked his head up in shock and glanced at his father, aghast. “Pa, he’ll go stir crazy!”

“Well, like it or not, he’ll have to abide by it,” said Paul seriously.

Joe’s protests disturbed Pat, who snapped awake and, rubbing his eyes, sat up to find out what was going on. He missed the first part of the conversation, but held tight to Doc’s next words, and they made him go cold in the pit of his stomach.

“Ben, if he does strain his eyes, he could end up blind. I’ve already got three cases of measles-caused blindness from this epidemic. I don’t want Adam to be the next. You’ll have to figure out how to amuse him without books, unless you do the reading. I also want to make sure his chest stays clear, so we’ll need to watch him pretty closely.” Paul accepted a cup of coffee from Hoss. “I’ll just have this quick cup and then take a look at Hop Sing.”

“Paul, how’s Hank doin’?” asked Hoss quietly.

The doctor sighed and sank onto the settee. “Not good. He’s developed pneumonia. And he’s not responding to treatment at all.”

A couple of days earlier, at his wife Abigail’s request, they had taken Hank into the doctor who placed him in one of the three back rooms he kept for people too ill to be unattended. Paul had several women in town who were willing to come in and nurse his very ill patients, and there had been round the clock care for Hank, supervised by Abigail, who was rapidly pushing herself into exhaustion.

The Cartwrights fervently hoped it would be enough, and that Adam wouldn’t follow him.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Two mornings later, Paul sat at the dining room table, sipping a morning cup of tea with Ben after checking on Adam as his first call of the day. He was a little concerned that Adam’s fever didn’t seem to be letting up at all, and the young man seemed no nearer the eruption of the measles rash. His cough kept him from resting, he had no appetite, and he was in danger of becoming dehydrated.

“Ben, you need to keep pushing fluids into him – broth, tea, milk – anything and everything.  Force him to drink if you have to, but get it down him. He’ll be even sicker if he doesn’t, and there are those in the medical community who seem to think that lots of liquids will help stave off pneumonia, keeping the cough loose.”

Ben was weary with the effort of keeping that ranch going while shorthanded and spending all of his free time helping to nurse Adam. His darkly circled eyes remained on Paul as they discussed Adam’s condition and the plan for his care. Little Joe had been working since early that morning, he and one other hand doing the labor of four men in gathering what beef they could find in the north and west pastures and herding them down for branding; Hoss was out in the barn, discussing a breeding deal with a neighboring rancher who had a prize bull he was willing to stud out.

That left Patrick at the breakfast table with Ben and Paul, his mouth closed for once, but his ears and eyes opened.

Yesterday and today had been painful for the youngster. His grandfather was so concerned about Adam and spent nearly all his free time with him. Patrick was still, technically, confined to the ranch, leaving him underfoot from morning until night. He was worried about his father, and about his own immediate future. Granddad was so mad at him, he could barely speak to him without a glare or a clipped sentence. This morning didn’t seem any better, leaving Pat quiet and unhappy. So, lonely and fearful, Patrick had hovered like a shadow around his father’s room as often as he could.

“Now, Ben, I don’t want to alarm you, but you shouldn’t leave him alone at all. Have whoever’s sitting with him constantly try to bring that fever down.  He seems to have a particularly bad case, and sometimes that’s true with a person whose physical condition is rundown. The exertion of the ride home from town the other night didn’t help, either,” mused Paul as he cut his ham. “Tell me, has he not gotten enough rest lately or been under any particular stress?”

“Not much more than usual,” Ben said dryly, eyeing his grandson severely, who blushed guiltily, putting his attention back to his breakfast. Ben turned back to Paul. “Why?”

Oh, well, we’ll just have to keep an eye on him,” said Paul, shrugging. Then the doctor smirked at Ben. “By the way, he wasn’t at all pleased when I reminded him this morning there’d be no reading. You might have to remove the books from his room to enforce that!”

While Ben chuckled, all three heard the front door close quietly and slow steps enter the house. Ben’s smile froze as he saw the stricken expression on Joseph’s pale face.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, rising to his feet.

“Jake just got back from town with the mail,” he said softly. “Hank Myers died early this morning, Pa.”

Paul struggled to his feet as well, staring at Joe in consternation. “Oh, dear God…” he breathed.

Joe turned to the doctor. “Mrs. Martin said to tell you there was nothin’ you coulda done, Doc. His heart just gave out from trying so hard to breathe,” he said softly. Paul shook his head and slumped back down into his chair. Ben, too, sat down heavily.

“He was a good man,” he said softly. “Joe¼ tell Jake that I’ll go over and talk to Abigail as soon as I can get away.”

“Yes, sir, Pa,” Joe said quietly, walking back toward the door. Hank Myers, dead. It’s so hard to believe. And from something as seemingly simple as measles! It made Joe think unhappily of his older brother, suffering upstairs. What if Adam caught pneumonia, too? He looked at his father; from Pa’s expression, Joe figured the same thought cross his mind as he, too, glanced above his head, as though he could see through the planking of the ranch house’s solid floors.

No one seemed to notice, however, the wide, worried blue eyes of Adam’s son as he sat at the table, staring blindly into space.

= = = =

Without the distraction of school, Patrick found his confinement to the ranch very hard to deal with. His grandfather often shooed him outdoors to get some fresh air, or just to give him some peace. Pat had been worrying ever since the first night when he heard Doc Martin mention how his father could become blind, or ill with pneumonia, and wanted, very badly, to be remain near him. This morning’s horrible news – that Hank had died – now terrified the boy. He took to haunting the hallway beside his father’s room or slipping into the room when he could get away with it. But Adam’s fever was so high he was unaware of what was going on most of the time. During those short times that he was feeling a bit better, Patrick drove him to distraction fluttering over him.  He’d keep anxiously touching him, trying to determine how hot he was, or he’d constantly push water or tea on him.  He’d talk, anxiously chattering nothing of importance, but consistently keeping the man from easing into any healing rest.

At the moment, Uncle Joe was up with his father, who was dozing fitfully. Patrick’s worried straightening of his blankets startled him, once again awakening the man from a restless sleep, and Joe had sternly sent him out of the room.

“Pat, he’s not going to get well if you don’t let him rest!” he’d hissed angrily, as he gripped the boy’s arm and marched him to the door. “Now, go on out and play!”

Patrick glared at Joe, who firmly shut the door in his face.  Flushing with anger, he spin on his boot heel and stomped down the hall.

Adam started to call after him, but ended up coughing hard, leaving him breathless and wheezing. Joe offered his brother a glass of water once it appeared he’d gotten back under control.

“Have a little… patience with him, Joe,” panted Adam, his chest aching as he tried to catch his breath. “He’s… worried.”

“Yeah, I know,” sighed Joe, already regretting his unkind words. “It’s only that every time you just get to sleep, he wakes you.”

Adam sighed, wincing miserably as his sore throat protested, then handed the glass back to Joe. “I wouldn’t sleep for long anyway… God, I ache all over,” he groaned, shifting uncomfortably in bed.

“Your fever down any, you think?” asked Joe, gently touching his brother’s forehead. It certainly didn’t feel any lower.

The only answer he got was a mutter as Adam turned over onto his side, grimacing but willing himself to try to relax and rest.

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

The ‘go out and play’ comment of his uncle’s had stung. Pat clamped his mouth shut, unwilling to get into a shouting match with his uncle right there in his father’s room, and had stalked downstairs and outside, shrugging into his jacket.

The ranch was awfully quiet. Hank’s death had cast a pall over the place. The other hands had gone up to the north corral, readying for the branding the following week, and Granddad had gone to Mrs. Myers’ cottage. He didn’t know where Uncle Hoss was and – at the moment – he didn’t care.

Right now, Pat was a mass of worries and fears. He felt cold all over as he wondered what would happen.

What if he got pneumonia, like Hank? What if he died? Doc Martin’s question about his father having been overtired before his illness was haunting him too. Was it all his fault, like everything else? Had his behavior made his father more vulnerable? Awash with guilt, he fought it down with the only coping mechanism he knew: anger. Damn that Uncle Joe, anyhow! He wouldn’t even let him near his father! As he stomped outdoors, he was still sullenly nursing his temper when Granddad rode back into the yard.

Ben’s face was gray and strained as he dismounted; Abigail had been distraught and there was little Ben could say to console her. All the way home, Ben had battled fatigue compounded by his worry over Adam’s condition, leaving what patience he had left frayed.

He glanced up as he saw Patrick glaring and kicking angrily at one of the porch uprights, chipping the wood.

“Patrick!” he snapped. “Stop that!”

“I ain’t hurtin’ nothin,” Pat muttered, frowning, but doing as he was told. He wanted to go back upstairs to his father’s room, but knew he’d just get chased back out again. All of his chores had been completed hours ago. He didn’t even want to read, since he didn’t think he could concentrate long enough to get through a page. So he just stood there, gloomily staring at the ground with his arms crossed angrily over his chest.

“How is your father?” asked Ben, trying to calm himself.

“How should I know?” retorted Pat, insolently, refusing to look at Ben. “I ain’t allowed anywheres near him!”

“Don’t take that tone of voice with me!” snapped Ben, hands on his hips.

The reprimand only served to make Pat even more miserable than he’d been before.

Ben seethed but was too tired to get into an argument with his stubborn grandson. “Here,” he grunted, extending his reins to the boy, “please put Buck up for me, I want to check on Adam.”

Pat muttered under his breath as he did as he was told with little grace. While Ben didn’t catch the words, the tone was abundantly clear. Ben grabbed his grandson’s arm and hauled him around to face him, his eyes burning into the youngster. The hard grip on his arm made Pat wince despite himself.  “Listen to me, young man! I’ve just about had enough of you and your attitude! In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve got a pretty hefty set of crimes to answer for when your father recovers! I would advise against making it any worse for yourself! Is that clear?”

Pat stiffened and nodded.

“I didn’t hear you!”

The air between them was charged with energy, and slowly Pat raised his eyes and stared straight back it him.  His grandfather’s face looked like a thundercloud, his black brows knit together, the darkness of his eyes looking like flint, about to ignite with the fire burning within him.  Pat tried – in vain – to conceal his resentment, as he ground out between his teeth, “Yes, sir!”

After a long, uncomfortable moment, Ben released him and strode into the house. Pat glared at his grandfather’s back for a moment, then turned and pulled Buck, harder than he should have, into the barn.

“Hey! What’re you doin’ to that animal?!”

Pat whirled, startled. Uncle Hoss was standing a few feet away, pitchfork in hand mucking out stalls, with a thunderous look on his face.

With much greater care, Pat led the horse inside to his stall. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’!” snapped back Pat, over his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me you weren’t doin’ nothin’!” replied Hoss, his face angry as he strode toward his nephew. “You were yankin’ on that horse’s bridle and draggin’ him in here! You know better than that, Pat! You ever deliberately hurt an animal that way again and I’ll tan your hide!”

“Leave me alone!” shouted Pat, throwing Buck’s reins to the barn floor, his fists balled in anger.  “I’m sick of everybody yellin’ at me! It ain’t my fault he’s sick!”

Hoss’ eyes widened a bit as he stepped back a step and watched the birth of a full-blown temper tantrum. “Now you just settle down – “ he started, quietly.

“I ain’t gonna settle down!” yelled Pat, a wild kick sending a water bucket splashing. “It’s all your damn fault! You brought him here! If it weren’t for you none o’ this woulda happened!” Pat grabbed the first thing he could find, a currying brush, and hurled it at his uncle.

Hoss dodged the brush easily. “Patrick, calm down!” said Hoss sternly, trying to latch onto an arm, but Pat was completely beside himself, finally letting go of all the terrors and fears, guilt and stress that had tormented him for days. As Hoss tried to hold him, the boy began fighting back, and Hoss yelped as he took a nasty, unexpected kick in the shins.

“Lemme go! Leave me alone!” shouted Pat, trying to dodge past his uncle

“Patrick Cartwright, you just stop this foolishness right now, you hear me?” shouted back Hoss, wincing as he rubbed his shin with one hand, the other blocking Pat’s escape.

“Corrigan woulda never come here if it wasn’t for you!” the boy hollered. He was nearly in tears, totally out of control, and thrashing about blindly.

Hoss was startled by the intensity of Pat’s tantrum and helplessly did the only thing he could think of. Getting a solid grip on the boy’s upper arms he pulled Patrick close to him, holding him tightly, giving him no room to move, effectively pinioning him the boy’s back against his own broad chest. It worked on Little Joe when he got like this; maybe it’d work as well on Pat?

“Now, simmer down!” he snapped, struggling with his nephew.

Finally, though still very upset and breathing hard from the effort,  Patrick stopped fighting him.

Resetting his grip on the boy, Hoss nodded to himself. “Now, I don’t know what’s got into you, but you better cool off and get that temper o’ yours back where it belongs! You ain’t got no call makin’ accusations, young’un. You got yerself into your mess with Corrigan, and well you know it!”

His uncle’s words relit the fire, and Pat tried to shrug free.  But Uncle Hoss was having none of it. Finding himself totally overpowered, the youngster’s  blue eyes shone with angry, frustrated tears. “Lemme go!” he cried, brokenly.

“Not until you settle down!” insisted Hoss, making sure his grip on the boy was firm enough to hold him, but not hard enough to hurt him. “Now what’s all this foolishness about your pa’s sickness bein’ your fault?”

Pat screwed shut his eyes angrily and fought once again to get free. Hoss just bided his time and let him fight; eventually he’d tire out and then maybe he could get somewhere with him. Sure enough, after several minutes of tussling, Pat finally stopped fighting, panting and weary.

“Now, you calmed down enough to talk?” asked Hoss quietly.

“I don’t wanna talk about nothin’,” he choked out, shaking his head, trying hard for defiance.

Hoss sighed and hugged him close, “Well, young’un, you ain’t goin’ nowhere until I get a straight answer outta you.”

Pat struggled to keep his composure, and to do that he couldn’t afford to lose his “mad.”

“Pat, c’mon,” said Hoss gently. “It’s your ol’ Uncle Hoss, here. What’s troublin’ you?”

As it always did, his uncle’s gentle tone did Patrick in. After a few deep breaths, he shuddered and gave in.

“Uncle Hoss, what’m I gonna do?” he groaned. “Granddad’s so mad at me, he could spit! He ain’t never gonna forgive me for even thinkin’ about takin’ that money, even I did decide not to. He ain’t talked to me ‘cept to yell at me, since the other night.”

Hoss sighed. He knew that Pa was usually the steady, always-there rock that helped Pat ride out them stormy times with Adam. But right now, Pa was so worried about Adam and so disappointed in Patrick’s behavior that he and Joe both had noticed that Pa wasn’t around, physically or mentally, to give the boy a shoulder to lean on.  And this sure was a time when the young’un could use it! Hoss remembered how upset he used to be when Pa was angry with him.   Somehow, Adam had never seemed too shaken up when he was in trouble with Pa, and Joe…heck, Joe’d never let it bother him more’n five minutes.

