Summary:  What happens when a Cartwright loves a girl who, in turn, favors his brother?  In Season 3’s ‘The Lady From Baltimore,’ Joe fell for Melinda Banning; Melinda had her eye on Adam.  Things were brought to a head when Joe found Melinda and Adam together in a rather compromising tableau.  To head off the unavoidable clash between the two brothers, Ben quickly found some other place for Adam to be while the Bannings were still around.  But what about when Adam came home after the episode’s ending?  This story, narrated by Hop Sing, tells us how Joe and Adam came to terms with the events of that episode.  Also contains references to a character from the episode ‘The Hopefuls.’

Key words: The Hopefuls, Lady From Baltimore, ESJ, ESA, WHN, romance, love, Regina, Melinda

Rated: T  WC 9300

A Family Affair

***

My uncle was the embodiment of virtuous servanthood. It was from him that I learned all the skills and talents a competent servant must possess, and it was he who taught me the rules and tenets a good servant must adhere to if he hopes to do justice to the privileged role that has been entrusted to him.

As a young boy, part of my instruction was to diligently write down those edicts of servitude, over and over, until I could repeat them with as little effort as it would take to say my own name. Those statutes, written and recited so many times, still echo through my mind whenever I have need of guidance. Today, as on so many days, I find myself reaching for them. I know that when my uncle was training me on how to deal with an employer’s private life, when he spoke of being deaf and blind, it was a day like today he was speaking of.

What is going on here today is none of my business.

This is a family affair, this disagreement that has the Cartwrights dark and glowering at one another, and it is not my place to give an opinion on who is right and who is wrong. It is not even my place to listen, especially at a time when hard, hurtful things have been said. It is not my business, which is why I remain here in the kitchen, busying myself with meal preparation while they continue their battle in the great room.

It is not an easy thing to be deaf and blind in the Cartwright household. As noise from the discussion wafts into the kitchen, the thought crosses my mind that it’s a good thing the great room is so large. With all that shouting back and forth, all the hand-waving, all the pacing—yes, a lot of space is needed for that.

They require lots of room even at the best of times. They are big men, the Cartwrights. Well, perhaps not so much Little Joe; he stands not much taller than I do myself. But my grandmother used to say that some people have an aura of energy that surrounds them and makes them seem to take up more space than they really do. Little Joe is like that. As Mr. Hoss likes to say of him, he covers the ground he walks on.

Perhaps too much. Yes, sometimes Little Joe requires too much space. Always he wants freedom, freedom to do what he wants when he wants. Freedom to be his own man, to make his own choices. He says he does not want his family always playing nursemaid to him. And he certainly doesn’t want them telling him who he should love.

Hmph. Little Joe does not know what he wants in that arena. This is why he always believes himself to be in love with one young lady after the next—and it is why he thought he wanted to marry Melinda Banning. Why he still wants to go after her, even knowing about her deceit and lies.

Even after he found her kissing Mr. Adam.

But these matters especially are not my business.

The dough for tomorrow’s bread has risen enough, so I turn it out onto the board on the counter and start to knead. The dough is not the only thing that has risen. The voices in the great room have escalated, and the growing discord is beginning to give me a dull headache.

The Cartwrights have their disagreements. Not often, but, as in all families, sometimes there are quarrels and misunderstandings. Usually they are resolved quickly, and it is a good thing for my ears, because the Cartwrights can be loud. Little Joe’s voice is hot and searing, like a lightning bolt streaking out to attack whatever might be near. And Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Hoss and Mr. Adam—their voices are like thunder, low and rolling and capable of making much noise when they wish it.

Apparently they wish it now, for they are all very loud. Especially Mr. Cartwright. How can anyone, even the most virtuous servant, be expected to remain deaf around that?

“Joseph! That sort of talk will end now. Do you understand me?”

Ah, he is very angry, is Mr. Cartwright. I know from the way he bellows ‘Joseph,’ if I peek around the corner I will see Mr. Cartwright’s face has become a dark red color. He is no doubt standing up now, his brows lowered and his fists held tightly at his sides.

But I do not peek, because it is not my business.

Little Joe is saying something, but his voice is now too low for me to hear. It must have been something important, though, because everyone else abruptly stops talking. I go still, letting the bread dough lie untouched as I forget my uncle