“Pat, yer Granddad…well, he’s just awful preoccupied right now. Yer pa’s real sick, and Granddad’s just worried about him. You’ll see, once Adam starts gettin’ better, Pa’ll be back to normal again. And, yeah, I know he’s mad at ya, but even you gotta admit he’s got a pretty good reason to be.”

Pat swallowed hard and nodded. “I know,” he admitted miserably. “But I feel like no one ain’t ever gonna forget it. No matter what I say or what I do, Granddad’ll never forgive me.”

“Just give it a little time, Pat, it’ll all blow over. Yer Grandpa loves you an awful lot, he’s just kinda disappointed in you right now,” reassured Hoss, hugging the boy reassuringly. “You’re just gonna have to work hard to show him he can trust ya again.”

Pat said nothing, staring at the barn floor. Hoss cocked his head to one side and then walked the boy over to the bench at the side of the largest of the stalls and sat him down beside him. “Maybe it’d help if you tried to tell me why… why ya done all these fool things?”

In halting sentences, the whole story finally tumbled out of Patrick; his reasons for his misbehavior, his guilty fear that his poor behavior in recent weeks was the cause of his father’s illness, and then the biggest fear of them all.

Pale-faced, wiping his nose with his sleeve and almost angrily dashing away unshed tears, Pat couldn’t meet his uncle’s eyes.  “What… what if he dies, Uncle Hoss?” he whispered, staring at the floor’s planking. “What am I gonna do? What if he dies like my Ma?”

Hoss’ tender heart ached for his mixed-up nephew, and he sighed, releasing the boy and turning him around, resting his big, meaty hands on the youngster’s shoulders, now slumped and defeated, the fight gone out of him. “Aw, Pat, yer Pa’s gonna pull through this. Adam’s too mule-stubborn to let a case o’ measles git him. Doc said he’s doin’ all right so far, just we gotta watch him.”

“There was folks watchin’ Hank, and he died anyway,” persisted Patrick looking up miserably at Hoss, desperate for someone to reassure him, to say, outright, “Your father won’t die. You won’t be left alone.”

“Now, Pat, I ain’t gonna believe that Adam’ll die. I just ain’t gonna believe it!” said Hoss firmly. Pat’s lower lip quivered as he tried hard to believe his uncle. “You just gotta have some faith, young’un.”

Sadly, Pat shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “I can’t, Uncle Hoss. I don’t got any left,” he whispered.

Gently, Hoss tipped Pat’s chin up and made him look at him. “Yer too young, short stuff, to have all your faith gone. I know you’re scared, but as long as you got me, and yer Uncle Joe, and Grandpa… and your pa,” he said, raising an eyebrow at his nephew, “you gotta believe you ain’t ever gonna be alone. We all love you, Pat and we’re here for you when you need us. And sometimes, even when you think you don’t,” he smiled.

Pat heaved a shuddering breath, and allowed himself to be drawn slowly, comfortingly into big, strong arms and just let ‘ol’ Uncle Hoss’ make him feel safe.

 

---

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

 

Dawn streaked through the sky, morning sunbeams picking up the blue-black glints in Patrick’s hair as he sweated over the wood pile. He’d been at work for nearly half an hour already as the sun presented itself to the territory.

It had been almost a week since this whole mess had come crashing down around the youngster’s ears. Patrick was exhibiting the strain of worrying whether or not his father would be all right; and, if he did recover, how they’d solve the awful problems Pat had gotten himself into. The boy hadn’t slept a night through since the incident with Corrigan and the safe. Instead, his rest was broken with nightmares, followed by pacing the floors. He’d sit down to eat and be unable to choke down more than half his food, his stomach in knots.

And he worked like a fiend, desperate to show his family that he wasn’t completely a lost cause, that there was something worthwhile to his existence.

As he finished working at the wood pile, his litany of crimes pounded in on him again. Since his outburst in the barn with Uncle Hoss, he stopped having tantrums and instead was withdrawn. He honestly tried to be positive and upbeat, …but he found it was just too hard.

He was surprised to realize how much he missed his father; far more than he’d ever dreamed he would. With his grandfather so mad at him everything in his life was turned upside down, and his worries numbered in the thousands.

He still suffered the awful, uncomfortable pinch of guilt and shame over his misdemeanors these past couple of weeks closing in on him. He wished his father would get well quickly; both so he’d be okay, and so that Pat could finally put all of this behind him and start over. Miserably he sank the axe into the stump and closed his eyes, hoping hard that he’d be permitted to.

= = = = =

Hoss and Little Joe sat at the breakfast table, wearily shoveling in food. The situation with Hank’s death, Adam’s illness, and Ben’s close attendance in Adam’s room was wearing on them, as well. Luckily, Patrick had begun to chip in and was doing a full day’s work. Since school was closed due to the epidemic he’d had nothing to do anyway. With the ranch so shorthanded, Hoss and Little Joe had asked their father if Pat could be allowed off restriction to help.

Joe had watched the kid and saw the iron hard determination to work his butt off. He’d put in a grown man’s work these last three days. Joe knew he was trying hard to prove himself, and to lose himself in the work to get his mind off his troubles. But the pinched look of shame was always present, whether sawing wood, or clearing brush from drainage ditches. He struggled to meet Joe’s eyes, though he was a bit more relaxed around Hoss.

Hoss and Joe had talked about the unhappy scene in the barn the other day, and Joe felt bad for his nephew. While it was true Patrick had been way out of line, he was just a kid, and Corrigan had played him like a violin. Though Hoss hadn’t said as much, Joe thought he knew enough about his young nephew to realize that another part of his misery had to do with him looking like a fool. Joe was young enough to know exactly what that sting felt like.

The brothers talked quietly about their plans for the day, trying to figure out how to pack two days’ worth of work into one, when they heard the dragging step of their father on the stairs.

Ben looked hollow-eyed with exhaustion as he came toward the table and plunked himself down in his seat at the head of the table. He managed a quiet, “Good morning,” to his sons, and shook out his napkin, placing it on his lap, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He glanced to his left and saw the remains of Pat’s breakfast. Quite a bit of remains, too. Ben sighed; that boy hadn’t eaten enough to keep a bird alive these last couple of days.

“Where’s Pat?” he asked.

“Hop Sing said he was up early, ate, and he’s out doing his chores,” answered Joe, sipping his coffee.

“It’s only 5:30,” frowned Ben. “I guess he was up early!” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “He hasn’t been sleeping. I’ve heard him up and around in his room the last couple of nights.”

Hoss glanced at his father, started to say something, then frowned and put his head back down, eating thoughtfully.

“How’s Adam, Pa?” asked Joe, sipping his coffee.

Ben shook his head. “His fever’s still very high. Sleeping a lot; I suppose I should be happy. When he’s awake he’s restless and aches all over. But I sure wish that rash would come on and he could be on the mend.”

“It’s an awful long time comin,’ ain’t it?” worried Hoss, as he forked himself some eggs

“Paul says anywhere from two to eight days,” mused Ben, trying to remember how long Adam had been ill. He was too tired to think, and sighed, shaking his head. “The hard part is getting him to eat and drink. You know how stubborn your brother can be; short of sitting on him, holding his nose and pouring it down his throat, I don’t know what else I can do to coax him into swallowing down broth or milk.” He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Surely it can’t be much longer. This is rough on him.”

“Rough on Patrick, too,” said Hoss quietly.

Startled, Ben glanced up. “What’s that?”

“I said, it’s rough on Patrick, too,” said Hoss, looking at his father. “That poor kid’s been having nightmares, can’t eat, can’t sleep….he’s ‘most worried to death.”

“Well, that young man has a lot to be worried about!” snapped Ben. “Of all the darn fool -”

Hoss put down his napkin and looked at his father. “He’s afraid Adam’s gonna die and he’ll have no ma or pa.”

Ben narrowed his eyes and looked at his middle son.

“I ain’t told ya ‘cos I know you’ve been worried about Adam, but –”  He hesitated and glanced at Joe, who nodded at him encouragingly. “Well, Pa, he and I had a talk t’other day, and he’s feelin’ real guilty and miserable ‘bout this whole thing. And on top o’ that, he’s scared Adam’s gonna die, like Hank.”

“Nonsense!” snapped Ben. “Adam’s just got the measles!”

“Pa,” said Joe quietly.

Ben swung his irritated eyes toward his youngest son. “What?”

Joe’s gaze was sorrowful. “That’s all Hank had, too.”

Ben glared at him and started to retort until he saw the looks of concern on both Hoss’ and Joe’s faces. Haggard anxiety etched worry onto his middle son’s normally placid features and Joe’s eyes looked years older, with lines etched around the corners. Ben’s shoulders sagged. What’s the point in hiding it?  They can see right through me, anyway…

“I’m worried, too, boys. Badly worried,” he sighed, rubbing his tired eyes with his hand.

Hoss leaned forward, pouncing on his father’s words. His blue eyes were lit with apprehension, and his voice was tight, unusually tense.   “Jest imagine how worried Patrick is, then!” he implored. “That poor kid is used to havin’ you there as -as….. oh, I dunno, kinda like his anchor. When he and Adam have a go-round, who’s the one he turns to? You! And not only are you busy nursin’ Adam, you’re so mad at the poor kid he ain’t sure you care anymore.”

“Not care!” glowered Ben, rearing back in outrage, slapping his hand on the table. Stung by the accusation, his outraged anger gave him an energy he hadn’t had just a few moments earlier, making it seem as though static electricity was causing his thick, white hair to ruffle with energy. “What makes him think I don’t care?”

“Maybe …. ‘cos you haven’t shown him you do lately,” said Joe, gruffly, looking down at his plate, his jaw stubbornly set.

Ben’s winced; that look was so much like Adam that Ben’s heart hurt a moment. Please, God… please tell me he’ll be all right?  That I’ll get to see that stubborn, pain-in-the-rear-end expression on Adam’s face again, across the table from me?  Please?

“I know I always hated to have you mad at me, Pa,” continued Hoss, looking apologetic.  But his desperate need to make his father understand how deeply this situation was affecting the youngest of the Cartwrights pushed him to a place of insistence he normally wouldn’t go. For Pat’s sake? Yes.  Yes, he would. “He feels like you ain’t never gonna forgive him.”

“And he’s been workin’ his tail off to prove to you that he’s not all bad,” nodded Joe, with a small smile. “Pa, you shoulda seen him yesterday. He put in a man’s day yesterday, one that would have tuckered out Hoss or me. And he still had another nightmare last night.”

Joe had been the one to reach him first, when he heard the muffled crying in the room next to his. When he entered the room, Pat was sitting up in bed, his knees drawn up and his head resting on his crossed arms, crying softly and trembling. He’d dreamed his father had died and he was attending the funeral. No matter how hard Joe tried to comfort and console him, the haunted look of fear never left the boy’s eyes.

Hoss had come in at that point, listening to Joe’s gentle soothing, and remembered the nights that Adam had been the one to be the comforter.  All those sad, lonely nights after Mama, Joe’s mother Marie, had died, and the child either woke in his bed screaming, or had padded, frightened from a dream, into Adam’s room.  Pa had been too distraught himself; Joe felt the  pain pulsing off Pa in waves, and had no frame of reference, no way to understand.  So, he went to the steady one, the one who always was calm, always ready with a good, solid explanation, and who always dried his tears, eased his hurts and hummed or sang to him to soothe and help him relax.  The irony that Joe was now providing that same solace to Adam’s son wasn’t lost on Hoss.

Disconcerted, Ben scowled into his coffee cup. It bothered him to realize that Adam had been ill now for six days and Ben really hadn’t talked much with Pat in all that time. He’d just been so worried…

“Pa, you used to make sure, when we’d done something wrong, that justice was swift,” said Hoss, quietly, stroking a finger nervously along the pattern of the checkered tablecloth. He peered up, nervously.  “Pat’s been sufferin’ for a week. Don’t you think we could at least get that off his chest? It’d be one less thing for him to be worryin’ over.”

“Hoss,” sighed Ben, leaning back in his chair.  “I’m not his father.”

“But his father can’t do nothin’ at the moment!” protested Hoss, upset, his arms spread wide, as though showing the breadth of his heart in this moment, filled with pain for his nephew.  “It just ain’t fair on the kid, Pa!”

“What do you propose I do about it, boys?” he demanded wearily.

“What would you do if it had been one of the three of us?” asked Joe with a wry grin, totally aware of what his answer would have been. Ben fell silent, thinking, and Joe and Hoss decided to leave him to it, finishing their breakfast and getting on to work.

Ben closed his eyes and shook his head. I’m getting too old for this…

= = = = =

“Patrick!”

Pat wearily straightened up as he heard his grandfather’s voice, wincing as his aching back muscles protested. Morosely, Pat sighed and set the pitchfork against the wall as he prepared to go out find out what he’d done wrong this time. Lately, the only time Granddad wanted to talk to him was to yell at him. He walked out of the barn, squinting in the bright sunlight, and saw his grandfather over at the front porch.

“There you are,” said Ben quietly, walking toward him. “You didn’t come in for lunch.”

“I, uh, I was too busy getting chores done,” he answered studying the planking on the house just over his grandfather’s right shoulder. Truth was, he felt too ashamed to sit at the table with Granddad.

Ben felt a twinge of guilt as he saw the circled eyes, the pale face, and misery on the boy’s face. Hoss and Joe were right. Setting his lips firmly, he decided that it was time to get some things straightened out and get this youngster back on track.

“I want to talk to you inside, please. Go get washed and come on in.” Ben turned abruptly and began to walk back toward the house.

Alarmed, Pat hurried after him and insistently pulled on his grandfather’s arm. Ben turned in surprise and was shocked at the terrified expression on the boy’s face. “It ain’t Dad? He ain’t worse, is he? Should I get the doctor?” he exclaimed.

Ben put both hands on the boy’s shoulders, giving the boy a reassuring smile. “No, Pat, easy, son, easy,” he soothed. “Your father’s resting comfortably. He’s asleep right now and Hop Sing’s with him.” Ben bit his lip as he saw his grandson sag in relief, closing his eyes. Steeling himself, Ben put out a hand and tipped up the boy’s chin. “No, we need to talk about you, and what’s been going on here these last couple of weeks.”

Pat’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard.

“So, go on and get cleaned up and meet me in your room in five minutes,” said Ben sternly.

“Yes, sir,” Pat whispered, watching his grandfather return to the house.

= = = = =

About an hour later, Ben came down the hall and tapped lightly at Pat’s door. When he received no response, he opened the door softly and peered into the room. Patrick was sprawled on his bed on his stomach, out cold. Ben came closer and smiled sadly; the boy had grimy tear streaks on his face. He’d obviously cried himself into an exhausted sleep, but Ben had been listening closely while sitting with Adam; he must have done his sobbing quietly. Gently, Ben stroked back his dark hair – you look so much like your father! – and reached down for the quilt at the end of the bed, covering him. Pat stirred and muttered, then snuggled deeper into his pillow and was quiet again, getting his best sleep in days.

“Rest well, Pat,” he said softly, tucking the boy in, and leaving again, quietly.

= = = = =

Patrick stirred a little and opened his eyes, blearily. Propping himself up on his elbows, he glanced over his shoulder at himself and saw the quilt on him and was a little confused. He couldn’t even remember falling asleep, much less pulling up that quilt. He quickly glanced toward the window and saw that the sun was low in the sky. Jeez, it must be nearly supper time! He yawned, and then his stomach growled a little as he rolled over, sleepily.

Yelping in surprised pain, he rolled quickly back onto his stomach, suddenly very wide awake! Pat squeezed shut his eyes and painfully sucked in air between his teeth as he waited for the ache to subside; well, that sure wasn’t a real bright idea, was it?!

He carefully stretched out on his side, and rested his head on the pillow again, thinking. He remembered standing miserably through a very stiff lecture, having to recount his laundry list of sins, from forgery to hooky-playing and everything in between.  He remembered Granddad finally re-buckling his belt and then squeezing his shoulder in comfort. He remembered his eyes welling up as his grandfather tenderly smiled at him and lightly squeezed the back of his neck in comfort, telling him he’d been forgiven, then left the room. Pat recalled trying not to cry at first, then burying his face in his pillow … he must’ve fallen asleep then, he sighed.

He winced as he thought over that session and rubbed his aching backside. All this time he’d figured his Granddad was pretty much a pushover. He knew Granddad could get mad, but brother!

There was a soft knock on the door, and it opened, admitting his grandfather. Pat blushed a little, feeling disconcerted. He didn’t know whether to stand up or stay lying down, but he sure as heck wasn’t gonna sit!

Granddad solved the problem by smiling warmly and coming in to sit beside him on the bed.

“That was a good, long nap you had, young fella. You feeling a little better?” he asked gently, reaching around and rubbing his grandson’s back. He remembered that when Joseph was younger and upset, a backrub usually calmed and soothed him enough to be able to talk about whatever was troubling him. Adam had been so much older by the time Ben figured this out that he hadn’t been able to use this tactic with him. He remembered regretting it at the time, since it probably would have helped in dealing with his high-strung oldest son, too.

Pat was unable to meet his grandfather’s eyes, still embarrassed. Even though his butt still felt hot enough to fry eggs, he was surprised to realize he really did feel better; inside. Kind of like the weight of the world was off his shoulders. Sighing, he nodded.

“Good. Because you and I need to have a little talk,” said Ben, quietly. “First of all, I want to make sure you understand why you were punished.”

Pat squirmed a little. I already got the lecture, didn’t I? “Yes, sir, I do,” he said softly.

“Well, then?” Ben encouraged, with a prompting nod.

“Aw, Granddad,” he sighed unhappily, “there’s too many things to count.”

The older man tried not to chuckle. “One major thing,” said Ben seriously. “Pat, I think I can speak for your father when I say the biggest mistake you made was several instances of dishonesty, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” nodded Pat, fiddling with the stitching on his quilt.

“You think you’ve learned your lesson? Are you going to do your best to be honest and truthful in the future?”

Pat nodded again, blushing uncomfortably.

“You made a good start earlier by admitting everything and saying you were sorry. I would imagine your father will want to talk with you a bit, but for now it’s over and done with,” said Ben gently.

Patrick sighed with relief and Ben smiled and tousled his hair. “Now, you’ve been pretty unhappy the last couple of weeks, and I just want to make sure you’ve got it all out of your system.”

Pat drew in a deep breath and looked up. His grandfather’s eyes had gone from smoldering hot all this week, to warm this afternoon; if he’d had his druthers, he would much prefer them this way. “Yeah, I guess so,” he sighed. He thought about the unresolved feelings of not knowing which side of him – the Riordan or the Cartwright – was stronger and wishing he knew more about himself and his own history but uneasily kept them to himself.

“I don’t know,” mused Ben, continuing to rub his back gently. “You still seem to be pretty preoccupied. So, what’s still on your mind?”

“Nothin’ really,” said Pat softly. “I’m just real sorry, that’s all.”

“Sorry about which?” smiled Ben, an eyebrow cocked. “As you just said, you had several things to be sorry for.”

Ben was pleased to see that Pat was able to see the humor and even managed a little smile.

“Everything, I guess. Sorry about Corrigan, and the money… sorry about lyin’ to Dad… sorry about everything,” he sighed. The youngster hung his head a little, and said very softly, “I bet he wishes he had a different kind o’son.”

“I doubt that very much,” said Ben, smiling tenderly. “He loves you just the way you are. We all do. If you were different, you wouldn’t be Patrick, would you?”

Pat frowned and shrugged. “Yeah, but I bet he never gave you this much trouble.”

Ben couldn’t help it. At first he thought he could hold it in, but he supposed the effort to control his emotions over these last days had just taken too much of a toll.  He covered his face with a hand, his shoulders shaking with so much laughter that tears winked at the corners of his eyes.

Pat was so startled that he first thought he’d really upset his grandfather.  When he realized the old man was laughing, he wasn’t sure whether or not to be insulted. “What’s so funny?” he demanded.

“Your image of your father!” Finally able to control himself once more, Ben merely wiped his eyes and shook his head, chuckling. Then he sat back, his arms crossed over his chest. “Let me give you a clue, young man… You, sir, are a chip off the old block, that’s for sure.”

Pat cocked an eyebrow and looked at his grandfather quizzically.

“Well, let me tell you about a few of your father’s escapades when he was about your age, shall I? That ought to dispel any illusions…”

By the time Ben was finished Pat was roaring with laughter himself, carefully avoiding slipping onto his back, but tickled, nonetheless.

Pat then grew thoughtful.  He realized that he’d been wrong about so many parts of the man who was his dad. While it was a bit disconcerting to have to shift and change his mind about him – again! – he found himself curious to learn who his dad really was.

“So, you see, young fella, I’d say you come by your temperament pretty honestly,” grinned Ben.  The man sobered then, and reached out, lightly brushing a lock of black hair off the boy’s forehead. “He made mistakes, too. And I guess he turned out okay. So will you,” said Granddad, gently, patting his shoulder.

They had a serious, gentle talk about how the youngster would try to make right the messes he’d gotten into this past week. It was an embarrassing conversation for Pat, but it sure felt good to have his Granddad back the way he was used to him. Ben was touched by the earnest, frank remorse Pat was exhibiting and made sure to encourage and reassure him as he made suggestions on Pat’s future behavior.

“Well, then, young man, I think we can start fresh now, don’t you?” smiled Ben, warmly.

Pat nodded with relief. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, are you hungry?”

To Pat’s surprise, for the first time in several days, he found he was. “I could eat a horse!” he admitted with a sheepish smile.

“Good! Let’s get downstairs to supper before your uncle Hoss eats everything in sight!” teased Granddad, tickling his ribs and making him laugh again. Pat carefully pushed himself to his feet; Ben had to stifle a smile as he watched Patrick absently wince and rub his sore backside.

“Do I have to sit at the table?” asked Pat, looking up unhappily at his grandfather.

“Yes, you do,” said Granddad firmly, then he winked. “But I wouldn’t be surprised if your uncles haven’t found a big feather pillow to cushion your seat a bit.”

Flushing in embarrassment, Pat swallowed hard, started to protest, then sighed, resigned to his fate, and nodded. Ben smiled and tousled his black hair in encouragement and approval.

Grandfather and grandson walked down to supper, with Ben’s arm fondly around Pat’s shoulders as they went.

= = = = =

His head throbbed, his ears hurt, his throat felt raw and sore, and it seemed as though every muscle in his body ached. He alternated between shivering with chills and fussily pushing the covers off himself as he became unbearably hot.  The worst times were when he was totally aware of how ill he felt and how bored he was; it was a lot easier to get through this when his fever was so high that he slept very hard, almost in a stupor. The days had begun to run together. Hours became one long minute of suffering, all strung together. If asked, Adam couldn’t have said how long he’d been ill.

Ben gently wiped the perspiration off Adam’s forehead and neck, trying to help him get comfortable. As had been true for several days Ben wasn’t able to coax much food into him; but he did recall Paul saying that Adam had to have a lot to drink –  to sit on him and force it down his throat if he had to. So, while he didn’t press the issue on the food, he was very firm that Adam drink down Hop Sing’s broth.

“Pa…”

“Yes, son?”

“Where’s Pat?” he asked, weakly. “I haven’t seen him…in days…”

“It just feels like days,” reassured Ben. “He was in just this morning, remember?”

Adam’s forehead creased as he made the effort to put images and feelings together into a normal timeline. “… He’s unhappy…” he fretted.

“Shhhh, it’s all right, he’s fine,” soothed his father, placing a cold compress on Adam’s forehead to cool his fever, and gently patting his hot hand. “He’s finishing up his chores. When he’s through I’ll have him come to visit, all right?”

Adam began to cough, quickly getting overheated, and restlessly pushed his covers down again, his breathing ragged.

Ben sighed and pulled the covers back up, earning him a muttered “.. too hot…”

“Adam, you have to stay warm. Just try to relax and rest,” said his father firmly.

For a little while, the cold compress seemed to feel good and Adam lay back quietly. He felt awareness trickle back into his body and didn’t particularly welcome it. Awareness hurt. He grew fidgety again and opened his sore, reddened eyes and sought out his father.

“He’s worried, Pa” croaked Adam, attempting to fight through the feverish haze and focus his mind back on his son again, and wincing as the effort to speak hurt his throat. “I’ve seen him moping around the hallway, and when he’s in here…” he stopped speaking as he broke into a severe coughing fit. Finally, wheezing, he lay back on his pillows… “When he’s in here… he looks miserable.”

“He’s feeling a lot better, now,” smiled Ben. “He’s worried about you, but once your fever breaks, you’ll both be all right.”

“If it ever does,” Adam grumped, shifting restlessly.

“Would you like me to read to you? Think that’d help you relax?”

“I guess so…” Adam sighed, closing his eyes tiredly.

Ben smiled tenderly. His eldest’s normally self-possessed and disciplined expression was replaced by a slight frowning pout, his usually meticulous appearance marred by damp hair, curling at the ends and mussed. Laying back on his pillows, shifting uncomfortably, Adam looked more like a very small boy than he had in many years.

Choosing a volume of poetry from Adam’s bookshelf, Ben settled back into the bedside chair and began to read. Adam‘s forehead started out creased in discomfort, but as his father’s voice soothed and calmed him, the pain lines eased and Adam dozed off to sleep.

= = = = =

With his other morning chores finished, Pat tackled the job of splitting kindling for the house’s fireplaces.  As he carefully aimed the hatchet and splintered off pieces, tossing them into the kindling bucket, Patrick thought about his visit to his father last night. Dad had been so feverish he wasn’t really sure his father knew he was there. He sure didn’t seem to be getting better, Pat sighed. He knew Granddad and his uncles were awful worried, Hop Sing, too. He just couldn’t understand why this fever wouldn’t break the way Dr. Martin said it would.

Pat slammed the ax into the stump, then raised his head in curiosity as he heard horses and a wagon or buggy coming into the front yard. Buttoning his coat closer around himself, he trotted the kindling bucket to the kitchen door, then hurried around to the front of the house to see who had arrived.

Doc Martin was stepping down out of his buggy as he turned the corner of the house. Suddenly alarmed and with his eyes wide, Pat hurried to him. Was Dad worse? Did they send for Doc while I was doin’ my chores!?

“What’s the matter? Is he worse?” Pat blanched, gripping tightly the side of the buggy.

“No, no,” soothed Paul, smiling and putting his hand reassuring on Patrick’s shoulder. “I’m just stopping in to see how your father’s feeling, that’s all.” Paul eyed the boy, in concern.  Instead of the usually healthy, robust fourteen-year-old, Martin saw a pale, seemingly exhausted kid with darkly-circled eyes, and a very frightened look on his face. “You look done in, son. Are you all right?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” muttered Pat, looking away and heading toward the house, anxiously glancing back to make sure Paul was following him.

= = = = =

“Well, Adam, still having a hard time, eh?” said Paul, quietly, as listened to Adam’s chest, and noting the heat emanating from the young man. Adam had lost weight, his face was terribly pale under his stubble and his eyes were red and sunken. But Paul was pleased to note that his skin wasn’t showing signs of dehydration.

Adam was in a semi-stupor from his fever and wasn’t really alert to what was going on. He shifted restlessly in bed, not responding to the doctor, and trembling, hard. On the other side of his bed, Ben helplessly glanced at the doctor. “Paul?”

“It’s just the fever, Ben,” assured Paul, though his face was concerned.

“Well, for heaven’s sake, Paul!” hissed Ben, planting his hands on his hips in worry and irritation. “How long before the fever breaks? He’s been like this for four days!” He worked hard to keep his voice quiet, so as to not disturb Adam.

But doing so made it awful hard for Patrick, standing outside the door eavesdropping anxiously, to hear.

“For heaven’s sake, I’m a doctor, not a fortune-teller!”  Pat heard the answering irritation in Doc’s voice, and for some odd reason that made him even more anxious.  Doc was almost always calm.  He heard both men draw in breaths as though to get their tempers back under control and two muttered apologies.

“Ben, while it isn’t often the prodromal phase of measles lasts six or seven days, it isn’t unheard of. I’ve read about some patients going as long as eight days before the rash begins. Adam’s just having a harder time than usual, that’s all. I don’t like the sound of that cough, though. Here, fluff up his pillows, I want him sitting up as much as he can to ease his breathing,” said Paul, easing Adam up gently to a sitting position. Ben did as he asked, and they were able to get him comfortable again.

Paul stood studying the sick man in front of him, rubbing his lips, and sighed, making a decision. “Ben, would you go down and ask Hop Sing for some ice?”

Ben blanched and looked at Paul, stricken.

“Don’t make more of this than is necessary,” said Paul firmly. “I want to cool him down, that’s all. Bring both a small block, and some chipped. And a spoon.”

Without another word, Ben nodded and left the room, nearly running into his grandson, out in the hallway. He tried to reassure him with his eyes but was unable to speak as he hurried downstairs.

Pat sidled into the room his eyes wide.

“Is he gonna be all right?” he asked in a quiet, quaking voice. This was reminding him way too much of his mother’s death six months earlier.

Paul glanced up and beckoned the boy closer. “Want to help?”

Silently, and in relief of finally being given something to do, Pat nodded.

“Good,” said Paul. “I want you to just talk to him, quietly.”

Pat nodded again, then squatted down at his father’s side. He winced and hissed in air between his teeth when the skin of his haunches was pulled painfully tight, but ignored it to focus on the task given him. “Hey, Dad? Dad? It’s me, Pat. You’re gonna be okay.” It felt awkward at first, but Patrick steeled himself to reach out and take his father’s hot hand in his, and continued talking softly, his deep voice soothing. “Dad, you gotta wake up and see the weather. It’s just beautiful out there. I think spring’s gonna be here soon.”

“Good, Pat,” approved Paul, softly.

Pat glanced back at him, worriedly, and drawing in a deep breath, nodded and continued his monologue.

Paul sighed as he watched. It was obvious the boy was scared; if Adam didn’t get better soon, he’d have two patients to worry about, not to mention Ben.

Ben returned to the room with a block of ice in a bowl, and the chipped ice in a cup. Paul smiled at

Ben and took the bowl. “Pat, carefully set that block into the bowl of water to cool it off. Keep applying the compresses to his forehead, and wipe down his face, neck, and wrists.”

Pat nodded, immediately doing as he was asked.

“Ben, I want you to try to spoon some of those ice chips into him, a very tiny amount at a time. Let’s see if we can’t cool him from both inside and out. All right? Only a small amount at a time, though, or it could upset his stomach.”

The three worked for nearly an hour; gradually, the treatment began to have an effect. Adam’s breathing became less ragged, and he seemed to be resting better, and eventually began to wake.

Adam stirred uncomfortably and shivered from the chill of the icy compresses, trying to take in what was going on around him.

“It’s all right, Adam, your fever just got a bit too high,” said Paul quietly. “How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Adam whispered weakly, closing his eyes and laying back quietly.

“I’m not surprised,” smiled Paul. “Gentlemen, I think we’ve got things under control here. Why don’t you two go downstairs and get yourselves something to drink. You both look as worn out as he does.”  Reluctantly, Ben herded Patrick out of the room, and they headed downstairs. Paul shook his head with a smile and turned back to his patient. “So, young man, how’s the head? Still aching?”

Adam nodded quietly, his forehead still creased. The ice was making him shiver violently.

Paul and Adam talked quietly for several minutes, not hearing as quiet footsteps came back upstairs, and waited outside the door.

“… she’s been stopping in once or twice a day, Adam, wanting to know how you are,” Martin was saying quietly. “I suppose you know they’re leaving in a few days?”

“Yes,” he heard his father sigh. “She told me about a job…things didn’t… work out as we’d hoped, Doc.”

“Well, I’d like you to cooperate and break this fever, young man, so that that young woman and her daughter can leave for San Francisco in peace,” said Paul, in gentle, friendly voice. “She doesn’t want to leave until she knows you’re going to be all right.”

Patrick opened his eyes wide in shock and leaned against the wall, shaking his head as he realized who Doc and his dad must be talking about. Oh, no… Wendy was leaving?

“She shared a bit with me about her husband, Adam. She was distraught and not sleeping well and came to me for something to help her at night. After a bit of discussion, she broke down and told me the whole story. I’m awfully sorry.”

“All of it?” Patrick heard his father rasp.

“You mean about her husband being committed? Yes. Do you have a message for her?” Paul knew how difficult this was for Adam. Though he didn’t say so, he could tell that Veronica Carter and Adam had fallen in love, and that this dreadful situation with her ill husband had hurt both of them terribly.

Patrick closed his eyes and lowered his head, listening intently outside the door. A week ago, he’d probably have been stubbornly glad to hear that this relationship with Mrs. Carter was going to end; after witnessing the passion they’d shared at the lake, Pat had been angry, jealous and hurt. Now, he just felt sad, for his father and for himself.

“Yeah… tell her I said it was a pleasure to have known her,” came his father’s soft, sad voice. “And that I wish her the very best.”

“All right, Adam, I’ll do that.”

Patrick lifted his eyes, stubbornly determined that somehow, some way, he’d get out and see Wendy before she left, restriction or not.

= = = = =

Paul left soon after, trying to sound reassuring, but making sure that Ben didn’t leave Adam unattended. Pat stayed with him for a while, but when Adam dropped off into a relatively comfortable sleep, Ben forced Pat outside to get some fresh air.

Close to midday, Ben asked Hop Sing to prepare a pot of coffee and took a walk outside to wait while Hoss sat upstairs with Adam.  Stretching out his shoulders, he glanced onto the porch and saw Patrick leaning against the furthest porch upright, staring off into the distance. Sighing, he walked over to his grandson and stood beside him for a few moments. Then silently, he allowed an arm to drop down and drape comfortingly around the boy’s taut shoulders.

“Don’t worry, Pat,” he said quietly. “He’ll be all right.”

“Yeah, sure,” grunted Patrick, still staring ahead blindly. “So okay that we gotta get ice from the ice house to bring his fever down. C’mon, Granddad, I ain’t stupid!”

Ben sighed and started to reply, then looked up as he heard hoof beats pound into the yard and saw Roy Coffee riding in. What now? he groaned to himself, reluctantly walking down to meet him.

“Afternoon, Ben,” smiled Roy, glancing up at the sullen boy on the porch. He hadn’t moved, was still leaning against the post, sulking and staring down at the ground. “I need to talk a bit with you and Patrick.”  He slapped his reins around the hitching rail.

Ben eyed his old friend a little quizzically but got the reassurance of a bland expression in return.  Good; nothing wrong then.  Probably just routine.  “Sure, Roy, come on in,” he invited, leading the way to the front door.  He smiled at his grandson, and the boy followed them in.

Once inside, Pat leaned against the back of his grandfather’s chair, his coat tossed carelessly on the table as Ben invited Roy to be seated. Hop Sing had just come out with the coffee service, widened his eyes in surprise when he saw the Sheriff. “I get ‘nother cup,” he said, bowing to the lawman, then hurrying back toward the kitchen after pouring Ben’s cup. Roy shook his head as Ben offered the cup and watched as the tired father filled it.

“What did you need to talk to us about?” asked Ben, as he stirred a little cream into his coffee and sipped it.

“Just wanted to let you know that Corrigan and his sidekick are in custody, and the circuit judge’ll be through later this month. It’ll go to trial if you press charges, Ben. Is that what your plan is?”

Roy sat back waiting in mild amusement for the expected explosion.  He didn’t have long to wait.

“Of course it is!” snapped Ben, setting his cup down with a decided click! “The man held a gun on me and threatened my grandson!”

Coffee nodded. Purty much what I expected. “From what I hear, Pat had a role of his own to play in this,” said Roy, eyeing the boy sternly.

Pat straightened abruptly, then turned, staring into the hearth, his face growing as red as the flames.

Ben merely looked intently back at Roy, one eyebrow cocked.

Roy mirrored the raised eyebrow.

Ben raised him two and then glowered.

Roy gazed back blandly.

Ben’s expression lost none of the glower, but his dark eyes began to twinkle.

And Roy then knew that Ben had things with young Patrick under control.  Lord knew, Roy’d been out here to the ranch enough times over the last twenty years, dealing with one misbehaving son or another. An errant grandson wouldn’t be nothin’ Ben couldn’t handle, the boy’s father bein’ sick or not.

Roy nodded, pleased. Ben and Patrick must have gotten it all straightened out between them.

“Good, I just wanted to be sure,” Roy said cryptically. “I’d appreciate it if you’d stop by the jail real soon and swear out the complaint, so’s everythin’ll be all neat and pretty when Judge Larrabee gets here. By the way, you and Pat might both have to give evidence at the trial.”

“Certainly,” nodded Ben, emphatically.

Pat, too, nodded his assent, though his eyes remained on the crackling flames in the hearth, hands jammed in his pockets and his shoulders tight.

“Well, that about does it, then,” smiled Roy, rising to his feet. Hop Sing came out from the kitchen with a cup in his hand, surprised to see the Sheriff preparing to leave.

“I thank you kindly, Hop Sing.  Why don’t’cha hold onto that for next time,” Coffee grinned.

Shaking his head in annoyance, the Oriental man chattered angrily in Chinese and went on back to his domain.

“So, how’s Adam doin’?” asked Roy and he and Ben walked out to the yard again, Patrick trailing behind them.

“He’s having a rough time,” said Ben softly, rubbing the back of his neck, wearily. “Still has a pretty high fever.”

“Yeah, lots of people are awful sick. John MacDonald stopped by to let me know what was goin’ on and that he was closin’ the school,” said Roy a little too blandly.  He retrieved his horse’s reins, then turned and looked straight at Patrick.

Startled, Pat raised his eyes and for the first time really looked at the Sheriff. Oh, Jaysus…he knows…

Ben worked to keep his lips steady, looking down at the dirt. Well, young man, your chickens are truly coming home to roost now…

Flushing again, Pat also studied the ground and thought of turning around and going back into the house, but Coffee’s next words held him fast in place with morbid fascination.

“I saw a friend of yours today, Patrick. Micah Devlin,” the Sheriff said, his eyes twinkling with humor as he glanced at Ben.

Surprised by this non sequitur, Ben’s eyes narrowed and he glanced between Pat and his old friend.

Roy’s tilted head and gaze at him said there was more to this whole mess that he was unaware of.

Slowly, Ben pivoted his whole body around to study his young grandson.

Pat swallowed hard.

“Yep,” continued Roy in excessive innocence as he checked the girth strap on his saddle, made sure his rifle was secure, and patted the horse’s neck.  “Him and his pa were out mending fence on the Virginia City side of their property. Don’t know ‘zactly what happened, but Mike sure wasn’t lookin’ too happy.”

Pat looked up at him, confused, his mouth slightly agape “Huh? How come?”

“Well, he wasn’t movin’ too comfortable, walkin’ kinda stiff, like.”  Roy, very meaningfully, looked straight at Pat, tipped his head and then made a show of his gaze dropping to the seat of the boy’s pants, then back up straight into his eyes.

Ben lost his battle of keeping a grin off his face as Roy finally allowed a smug smile to cross his own craggy face.

“No, sir-ee, he sure didn’t much enjoy settin’ on that horse o’ his. I wonder if his, um, condition, has anything to do with that little hooky-playin’ escapade o’ yours that John MacDonald was tellin’ me about?” grinned Roy as he swung into his saddle. “See ya, Ben!”

“You take care, Roy!” chuckled Ben, in amusement, as he waved goodbye. When the man rode around the corner of the barn, he slowly turned back to his grandson, his legs planted apart and his arms crossed over his chest, and his head tilted to one side as he raised an eyebrow, looking intently at the boy.

In horror, Pat closed his eyes and leaned unhappily against the hitching rail, shaking his head. Oh, for cripes’ sake! Now Mike was gonna be mad at him, too!

 

---

 

CHAPTER TWENTY

 

“Chickee! Chickee!”

Hop Sing smiled at the antics of the chickens as they darted for the feed he sprayed over them and shook his head. Chickens were so easy to understand. He glanced back at the house, his smile fading.

Mister Adam was still terribly ill. Hop Sing had spent the early morning hours with him after sending a weary Mister Ben to bed for some badly needed rest. Mister Patlick had slept through the night; first time in a week, Hop Sing sighed. He offered prayers to the Celestial Being that Number One Son would recover soon; the whole family was becoming worn with worry.

Hop Sing lifted his head as he heard hoof beats in the front yard and set his feed bowl down, hurrying to the front of the house. The Boss was still asleep inside and Hop Sing intended to let him stay that way.

A man he didn’t recognize, dressed in black with a clergyman’s collar, was dismounting from his horse, a sorry looking animal. Hop Sing approached as the holy man slapped the horse’s reins around one of the hitching rails.

“I help you?” Hop Sing smiled as he wiped his hands on his apron.

“Good mornin’ to ye,” smiled the man. “Me name is Father O’Reilly. I’m from Saint Mary’s in Virginia City. ‘Twas wonderin’, I was, if I might be seein’ Mr. Adam Cartwright?”

The cook frowned, glancing back toward the house. “So sorry,” he said , slowly, and shook his head. “Missa Adam very ill. He have measles. You come back another time?”

The priest frowned. “Oh, it’s sorry I am t’hear that. Poor man…seems to be goin’ through Virginia City like wildfire, that.” He paused a moment to think, then his face brightened. “ Ah! Might Mr. Ben Cartwright be available, then?”

“He might,” came a warm voice from the front door.

Both Hop Sing and the priest turned to see Ben coming out on to the porch, rolling up the cuffs of his shirt. He still looked tired, but certainly better than he had four hours earlier before. “Good morning, Father.”

“You should still be sleep!” scolded Hop Sing, hands on his hips. “You velly tihad!”

Ben frowned and glanced at the priest, who stifled a grin. “I’m perfectly fine,” he said sternly. “Now, would you be good enough to bring some coffee to the breakfast table? Father O’Reilly and I will have a cup, please.”

Muttering in Chinese, in which his displeasure at his boss’ early rising was obvious, Hop Sing stomped back into the house. Ben chuckled and waved the priest in.

“What brings you out to the Ponderosa so early, Father?” he asked genially as he followed the priest through the front door.

“Well, I heard some mutterings in town, sor, that worried me a bit, and I wanted to be sure all was well with young Patrick,” admitted the priest, honestly. He nodded his thanks as he accepted his coffee.

“Are the boys already up and out?” asked Ben.

“Up early, eat bleakfast, out doing chores,” Hop Sing snapped in reply. Then, he demonstrated a huge contrast in his demeanor as he beamed at the priest.  “You hungry, Fatha? I fix you bleakfast, lickety split.” No mention was made of breakfast for Ben, however.

“No, sor, I thank ye,” smiled the priest, tickled at the interesting employer/employee dynamic playing out before him.

Glaring at his employer, Hop Sing stomped back into the kitchen.

Amused, O’Reilly watched the older man close his eyes and clear his throat in embarrassed irritation. Then Ben relaxed his shoulders and once more gave his full attention to the priest.

“Now, then, you said something about some rumblings in town?” asked Ben, leaning back in his chair.

“Aye,” nodded O’Reilly. He glanced at the older man before him, hesitating a little. “‘Tis concerning your young grandson and the gentleman we’d been talking about when we last met.”

Ben’s face darkened, his eyes becoming colder. “Corrigan.”

The priest’s eyebrows rose at the change in demeanor, though he could understand it, given what he’d been hearing in town. “Aye,” he nodded gravely.

“Well?”

“The Irish community is abuzz with his arrest, sor. Now, mind ye, not all are thinkin’ he’s been falsely accused,” he said, with a tiny, humorless smile. “But, on a more serious note, ‘tis the involvement in the whole affair o’ young Patrick that concerns me.”

Concerned me, too!  thought Ben grimly. “Why’s that?”

“Wal, sor, I suppose I should have made the connection earlier, when we first met, but it seems, from what I’ve heard, a good part of Patrick’s foolish connection with Corrigan had to do with wantin’ to be learnin’ more about his Riordan family. Am I right, then?”

Ben noticed an odd expression on the priest’s face, and his eyes narrowed a little. “Yes,” he nodded, sipping his coffee. “Patrick told us that was his major reason for spending time with Corrigan.”

The priest inhaled through his nose and blew out a breath in consternation. “And then Eamon managed to befuddle the lad into believin’ he was a sainted liberator of the Irish people, did he not?” asked O’Reilly dryly.

Ben, startled, stared at the priest.

“Oh, don’t be lookin’ so surprised, Mr. Cartwright. Sure, and young Patrick isn’t the first lad to find himself embroiled in Eamon Corrigan’s Fenian dreams.” He drew a pattern on the tablecloth with his finger, frowning as he hesitated, brows knit in consternation.

The older man could see the priest was struggling with his words and grew more curious by the moment.  Ben leaned a little forward.

“From the sound of it,” observed Ben, elbows on the table and his fingers laced, “you…know Eamon Corrigan?”

“Aye,” nodded the priest, still studying the pattern he was drawing with his finger.  “I do.  And I knew Padhraic Riordan, Mr. Cartwright. Knew him well.”

At Cartwright’s start of surprise, he finally looked up. “He was a good man, Mr. Cartwright, a fine man. Peaceful, believin’ in the law. Not an insurrectionist by nature, believe me. ‘Twas wonderin’, I was, if I might be able to have a word with lad and let him know that? I can only imagine the tales of his grandda that Corrigan’s filled his head with,” he muttered, as though trying not to allow a bitter tone to enter his voice.  He drew in a breath again, getting himself under control, compressed his lips and shook his head, then looked up. “Then again, I could be wrong. They were the best of friends for many years, Eamon and Paddy.”

Ben continued to study the priest, as though waiting for the rest of the story before he reacted.

O’Reilly sighed and leaned back. “And, as young Patrick’s confessor, I’d also like to offer what solace I can to the boy’s soul, easing any guilt he might be sufferin’…hopin’, o’course, that the lad is feelin’ at least a little guilty for his sins,” he added with a rueful, but amused grin.

Ben smiled thinly in return and studied the priest. “Well, he’s admitted his crimes, and been punished for them, though he’s still harboring some guilt, which I think will be a good deterrent to him repeating them in the future. But…” He mused a moment. “You know, I think your idea is a good one. It’d do Patrick good to hear some positive things about his Riordan  grandfather. Hop Sing!”

The Chinese man poked his head around the corner, still glowering at Ben.

“Where’s Patrick?”

“In barn, doing chores,” snapped back the man, pulling his head abruptly back into the kitchen.

Sighing in exasperation, Ben started to reply, until he heard the suppressed giggle at his side.

The Irishman rose to his feet. “I’ll go on out to the barn, then, with yer permission, sor?”

Shaking his head with an embarrassed smile, Ben walked the priest to the front door.

= = = = =

Patrick brushed his hands off on his pants, carefully avoiding his seat, as he finished laying the new straw in the stalls. He swiped a sleeve across his forehead and sighed. Almost finished. As he worked, he wrestled to think of a way to get to see Wendy without tipping off his grandfather. Planning disobedience didn’t sit nearly as easily with him as it might have a week earlier. It wasn’t the fear of another hiding if he was caught that bothered him, although he certainly didn’t look forward to that possibility. It was more that knowing he’d disappoint Granddad and Dad that concerned him. Frowning, he toyed in his mind with all his options.

“Patrick?”

At the unfamiliar voice, the boy jumped and turned. He gaped in surprise to see the priest from St. Mary’s.  Holy Mother! Here he was planning disobedience and who’s right behind him, but a priest!

“Father O’Reilly!” he blurted.  “What’re you doin’ here?”

“Well, lad, I was in the neighborhood,” the priest easily fibbed as he walked into the barn, “and thought I’d stop by to be seeing how ye were. Haven’t seen ye at Mass lately.”

“Oh,” said Patrick, flushing uncomfortably. “Well, there’s been a lot going on, what with my dad sick and all.”

“Aye, so I’ve been hearin’.” O’Reilly glanced at Black Jack, the only horse in the barn at the moment, and beamed. He walked over the horse and, holding the halter, examined him with a trained eye, then ruffled his mane and patted his muzzle. “A fine animal, this!” he exclaimed, looking back at the boy in admiration.

Pat smiled with pride and walked towards him. “He’s mine; name’s Black Jack,” the boy grinned, patting the horse himself. “My Granddad gave him to me for my birthday.”

“An amazin’ gift, this,” said the priest. “Cares for ye a great deal, does this grandda of yours?”

Pat blushed a little; yeah, he cared, more than Patrick had ever dreamed. “Yes, sir, I guess he does,” the youngster admitted softly, a look of gentleness and shy love falling over his face.

“‘Tis good, that. The relationship of a lad and his grandda should be a very special one,” agreed O’Reilly softly. He glanced at the boy. “I understand ye know very little of yer other grandda…Paddy Riordan.”

At the name, Pat’s head snapped up and he looked at the tall Irishman beside him.

“I’ve heard about your troubles, Padhraic.”

The boy winced to hear his name in the Irish.

“’Tis for him you’re named, are ye not?  Padhraic O’Riorda?”

Silent, the boy nodded, his eyes on the barn floor.  That’s the way Ma pronounced it…

“In town, the Irish are all awash with the news of Corrigan and the attempted theft.”

Uneasily, Pat scuffed at the barn floor with his boot, eyes downcast. His shoulders were hunched in shame.  This was awful; even his priest knew about his dreadful behavior!

“Well, then,” O’Reilly said, matter of factly, turning away from the horses and gazing at the boy in front of him.  “I was wonderin’, lad, if ye’d like to hear a bit about your grandda and grandmam…yer uncles… and …yer mam.”

Pat’s head snapped back up and he looked at the priest in astonishment. “You … you knew ‘em too?!” he breathed, eyes wide and leaning forward eagerly.

O’Reilly smiled. “Aye, lad. I did.” He walked over to the bench against the stall half-wall and seated himself.

Drawn in, Patrick followed and unthinking, sat down beside him, then uncomfortably scrambled back to his feet, wincing. O’Reilly said nothing, but stifled a smile as the boy instead lounged nonchalantly against a supporting post, his face bright red.

O’Reilly began to talk about his tall, handsome grandfather, a blacksmith in Bally Lynch originally, and his grandmother, the beautiful Maggie Leary. He told him the tales of Paddy Riordan’s prowess as an arm wrestler, and drinker; of his gentleness with his own bairns, and that of all the others in the village. He told a tale of a fatherless youngster of the village he’d caught skipping out on the National School by hiding in the bogs, and how he’d soundly swatted the youngster’s bottom and sent him back to school with a warning of worse if he disobeyed his sainted mother’s wishes again; that boy had ended up a fine businessman in Dublin, ever grateful to Paddy for his sternness all those years before. He talked of how Paddy would make sure the widows of the town never wanted for repairs on their huts, or food on their tables. He spoke of Paddy’s pride in his three sons, and in his daughter.

And he talked of the horrible existence the village suffered when the Great Hunger struck. Of the potato crops blackening in the bins, the hope of food for the village gone in one disastrous night in 1846. How Paddy had led the village’s men into finding other work, some eventually in England on the wharves, others in fishing boats on the northern Irish coast. Paddy Riordan had been the village spokesman with the English protectorate, his silver tongue always managing to soothe ruffled feathers on both sides of the bargaining table. But as the anger and fear brought on by the famine escalated, Paddy had been drawn into the Fenian movement despite himself, unable to fight his destiny.

“He was a peacemaker, Patrick,” said O’Reilly gently, as he studied the youngster’s pale face while he listened to the horrors of Ireland in those troubled days. “Violence was not yer grandfather’s way, though he fought when he had to. He saw pain and suffering and tried hard to ease it.”  The priest winced, shaking his head in memory.  Wiping his eyes, the priest drew in a deep breath, shaking his head with sadness.  Then he sighed, and smiled at the boy, reaching out a hand and touching the boy’s cheek.  “Ye have his eyes.  All his bairns did, and clearly… Siobhan passed them to you.”

Patrick drew in a shuddering breath and nodded, backing away uneasily. He didn’t know what to think right now.  “So Ma said,” he whispered, hoarsely, unable to break his eyes from those of the priest.

Father O’Reilly nodded, understanding. “Mediation, calmin’ the hot tempers… sure, and that was his great strength, and he used it whenever possible. It was unfortunate, it ‘twas, he was born at the time he was, because the inevitability of insurrection tore him apart.” He drew himself up straight. “He was … a good man, Patrick.”

Patrick hung on every word, getting a much fuller picture of the grandfather he’d sought to understand, and was touched by the priest’s gentle admiration of Padhraic Riordan.

Father O’Reilly rubbed the back of his neck, pacing a bit, trying to figure out how to tell his tale in a way that would make sense to the youngster.

“In 1855, Bally Lynch was a hotbed of rebellion, lad. It was only through Paddy Riordan’s efforts that the English didn’t come through and burn it to the ground years before. When the trouble of the election happened it was a horrible time. Paddy’s hanging, and that of his sons and followers, broke the heart of the village. They never really recovered. I know. I was there,” he sighed. “‘Twas right after that I spent months alone, re-examining me faith, and me vocation. After those months of agonizing, ‘twas Paddy’s words and hopes that rang in me ears and renewed me love of God. Only a giving and caring God could have created such a man, lad. I’ll never understand his reasoning in taking him from us. Neither could Eamon.”

At the sound of Corrigan’s name, Patrick’s face darkened in anger, and he stared resolutely at the ground, his jaw set in stubborn fury.

“Now, lad…” chided Father O’Reilly, seeing the boy’s reaction. “Do not hate Corrigan. He is what he is for the same reasons I am what I am. He reacted differently, but that which drove him to his way of life was the same pain.”

Pat raised his head, his eyes bitter and angry. “He’s a liar and a thief!”

“He’s a haunted man, Patrick,” O’Reilly rebutted gently. “Ye must remember, his own darlin’ son danced at the end of that hangman’s rope alongside yer grandda and uncles. ‘Tis a horrible thing to watch one’s child die.”

“Is it excusin’ him you are?!” demanded Patrick hotly, flushing with indignation, unthinkingly falling back into the speech patterns of his childhood.

“Is it condemnin’ him you are?” asked O’Reilly softly, the contrast stark in the quiet of the barn. “You, who’ve never walked a step in his brogues?”

In frustration, Patrick pulled himself upright from leaning against the post and jammed his hands in his pockets, frowning as he turned away, thinking hard.

“Lad, the things we experience are what drive us to do the things we do.” O’Reilly’s voice was quiet, reasonable.  He tilted his head to the side, searching for words to make the boy understand. “Watchin’ his friends and family tortured and killed…himself whipped to within an inch of his life…seeing his family’s future end in the death of his son…”  The priest sighed and shook his head, helplessly shrugging his shoulders and spreading out his hands. “All of these things contributed to make Eamon Corrigan who he is. He truly does work for the freedom of Ireland. I cannot sanction his methods any longer, but I can and do understand his desires. They’re me own, even today. It’s thankful, I am, never to have suffered as he did. As your mother did.”

At her mention, Pat winced and turned back to the priest, pain filling his eyes. Hesitantly, almost afraid to hear the answer, he sought the priest’s eyes, almost pleading. “You… you knew her, too?”

Father O’Reilly saw the ambivalence – do I want to know?  Or would it be better not to know?! – painted on the boy’s face, and nodded. “I knew of her, not well, but knew of her,” he smiled, gently. “A beautiful lass, Siobhan.  Gentle and kind. In love with life.”

“And Sean Corrigan,” sighed Pat walking slowly back toward him.

Startled, O’Reilly looked at him, quizzically. “What’s that?”

“She was in love with Mr. Corrigan’s son,” answered Pat, frowning at him.

O’Reilly’s eyebrow cocked. “Was she? ‘Tis news to me,” his voice laced with wonder.

Now, trying to understand this,  Pat stared at the priest.   “But… but Mr. Corrigan said they was gonna be married.”

Wheels turned and tumblers clicked into place in O’Reilly’s mind, and his anger at Corrigan renewed itself. He got to his feet, his mouth set and walked a bit away from the lad, getting himself under control.

What wickedness! he fumed. Truly, Eamon has fallen further than I thought!

Staring at the black horse in order to wick away the rage at Corrigan, to give himself something to focus on and settle himself, O’Reilly finally was able to speak  calmly. “To the best of me knowledge, lad, Sean Corrigan loved her, but not she him. They’d known each other since they were small bairns, and she viewed him as a brother, not a lover.” He turned  back at the boy. “‘Twas Corrigan himself who told ye she and Sean were betrothed?”

Confused, Pat nodded.

“And, I suppose, he told ye if ye followed him, it’d be as it should have been all along, that if all was right in God’s heaven, you’d have been his grandson and not Ben Cartwright’s?” continued O’Reilly inexorably.

Patrick’s quick mind worked overtime as he struggled with the implications of what O’Reilly was saying.

“Holy mother…” he breathed, his face pale and leaning back against the post again, in shock and dismay.

His heart plummeted.

“Then it was all a lie! It was all a lie to get me to steal for ‘im!”

Pat’s anger erupted then and he kicked at a feed bucket at his feet, furiously.

O’Reilly was at his side in a flash, and grasped his upper arms, giving him a shake. His expression was intent, fierce.  “Patrick!” he said harshly. “Do not give in to this, lad!”

“But he lied to me! The bastard used me!” yelled Pat, fighting back with tears of anger and hurt in his eyes. He wrenched himself from side to side, desperate to free himself, and was shocked by the strength of the priest’s grip.  Somehow, the idea that a parish priest could have this much physical power surprised him.

“Aye, he did! ‘Tis all true!” O’Reilly ground out. “But in the end, ‘twas your own good conscience and the love ye have of the grandfather the good Lord did give ye that made ye decide t’take yer own path! Ye beat him, Patrick, d’ye not see? Ye beat him!”

Panting, Pat finally stopped struggling and locked eyes with the priest, eyes wide.  Beat him?  How on earth… the man had made a fool of him! How…

Seeing his had the youngster’s attention, O’Reilly nodded, easing his grip on the boy’s arms and instead massaging his shoulders.  “Paddy Riordan would have been proud o’ ye that night, lad. He’d ha’ been so, so proud o’ ye,” said O’Reilly gently. “Honesty. Truth. Honor. Ye showed ye had them all, even at that difficult moment. Paddy Riordan’s blood, and Siobhan’s, flows through ye, lad, just as sure as the sun rises.”

The boy winced, then swallowed hard, remembering his shame. The priest shook him gently. “Nay… when it counted, lad, ye made the right choice.”

Pat’s breath hitched as he felt his face begin to crumple.

“Be just as proud o’ yer Cartwright blood, lad,” said the priest gently, tipping his chin up.  “I’m thinkin’, maybe, for once orange and green worked together to help ye make that right choice.”

Pat’s welling blue eyes stared into the older priest’s. He saw compassion and pity there, and understanding.

And finally, gently, O’Reilly drew the youngster into his strong arms and was grateful to feel the hug returned.

= = = = =

After O’Reilly left, Patrick retreated to the hayloft to think. Finally, some of his questions were answered:about his mother, about his Irish grandfather, and about himself. His Irish family, and his American one. The learning process had been a painful one, but necessary.

Pat had always felt as though his life was like the jigsaw puzzles he’d seen as a child, except that there were so many integral pieces missing, keeping the picture incomplete. Now, he realized the pieces available to him were where they should be. Though the image was still incomplete, it was only because those pieces still left out represented the parts of his life yet to come, the experiences of his future.

Now, he’d be able to fit together himself.

= = = = =

It was a mentally exhausted Patrick that wandered back into the house near lunchtime, looking for his grandfather. The great room was deserted. Pat felt strange; he looked around the room with a new eye. The events and occurrences of this room had been the ones, among others, that had formed his father’s way of looking at the world. Different ones had formed his grandfather’s view. Pat sighed heavily and stretched. He felt like he’d grown up a hundred years in one short morning.

He dragged his heels upstairs, figuring he’d find his grandfather in his dad’s room. Sure enough, Granddad was seated at his father’s bedside, reading while his father, very pale, slept. Ben looked up as Pat poked his head in the room quietly, and smiled, beckoning him in.

“How is he?” Pat whispered, looking down at his father. Adam seemed to be resting comfortably. His breathing seemed a little easier, too.

“Quiet. More so than I’ve seen him in days,” replied Ben, his voice equally as soft.

Pat stood beside the bed and studied him. As he looked, his mind traveled to his mother and imagined them together; he knew the passion his mother was capable of, and after witnessing the kiss his father had shared that day with Mrs. Carter, knew the depth of his father’s. His parents could have been so happy together, if it hadn’t been for the things in both their pasts that had kept them apart. Sighing, he reached out his hand and lightly pushed a lock of damp hair off his father’s forehead.

“He don’t feel as hot to me as he did before,” he said very quietly, frowning, and glancing at his grandfather. He was startled to see the gentleness on his grandfather’s face as he studied him.

“Did you have a good talk with Father O’Reilly?” asked Ben, with understanding.

Pat flushed a little and sighed, walking over to the window and looking out. “Yeah, I did,” he murmured. “Learned a lotta things I didn’t know before. I guess – I guess it’s easier to understand what happened between him,” he said, glancing at Adam, “and my Ma. A lot o’ what Father O’Reilly said made some good sense.”

Ben nodded thoughtfully. “Understanding what makes others do the things they do helps us understand ourselves, Pat. I’m glad he came by.”

“Yeah, me too,” said the boy quietly. He’d made a difficult decision out in the hayloft after his talk with O’Reilly; he hoped he’d now be able to live with it, depending on his grandfather’s answer. Drawing in a deep breath, he turned to Ben. “Granddad, I know I’m confined to the ranch and I ain’t supposed to leave it, but -”

Ben eyed him, and kept his face impassive, letting the boy do this at his own pace.

Swallowing hard, and praying to himself, Patrick looked at his grandfather. “I’d like to have your permission to go into town just to say g’bye to Wendy Carter. She and her ma are leavin’ soon. I guess her ma got some kind of a job in San Francisco. I promise I’d just go there and come right back, honest. Can I go? Please?”

Ben fought down showing the great pride he felt in the youngster. He knew Pat was scared he’d say no and had a good feeling that if Ben said just that, the boy would unhappily abide by his decision. He decided that this would be a great opportunity to catch his grandson “being good.” He got to his feet and walked over to him, his head down and hands in his pockets, thoughtful.

“Tell me, Pat, what would you say if I told you that you couldn’t go?” asked Ben quietly. “That, considering your behavior and the fact that your father confined you to the ranch, I couldn’t see my way clear to allow you do it?”

Patrick looked up into the dark brown eyes, and sighed, then stared down at the tips of his boots. “I’d obey you,” he said softly. He raised his eyes once more. “I wouldn’t like it, but I’d obey you.”

Ben beamed then and reached out a hand tenderly squeezing the boy’s shoulder. “I had a feeling you’d say that. And since that’s your answer, I think I can manage to give you my permission.”

Pat breathed in relief and grinned at his grandfather.

“So can I.”

Both Ben and Patrick jumped, turning in shock toward the bed. Adam, pale and weak, lay there with a small smile on his face. It contrasted oddly with the rough, red rash spreading over his forehead, the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones.

“Adam!” crowed Ben, a big grin on his face as he approached his son’s bedside, putting out a hand to his forehead. “Your fever’s broken!” he said, pleased. “How do you feel?”

“A bit weak,” admitted Adam, shifting uncomfortably in bed, “but a lot better.”

Pat was embarrassed at the blinking he had to do to keep the tears that were stinging his eyes staying there. To cover his relief at his father’s having passed the crisis of his fever, he started to laugh as he looked at the rash.

“What’s so funny?” asked Adam tiredly.

“Now I know what you’d’a looked like with freckles!” the boy chuckled. “All ya’d need with them spots is red hair to be a real Irishman!”

 

~-oo0oo-~

 

Patrick made it into Virginia City in record time, at a full gallop, and ignoring his own discomfort. He wryly realized he’d had a lot of practice in the last week or two learning to ride while suffering from a  sore backside.

With Pat having been confined to the ranch for so long, Jack hadn’t gotten the exercise he’d been needing, so the youngster gave him his head and let him fly. He once again slipped behind the houses near Wendy’s but this time he didn’t have to sneak into her yard. He didn’t have to waste time climbing trees, either. Wendy was outside hanging out laundry on the clothesline.

“Wendy!” he called, running up. Startled, she whirled around looking for the source of the voice.

“Pat!” she said, in surprise, putting the sopping blouse she was holding back into  the basket.

“Hey, don’t – ” he started, glancing at the house, worried he’d get her into trouble.

“It’s okay, Mama isn’t home. She’ll be gone until after supper,” she reassured him. “How are you? I … well, I heard about what happened between you and that Irish fellow I met in the stagecoach. I’m really sorry.” Her green eyes were filled with sympathy.

Pat blushed a little. “Yeah, me too,” he said honestly, flushing. “I made some pretty stupid mistakes these last few weeks.”  He hesitated a moment, then steeled himself and looked her straight in the eyes, respectfully. “I wanted to apologize for making you lie.”

“You didn’t,” she said with a little grin. “Mama never asked about you, so I never had to lie to her. I really don’t think I could have, anyway. I just can’t lie to my mother. I hope that doesn’t make you mad.”

Her voice was soft, but her experession was anxious.

He smiled, shaking his head.  “No. No, it doesn’t. I’m glad of it. I didn’t have no right askin’ you to do somethin’ like that. I’m glad it all worked out okay for you.”

“Did it work out for you?” she asked, gently. “Did you get in trouble?”

“Well, yeah, I did,” he admitted ruefully. “But it’s all over now.”

“Aren’t you in trouble for being here?” she asked worriedly.

“No, I asked permission to come and my grandfather said I could.”

She giggled a little to see the amazement his expression exhibited at that realization.

“Oh, Pat, I’m glad!” She exhaled in relief to learn he hadn’t disobeyed yet again.  Then she shrewdly studied his handsome face, looking for … what? he wondered.

“So, you’re all right? Really all right?”

He relaxed, both surprised and pleased.  She was so much more intuitive than he’d ever given her credit for. He could see that  she’d realized that this whole thing must have been hard on him, inside.

“Yeah,” he grinned, then his smile faded. “Well, not really. I… uh… I heard about you and your ma leavin.”

Wendy grew pale, her eyes welling up, and her composure threatening to become undone. She dropped her eyes, drew in a deep breath, then looked up at him, her chin high and nodded.

“And I heard about your father,” she replied. “Is he still sick?”

“Yeah, but the fever broke a little while ago, so he’s gonna be alright,” nodded Pat, scuffing at the ground with his boot. “Listen, can you get away for a while?”

“Yes, I think so. Let me just finish hanging out the wash.”

Within an hour, they had walked down the Geiger Grade Road.

“So…you’re really leavin’, huh?” he asked quietly as they walked, glancing briefly into her pretty eyes.

“Mama got a good job in San Francisco,” she explained softly. “It’s a good chance for us, Pat. We have to go.” Her eyes searched his face.

He nodded, shrugging, his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I guess. But I’m really gonna miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too,” she agreed softly, her eyes welling with tears. “I hope that this time I won’t have to pick up and move again so soon. I never get to know my friends very well.”

“I really wanted to get to know you.” His voice was gruff. “Real well. I… I like you, Wendy. I like you an awful lot.”

“Will you write to me?” she asked, tremulously, almost fearing his answer.

“Sure. You send me your address, an’ I’ll write to ya,” he nodded, not looking at her as they walked along.

She looked a bit disconcerted by his answer, making him wonder if it had been the right one. Helplessly, she looked around at where they were. He saw her look toward the battered, ramshackle house by the side of the road  that looked as though a strong wind could blow it over and was surprised to see her walk toward it.

She gently eased herself down onto the dilapidated front steps of the falling-down structure. Frowning, Patrick sighed and followed her.  He glanced around them, then gingerly sat down beside her. He shifted uncomfortably a little, sighed and decided to make the best of it. They sat quietly side by side for a moment, then Pat slowly put out his hand and covered her small one. He felt her tremble, then glanced up at her. “I wish… I wish you could stay… or I could go,” he said softly, allowing his fingers to run over her hand.

“Oh, Pat, I do too!” she whispered, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “You’re the only boy that’s ever… I don’t know, ever really understood. The minute I met you and talked to you, I felt like we’d known each other forever!”

Silently, he pushed his gray hat back farther on his head and allowed his hand to gently rest on her soft cheek, lightly catching a teardrop on the tip of his finger, and studied the drop as it stayed on his fingertip. “Wish I could keep this,” he said gruffly. “Not ‘cos I want to remember you cryin’… just ‘cos I want to remember you.”

He leaned forward slowly. She didn’t move. As he drew closer, she closed her eyes and sighed, readying herself. He tipped his head slightly to the side, remembering the few times previously he’d tried to kiss a girl and their noses got in the way, and slowly allowed his lips to lightly touch hers.

It was a sweet, innocent kiss, and her young lips clung briefly to his. He pulled back and opened his eyes again, searching hers for permission. He saw her face, glistening with tears hanging on their long eyelashes, her pink mouth still budded with his kiss on her lips. She waited, not moving. Taking off his hat, he leaned forward again.

This time, he pressed a little harder, and moved his arm around her, slowly, gently gathering her to him, as he’d seen his father do with her mother. His mind whirled as the incredible sensations assaulted his brain, like the waves of the ocean pounding against his consciousness. When she wrapped her arms around his neck, he brought his other arm around her and drew her tightly to him, kissing her lips, her face, her neck.

For several minutes the youngsters clung to each other, Patrick stroking her hair and Wendy able to feel his strong, muscular back beneath his jacket.

“Oh, Pat…” Wendy breathed, feeling as though her mind were spiraling downward into a rose-colored mine-shaft. She’d had boys steal kisses before; never had she given of herself this way before. She was astounded by the feelings that washed over her again and again, making her breathe faster.

As though an electric current passed between them, the two broke apart, shocked.  Panting, staring at each other, shaken, the youngsters flushed scarlet in embarrassment.

“God Almighty,” Pat breathed, turning away, horribly embarrassed. “Wendy… I… God Almighty!”

Wendy misunderstood, and her face crumpled in tears as her face crumpled in confusion and shame, thinking he was rebuffing her. She jumped to her feet to run, blinded with tears. But he shot out his hand and pulled her around.

“Wait a minute!” he said harshly. “This wasn’t your fault! Don’t run off thinkin’ this was your fault, Wendy! It was mine! I had no right… God, Wendy, I’m so sorry!”

She searched his face as the tears rolled down her cheeks. She saw honesty there.

“Jaysus, Wendy… I didn’t know… I didn’t know I’d lose control like that,” he said, pale and truly shaken. And he was shocked to realize he now understood how his father and Wendy’s mother might have been feeling that day on the beach, as well.  Once more, his whole world shifted and resettled itself with new awarenesses. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t be mad.”

She shakily drew in a breath. “I’m not mad,” she said softly, tentatively reaching up and touching his hard, lean cheek. “And I’m not sorry. I’m glad we stopped, but I’m not sorry you did it.” She managed a tremulous smile. “At least I’ll have something to remember,” she said, with a little chuckle.

“Yeah,” he breathed, nodding in amazement. “Me, too.”

He glanced at the sun outside, falling slowly. “We’d better be getting back. I promised granddad I’d come straight home.” He looked back at her, his throat closing a little. “I just had to say good-bye.”

“I’m real glad you did,” she said softly. “I’m going to miss you… very much.”

And after a few moments more of gentle, more innocent kisses, he took her hand and started walking her home.

---

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

 

“Adam, I’m warning you! You get out of that bed too soon and you’re going to end up sicker than you were before!”

“Doc, I feel FINE!”

That last word was more of a growl than a reply, and Paul Martin was having none of it. “Well, you’re not fine!” he snapped, sternly shoving Adam back against his pillows as he had a bad coughing fit. “And considering the grief and worry you’ve just put your family through, either you lie back and behave yourself or I’ll give you a sedative that’ll make you sleep for a week!”

Sulking, Adam sat bolt upright, crossed his arms over his chest and exhaled in frustration, the tickle in his chest subsiding.

Doc briskly shut his bag and glared at his patient in exasperation. Then he sighed, relenting.  He shook his head with a smile. The debonair Adam Cartwright just looked so darned funny with his face – and darned near every inch of his body! – mottled up with the measles rash. “Tell you what. Now that the fever’s broken, you can read again. Fair enough?”

Adam leaned back, lacing his hands behind his head, fighting the urge to scratch. He was irritable, uncomfortable, itchy…and bored! “Yeah,” muttered Adam. He managed to keep a smirk off his face: he didn’t mention that he’d sneaked a book or two already.

Paul shook his head and grinned as he headed toward the door. “Relax, Adam. Three or four days and you’ll be out of that bed. A week and you’ll be back to normal.”

 

= = = = =

 

Downstairs, Ben was seated at his desk working on the accounts as Joe and Hoss played a game of checkers. Patrick sat at the dining room table surrounded by his McGuffey Reader, his history and arithmetic texts and his slate, doing some schoolwork. Dad might be ill in bed, but it didn’t stop him from assigning lessons for Pat to work on, to make up for his days of hooky playing. All four glanced up as Paul came downstairs.

Ben rose to his feet and came up to meet the doctor, a smile on his face. “So, how’s the patient?” he asked. Hop Sing set a coffee service on the sofa table and glanced at the doctor.

“Yes, thanks, Hop Sing,” smiled Paul, accepting a cup. “Well, he’s grumpy as an old bear with a sore head, but physically he’s coming along just fine. The fever’s gone, rash is starting to fade. He just needs a little more time. Another three or four days and he’ll be up and around.”

“Well, that sure is good news!” grinned Hoss.

Pat looked up from his books, a happier expression on his face. “He’s really gonna be okay?”

“He’s going to be fine, Pat,” assured Paul with a smile, then turned back to Ben. “And Dave is well enough to get back to work, too. Just have him take it easy for a few days.” He glanced back at Patrick, gesturing at the table. “And it’s a good thing you’ve got those schoolbooks out, young man. School goes back into session Monday morning. The epidemic seems to have eased.”

Pat sighed and sagged back in his chair, a disappointed expression on his face. “Aw… I knew it was too good ta last,” he complained mournfully, much to the laughter of the adults in the room.

= = = = =

Adam stared into space, still laying back against his pillows. His mind was a million miles away… or rather, closer to roughly twenty miles away, thinking of Veronica and their afternoon at the lake. He closed his eyes and sighed.

He heard footsteps along the hallway and a knock at his half-open door and swallowed the lump in his throat. Drawing in a deep breath he opened his eyes, a little surprised to see Joe, stick his head around the door.

“Hey, older brother,” grinned Joe coming in and perching on the side of the bed. “I hear the doc’s gonna give you a clean bill of health pretty soon.”

“Yeah,” Adam nodded, swallowing hard.  Firming his mouth, he reached once more for the book that had dropped to his lap and made a show of opening it and settling himself to read.

Wall up; shutters closed.

Unfortunately, Joseph didn’t seem to take the hint, remaining there, perched quietly on the end of his bed.

“Adam…what’s going on with you?”

Adam heaved in a shuddering breath and sighed.  He hesitated, his book propped on his lap, and tugged on his ear.  Then he looked over at his brother. “I … I guess I’m just kind of tired, Joe. Don’t worry about it,” he said, managing a small smile, tugging on the cuffs of his nightshirt.

Gotcha!  Joe’s eyes gleamed with triumph. His eldest brother only did that – tugging on his cuffs  – when he was trying to avoid something. “Aw, c’mon, Adam,” Joe murmured. “You’ve been down in the dumps and snapping at everybody. It can’t all be because you’re not feelin’ well. What’s really bothering you?”

Annoyed at being seen through, Adam rolled his eyes and glared. Either I’m sicker than I thought or that little brat is getting better at reading me!  “Just leave me alone, would you?”

Joe threw his hands out in defeat and got to his feet.  “Fine.”

Adam guiltily glanced up. “Joe, wait a minute.”

Joe turned back, an eyebrow cocked.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Adam said quietly. “I just – well, I’ve got something on my mind, that’s all. I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

“But you can’t talk about it, right?” asked Joe dryly. “The great Adam Cartwright isn’t allowed to be seen hurting, right? Sorry. I forgot.”  He closed the door quietly behind him.

Out in the hallway, Joe exhaled and leaned dejectedly against the door jamb. He jumped suddenly when the doorframe beneath his shoulders shuddered as something slammed against it. He heard what had to be his brother’s book splay open the floor, the pages riffling, and shook his head. There was definitely something bothering his older brother. Maybe he just wasn’t the one to talk to him about it.

= = = = =

“Dadburn it! Whaddya expect me to do?”

“Well, I don’t know, do I?” snapped Joe, pitching the soiled straw into the wheelbarrow with unusual energy. “But he’s sure gotta talk to somebody!”

“Joe, c’mon, you know Adam as well as I do. If he don’t wanna talk about something, there ain’t nothin’ that’s gonna make him do it!” declared Hoss, turning back to the harnesses he was sorting and hanging.

Joe leaned on the fork, shaking his head in frustration, then wilted.  None of this was Hoss’ fault or his job to fix; the big man was right.  “He’s miserable, Hoss,” he muttered in worry. “There’s something really wrong; I just know it.”

“Yeah, and I think I know what it is.”

Both Hoss and Joe turned toward the door as Patrick entered leading Black Jack. Pat had been sent out to check the drainage ditches to the south, near the Shaughnessy place. As he walked into the barn, he wore a thoughtful look… an expression both Hoss and Joe had often seen on their oldest brother’s face.  One of compassionate concern.

“Well? You gonna leave us in suspense?” demanded Joe, irritably.

“Yep,” nodded Pat, uncinching his saddle.

“Patrick!” warned Joe, dragging out the syllables ominously.

But Hoss grinned. Yeah, that close-mouthed attitude was pure ‘Adam’, too.   “Leave ‘im alone, Joe.”

“But—”

“Yeah, Joe!” grinned Pat. “‘Leave ‘im alone!’”

Joe muttered to himself and continued his work.

= = = = =

Adam stood at his window, in slippers and dressing gown, and looked out over the darkening kitchen garden, scratching his itchy chest uncomfortably. He heard a knock at the door and turned. Pat came in with a tray, looked at the empty bed, then glanced around.

“Ain’t you supposed to be in there?” asked Pat, an eyebrow raised as he tipped his head toward the bed.

“Don’t start,” warned his father sternly.

Pat shrugged and set the tray down the bedside table.

Adam glanced back and saw his son patiently waiting. “Well?”

“I been told ‘don’t come back down without an empty tray’,” he replied, as if reciting a lesson in school.

Adam made a face.

“C’mon, Dad, gimme a break. You don’t have to answer to Granddad. I already done that once this week.”

Adam stared at his son and shook his head at the impertinent grin on his son’s face.

Sighing, he trudged back towards the bed.  He shrugged off his robe and slippers – with a sort of energy that intimated they’d personally offended him somehow – before climbing back in the bed; again.

Patrick placed the tray on his father’s lap and smiled with approval.

Adam glared.

Pat continued to smile benignly.

Adam gave up.  “Have a seat,” he grunted begrudgingly, nodding toward the easy chair.

“No, thanks,” replied Pat, casually leaning against the wall.

Adam glanced at him and remembered what he’d said earlier.  Nonchalantly, he gestured to the bed. “Then why don’t you stretch out and relax? I haven’t seen you in … what, two hours?”

Sure enough, Patrick brightened at that idea and stretched himself out. On his side. Very carefully, Adam noted.

“So…” Adam took a swallow of cold milk and asked coolly, “your grandfather still have a strong right arm?”

Pat’s jaw dropped, eyebrows crawling into his hairline. “What?” he sputtered.

“I asked if my father still has a strong right arm.”

Pat shook his head, grinning. “Ain’t there nothin’ that gets past you?” he demanded, in reluctant admiration.

“Not much. But then again, I’ve been sick,” said Adam apologetically, eyes twinkling.

Pat laughed.

“So, how about an answer?” asked Adam, with a devilish grin.

Pat squirmed a little. “To what?” he said uneasily, still avoiding lying on his back and studying the pattern of his father’s quilt with great focus and attention.

“You two get everything straightened out?” asked Adam quietly.

“Yeah,” muttered Pat, giving up and shrugging. “I guess so.”

“Except…..?” prompted Adam, as he picked up a sandwich from the tray.

Pat sighed and rested his head on his fist. “Except to say… I’m sorry. To you, I mean.”

“You’ve already taken care of that with your grandfather?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, I take it, your grandfather … ‘stood in’ for me?”

Pat flushed uncomfortably. “Yes, sir,” he repeated softly. Then he gave in and smiled wryly. “And to answer your question, yes, he’s still got a strong right arm. A real strong right arm!”

Adam chuckled and nibbled on his sandwich..  “I figured as much.”

“You know, until Granddad…uh… well, y’know…” he blushed furiously, “… I figured that there wasn’t nobody who had things as rough as me. I mean, I just couldn’t believe Granddad could ever have been as hard on you as you are on me.  I sure found out different,” he sighed, shaking his head and still avoiding rolling onto his back.

Adam chuckled, and eased back against his pillows, one hand behind his head as he remembered. “Pat, from the time I was about eleven until I left for college, I was sure that nobody in the world had as tough a father as I did. I used to get so mad at him whenever he punished me and so caught up in believing how unfair I thought he was.”

Interested now, Pat’s expression was intent as he rested one cheek on his fist, listening.

“I was the oldest,” continued his father, “so I always had to ‘set an example.’ I always had one little brother or another tagging along or for whom I had to be responsible. I felt like I could never do anything I wanted to do. I would have given anything –anything – to just once do something without having to always be the responsible older brother!” Adam sighed and closed his eyes, shaking his head. “And any time I did get the chance to do what I wanted, I ended up getting into trouble for it because Pa felt it was something I shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Unfortunately, he was usually right.” Adam smiled to himself and shook his head as he recalled those difficult teenage adolescent years.

He peered over at Patrick, who was studying him quietly. When he caught Pat’s eye, the boy blushed and looked down uneasily. “You too, hm?”

Pat shrugged, embarrassed. “Yeah… sometimes,” he admitted, gruffly, picking at the stitching on his father’s quilt.

“Well, I felt that way for most of my life, until you came along. Then, for the first time, I had a son of my own that I had to raise and be responsible for. Suddenly I was in the position of understanding exactly how my father felt, and, brother, was it an eye-opener. I realized that he never enjoyed having to punish me, any more than I enjoy having to discipline you. And that when he did come down hard on me, it was because he loved me, and that it was for my own good …God, how I hated that phrase when I was your age!” Adam chuckled, shaking his head in rueful amusement.

Pat nodded, and looked up, his expression serious. “Yeah, me too,” he intoned sincerely.

“Well, Pat, all I can say is that someday you’ll have a child of your own and you’ll have to go through the same feelings and worries. Then… you’ll understand.” Adam picked up the sandwich again and took another bite.

For a few moments, they lay together in silence. Then, Pat sighed and took the plunge. “Look, I been meanin’ to tell you. I’m really sorry about you and Mrs. Carter.”

Adam nearly choked. He glanced over his son, wide-eyed.

“I know how ya feel, sort of,” Pat continued quietly, picking at a new section of stitching in his father’s quilt.

Adam glanced at him and made the connection. He was getting better at this. Keeping up with Patrick’s train of thought is a little like juggling…

“You and Wendy said your goodbyes?”

The boy nodded, sadly. “I’m really gonna miss her,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” sighed Adam, setting the half-sandwich back on the tray. He’d lost what little appetite he had. “Patrick…how did you know?”

Pat didn’t look up. “One of the days I was playin’ hooky, I needed some time to think. So, I went up to the lake.” He slowly peeked up at his father, who reddened and dropped his own eyes.

“Oh. I see,” said Adam, uncomfortably. “Pat, I—”

“Dad,” said Pat, raising a hand to forestall him, “don’t worry about it. It’s none o’ my business. I just had a little trouble dealin’ with it that day… I’m okay about it now.”

Adam cast his memory back and remembered the terrible argument they’d had downstairs that evening, and the slap he’d delivered and felt badly. “I’m sorry, Pat.”

“For not bein’ the … ‘Perfect Father’?” smiled Pat ruefully.

Adam looked at his son. “Is that what you thought?” he asked, surprised. The last few weeks he’d never felt less like a ‘perfect father’!

“Yeah, for a long time,” nodded Pat, pursing his lips as he pondered how to explain his feelings. Finally, he shrugged helplessly and gazed into his father’s attentive eyes. “I put ya on this pedestal, like some statue with a metal thing under it proclaimin’ ‘Here Stands Patrick’s Perfect Father.’  I forgot that you was…I dunno…human, I guess.” The boy blushed a bit and bit his lip, gazing down at the nine-block pattern of the quilt. Then he shook his head and shrugged, trying a small smile. “It scared me. I had to change my mind about ya…again.” He peered up at his father… and tried not to chuckle at the odd persona his father exhibited while mottled with measles rash.

Adam laced his fingers behind his head and glanced at him. “And now?”

“Now… well, now I guess I realize that you can love somebody who ain’t perfect,” said Pat softly, thinking of his mother. He managed a weak, self-deprecating grin. “After all, you love me, don’t ya?”  He looked away, not really wanting to see what his father’s answer to that might really be.

“Very much,” said Adam gently.

Pat looked up, then, and was both grateful and disconcerted to see the very tender smile on his father’s face that reached all the way to his dark hazel eyes.  Flushing, feeling so unsure, he began fiddling again with the stitching of the quilt.

Seeing he hadn’t convinced the boy he was forgiven, Adam sat up.  He carefully set his tray on the seat of the nearby easy chair and resettled himself. “Hey, you. C’mere.”

Pat looked up, and saw his father reaching out an arm, and swallowing hard he scooted himself closer and gave in to being hugged. He closed his eyes and leaned his head on his father’s chest for a moment, listening to the strong heartbeat, thanking God it still was beating.

“I was really scared, y’know,” he choked out, trying to control his very strong emotions. “There was times… times when I didn’t think you was gonna make it.” He was a little embarrassed to be able to hear the unshed tears in his own tremulous voice. He wanted so much to just bury himself in his father’s arms like a terrified six-year-old, giving in to the emotions that churned in him.  Fear, relief, shame, guilt… and love.

Adam silently hugged him close, then stroked his son’s shoulder and arm. “I’m sorry I scared you. And I’m sorry you didn’t feel like you could come to me and tell me how you felt about wanting to talk to Corrigan.”

Pat winced at the memory of that horrible choice and the domino effect of misery it had caused.

“Aw, geez, Dad, don’t remind me” groaned Pat in dismay, pushing away. “That was a big mistake…”

“But it didn’t seem like one at the time, did it?” asked Adam with gentle understanding.

A little disconcerted, Pat glanced at him, touched by the understanding he saw there.  He shook his head, swallowing hard.  “No,” answered Pat, uncomfortably. “I guess I got a lot to learn.” He lay gingerly on his back, fidgeting a little to find a comfortable position. He blinked hard and struggled to steady his trembling lips, deeply annoyed that his feelings were so close to the surface.

“You’re fourteen.  Of course you have a lot to learn,” said Adam, his voice gentle and understanding. “But you weren’t the only one, son.”

Perplexed, the boy studied him.

Sadly, Adam used his free arm to raise his hand in a helpless, humble gesture of acceptance.  “I should have listened, Pat.  I should have listened to you when you were trying to tell me how you felt.  About school.  About Corrigan.  About your own worries and fears.  And I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

Pat considered him seriously, then simply nodded, his mouth firming up once more. He said nothing, but melted quietly against his dad, closing his eyes wearily in relief.

Adam gazed at this boy… this young man trying so hard to grow, to become everything his potential was demanding he could be, right here in front of his eyes.  He was humbled; and he thought of his own father, confronted by this reality not once but three times and smiled to himself in gentle, loving understanding.

“For what it’s worth,” Adam said softly, tousling his son’s hair then dropping a gentle kiss on the dark head, “I think you’ve come a very long way in the last couple of weeks.”

= = = = =

Saturday was a momentous day in the Cartwright household: Adam was finally allowed out of bed. He was a little shaky but made it downstairs under his own power.  He closed his eyes and expanded his lungs fully, pulling in the familiar smells of leather and tobacco, Hop Sing’s beeswax furniture polish, something amazing cooking in the kitchen, and the smell of freshly cut wood in the wood box. As he settled into the blue velvet chair, he felt so darned grateful to be free of the four walls of his bedroom!  He might still be a little too weak to get out of the house, but just being able to walk around downstairs lifted his spirits tremendously.

He and his father sat in the living room talking in front of a crackling fire enjoying the peace and quiet of the March afternoon, until sudden crashes and yelling from outside startled them both.

“What in the world…?” bellowed Ben, scowling as he got to his feet and headed hastily toward the door. Adam rose a little more slowly, still a little lightheaded, and found he was grateful for it as the front door burst open. Patrick pelted into the room as if the devils in hell were chasing him, almost knocking his grandfather sprawling.

“Come back here, you miserable little varmint! I’m gonna clobber you! Patrick! Patrick!!”

Hoss cannoned into the room followed more slowly by Joe, having to hang onto the walls, nearly out of breath from roaring with laughter. Pat nimbly jumped around the settee, keeping out of his uncle’s reach.

“Now, wait just a minute—” began Ben sternly, turning this way and that as his son and grandson darted back and forth around him.

“You ornery little whelp, I’ll have your hide for bootlaces!” roared Hoss trying desperately to grab around his father for the boy, who quickly sidestepped each attempt.

“Now, Uncle Hoss, you know I was just kiddin’!” protested Pat, barely able to keep a straight face.

“Oh, me, too, young feller!” growled Hoss, an evil glint in his blue eyes. “I’m just kiddin’ that I’m gonna let you live!” He made a desperate grab, but Pat evaded him again, eyes wary and dancing on the balls of his feet.

“Just what exactly is going on here?” demanded Adam, hands on his hips.

Hoss made a fast lunge around the side of the sofa table and Pat just barely skidded out of his reach into the office area, chased by his uncle… and Ben and Adam were finally able to see just what happened.

The seat of Hoss’ pants were ripped out completely and his winter-weight red long johns hung out for all the world to see.

Ben’s eyes bugged out of his head. Adam just closed his. Joe was totally useless at this point, laughing hysterically.

“But what –  what… What did he do?” demanded Ben, bewildered.

“Pat….. HOO!!” howled Joe, “… Pat brushed….HAHA!!… brushed glue on Hoss’ saddle!  When he … HAAAAHOOOO!!! … tried to dismount…..” and he managed a pretty fair approximation of the sound of violently ripping fabric.

Ben struggled to keep a straight face and had to turn away, covering his mouth with his hand.

Adam didn’t even bother to try.

Hoss zigged when Pat thought he was zagging and suddenly the boy found himself tight in his uncle’s hands. “Gotcha, you little rip!”

“Little rip … BIG rip!!” howled Joe, weeping with laughter as he draped himself over the edge of the settee. Furiously, Hoss tucked the boy under his arm and marched over to the other end of the sofa.

“Adam, have I got you permission to give this young’un what he’s got comin’?” demanded his younger brother in fury, sitting down on the arm of the settee and sprawling the lanky fourteen-year-old unceremoniously across his lap, his right arm poised to wallop.

“Dad! Help!” protested Pat, desperately wriggling to free himself, but Uncle Hoss had his left arm tightly around his waist and he wasn’t going anywhere.

“Now, Patrick,” chuckled Adam, trying to compose himself, “you’ve got to learn to face the consequences of your actions. Besides…I’m still so weak from my illness…” Adam feigned a swoon, making Joe and Ben laugh even harder.

“But Dad!” wailed Pat, really worried now, looking in frightened appeal to his father.

“Uh… excuse me?” came a small, tentative voice. All five heads turned at once toward the door.

Elizabeth Masterson stood there, her eyes wide at the scene before her.

Pat took advantage of the pause in the drama to dart out of his uncle’s suddenly loosened grasp and skirt himself around the furniture to greet his teacher.

“Afternoon, Miss Masterson!” he panted, glancing warily back at his uncle, who was desperately pointing his hind end away from the young lady and blushing furiously.

Ben was having distinct trouble keeping a straight face now as Hoss backed slowly toward the stairs, all the while his face frozen in a panicked, forced smile. Joe struggled manfully to control his laughter and failed abysmally.

“Afternoon, Miz Elizabeth,” stuttered Hoss, in acute embarrassment, carefully stepping backwards up the stairs. “Good to see you, ma’am…”

Once at the top of the landing, he fled.

Patrick closed his eyes and wheezed in relief.

“Patrick, this is not finished,” came his father’s stern voice.

Pat opened his eyes nervously, then sighed, nodding. “No, sir,” he said glumly, sticking his hands in his pockets and walking toward the hearth. He smiled to himself; well, it was fun while it lasted!

“Sorry, Liz,” grinned Joe, wiping his eyes and walking over to her. “Did you need to see me?”

“No, actually I’m here to see Pat,” she said with a smile, arching an eyebrow at the youngster.

He turned in surprise. “Me?” He looked between his teacher and father with worry.

She nodded. “May we go outside and talk?”

Pat looked at his father again in surprise. Adam shrugged and gestured toward the door.

Nervously, Pat walked back to her and held the door open for her as she stepped through, grabbed his own jacket and followed.

= = = = =

“So, with school starting again, I wanted to be sure you and I had an understanding,” she said firmly, her back straight, eyes direct.  “I want it understood that there is one authority in that schoolroom, and it is not you. Am I clear?”

Pat scuffed the toe of his boot against the porch in embarrassment. “Yes, ma’am.”

“There will be no more practical jokes.”

Pat nodded glumly.

“Say it, Patrick.”

He swallowed hard and looked into the face of a woman who would tolerate no further shenanigans from him.  “No, ma’am. No more practical jokes.”

“You will put your best efforts into your schoolwork.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“There will absolutely be no further unexcused absences.”

“No, ma’am,” he said.  He remembered the sheriff’s visit and shifted uneasily. “Mr. MacDonald … uh, he knows about that, huh?”

She nodded, eyeing him.

Pat sighed, shoulders sagging. “I guess I’m in for it with him, again.”

“He’s going to be by Monday morning to talk to you about it, yes.”

Pat swallowed hard and hung his head. Oh, Jaysus…

“Good.” She tipped her head to one side and her expression softened slightly.  “You’ve been doing excellent work, you know,” she said quietly.  “On that score, you should be very proud of yourself.”

He managed a small smile at that, and pulled in a deep breath, nodding.

They walked together back toward the front door and Joe met them there. “All through?” he grinned.

“I think we understand each other,” smiled Liz at her young student.

Pat glumly nodded.

“Uh, your uncle wants to talk to you,” said Joe, his eyes wide as he nodded toward the house. Pat’s own eyes widened a bit, and he turned to take off toward the barn, but Joe snatched a hand full of jacket collar and turned him around, marching him back toward the house.

“But Uncle Joe—” protested Pat, a slight whine in his voice along with a charmingly pleading expression.  But he was trying to con someone who’d written the instruction book for this kind of manipulation.

“Inside,” intoned Joe, giving his nephew a firm push.

Pat’s eyes implored; Joe crossed his arms, shook his head and pointed inexorably toward the front door.

Patrick’s shoulders slumped and he walked to the door, his head down, and slowly pushing it open, peeked in. In resignation, he entered and carefully shut the door behind him.

Chuckling, both Liz and Joe walked toward her buggy. “Will I be seeing you tomorrow after church?” she smiled.

“How about a spring picnic?” he grinned. “I know this great spot up at the lake with a little shack and a place for a cozy fire…”

= = = = =

Monday morning arrived faster than Patrick had hoped it would. Of course, spending the rest of the weekend stuck in the barn cleaning and polishing every saddle the Ponderosa owned while under the stern and watchful eye of his Uncle Hoss might have had something to do with it.  But through it all, Patrick was able to glance over at his uncle occasionally and grin at the memory of the naughtiness that prompted this little piece of poetic justice! Yeah, in this one instance, it had been worth it!

But he was worried about returning to school. He was in trouble with his best friend – again!  The school board president wanted to talk to him about his elaborate hooky-playing.  And his ears still burned from the conversation with his teacher on Saturday.

His family eyed him with sympathy, but also with barely concealed grins as he moped his way through breakfast, dragged his heels packing his saddlebags and finally mounted Black Jack to meet his Waterloo.

= = = = =

“So, I’m gonna be late gettin’ home for the rest of the week,” sighed Patrick as he perched on his father’s bed.

Adam had gone out into the yard and done some work with the horses that morning, made it through until lunch time, then wearily gave in to a nap after lunch. It annoyed him to no end that he had to allow his body time to recover from his illness. Still, he was glad he was here for Patrick now. He sat in the easy chair by his window, his feet propped up on his desk chair.

“You and Mike both?”

“Yeah,” sighed the boy, wincing as he rubbed his right upper arm. “He don’t have to write as many as me, though.”

Adam shook his head in amusement. Punishment sentences! “Honesty is the best policy,” written 200 times on the blackboard every day for a week. Adam grinned to himself. He was willing to bet Patrick would have preferred a caning. He would have at that age. Old Mac had really used creativity for that one…

“How about you and Mike. Did you talk it out? Or is that bruise on your jaw all Mike was willing to ‘say’?”

Pat sighed and gingerly fingered the purplish mark at the edge of his mouth. He grinned ruefully at his dad. “Yeah, his conversation was pretty blunt and to the point.” He sighed and swung his long legs up on his father’s bed.

Adam eyed them balefully. “You mind getting your feet off my bed?” asked Adam dryly.

“Sorry,” Pat said sheepishly, swinging his boots back to the floor.

Adam chuckled.  “So…what’s the rest? Did you make up with each other?”

Pat nodded. “Yeah. I tried to tell Old Mac it was all my fault, but I don’t think I got very far with him. Except maybe to get Mike’s sentence reduced. Mike yelled at me all through recess, then finally, around time to go home, we really talked.” He squirmed a little as he remembered the tongue-lashing his friend gave him. “I guess I’m kinda on probation with him like everybody else. But I think it’ll be okay. At least I’m gonna try hard to make it okay. I got a lotta makin’ up to do.” He hooked his boots in the frame of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees, head down.

“Sounds like you’re getting your debts paid off, sonny boy,” said his father quietly, getting to his feet and stretching. “Give it some time.”

“Yeah. I’ll have to be good for awhile, then throw everybody off a little later,” his son grinned devilishly. Adam reached over to good-naturedly cuff his ear and Pat ducked easily with a grin. “You feelin’ better?”

“Well, I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired, that’s for sure,” sighed Adam, sitting down on the bed beside his son and pulling on his boots. “But yeah, I think I’m finally feeling better.”

“You miss… her?” asked Pat softly, keeping his head down.

His father didn’t make believe he didn’t understand.  Adam leaned forward and rested his own elbows on his knees, somewhat matching Pat’s position and sighed. “Yeah. I do. I don’t know, Pat…I had really hoped there was something possible for us. I’m beginning to think it isn’t meant to be for me to be married.”

Patrick glanced at his father. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Adam drew in a deep breath and managed a smile. “Don’t worry about it. How about you? Miss Wendy today?”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Looking at her empty seat… well, it kind of hurt. I found myself working really hard just to keep my mind off her. Then, when Cassie and I – “

“Cassie? Cassie Yates?” asked Adam, surprised.

“Yeah, we had lunch together,” said Patrick nonchalantly, making Adam stifle a grin. “Well, we talked about it, and she was really nice.”

Adam said nothing but draped an arm around his son’s shoulders. His youthful heart must be more resilient than I thought, Adam mused. He’s recovered from one and on to the next already!

“Hey, you two!” Joe poked his head around the door. “If you don’t come on down Pa’s gonna have kittens! He already called you both to dinner twice!”

“Yeah, we’re coming,” nodded Adam, hauling his young son to his feet.

“It’s about time you two got down here!” grumped Ben, as he rubbed his growling stomach, stalking to the table.

“Sorry we’re late, Pa,” said Adam with a surreptitious grin and a poke in the ribs to his son.

“‘Sorry, Pa,’” grunted Ben irritably. “For twenty-five years, supper has always been at the same time in this household! I don’t know why one or the other of you boys always tries to turn it into a moveable feast!” He sat down and angrily snapped out his napkin, spreading it on his lap with a flourish. The four younger family members looked at each other in amusement but knew better than to either giggle or comment.

The others sat down and grace was said. Patrick reached for his milk and had a sip as Hop Sing bustled into the room, first bringing a basket of biscuits, then returning with a big tureen filled to the brim with a rich, aromatic stew.

Hoss’ eyes widened and a wondrous smile lit up his round face, as he cast his memory back to a feisty Irish lass who could wield a skillet as deadly as his rifle. “Is that what I think it is, Hop Sing?”

The cook, beaming.  “Mulligan Stew!”

Joe and Adam glanced at each other, questioningly. But Ben smiled a little and looked at his grandson, whose face was wreathed with smiles.

“Mulligan?” Pat breathed, leaning toward the tureen set almost in front of him and pulling in a huge sniff.  He closed his eyes in bliss, then grinned excitedly at the houseman.   “Real Mulligan?!”

“Just like Missy Annie teach Hop Sing,”¹ nodded the cook firmly.  He smiled at the boy.  “Show honor to Missa Patlic otha family.”  He patted the boy on the shoulder, winked and headed back into the kitchen for other dishes.

Adam leaned back in his chair and smiled indulgently as Pat happily told the family about the Mulligan Stew his mother and the ladies of Hell’s Kitchen used to make, and other Irish dishes like colcannon and champ, potato bread and boxty.

Ben, too, smiled to see Pat sharing about his life before Nevada more than he’d done previously, as though finally tearing down the wall of “before” and “after.” It allowed the boy to simply be himself, complete and whole.

As laughter and chatter echoed at the dining table, Adam caught Hop Sing’s eye, who smiled, knowingly, at him from the kitchen doorway.  The older man smiled and nodded at him in approval then disappeared back into his domain while the Cartwrights wove a new, bright green Irish thread into their already rich family tapestry.

 

 ¹ from “The Saga of Annie O’Toole,” Season One, Episode 7, written by Thomas Thompson

 

THE END

 

---

 

AUTHOR’S NOTES

I grew up with my own three “Adam, Hoss and Joe” big brothers, and the eldest, Jim, loved folk music.  One of the groups that I learned to sing along to before I could talk (honestly!) were the Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem. On their album Live From Carnegie Hall, Liam Clancy sang this poignant and haunting song of Irish rebellion about an incident that occured during the Border Campaign in the 1950s.  Though it’s definitely not of the same era as our Cartwrights and the Orange riots that kills Siobhan Riordan nor the period following the Great Famine that claimed the lives of Paddy Riordan and his sons, the lyrics below capture exactly the tone I sought when writing this story.   There is a wonderful modern rendition of this online, performed by the wonderful Irish singer Piaras Ó Lorcáin.  You may find it here:  Bing Videos

Dominic Behan, 1958

 

Come all you young rebels and list while I sing
For the love of one’s country is a terrible thing.
It banishes fear with the speed of a flame
And it makes us all part of the patriot game.

My name is O’Hanlon and I’ve just gone sixteen.
My home is in Monaghan where I was weaned.
I’ve learned all my life cruel England’s to blame
And so I’m a part of the patriot game.

 It’s barely two years since I wandered away
With the local battalion of the bold IRA
For they’d read of our heroes and I wanted the same
To play out my part in the patriot game.

 This island of ours has for long been half-free.
Six counties are under John Bull’s tyranny.
So, I gave up my boyhood to drill and to train
And play my own part in the patriot game.

 And now as I lie here, my body all holes
I think of those traitors who bargained in souls.
I wish that my rifle had given the same
To those Quislings who sold out the patriot game.

~-oo0oo-~

This story is for distribution, at no charge, to lovers of the characters of the Cartwrights of “Bonanza”, and is in no way intended to infringe on the copyright of ‘Bonanza’.

• Original release date: November, 1997
• Edited, re-release date: April – September 2026, first in serialization on the Bonanza Brand Forum, the Virginia City Literary Society/WIPs.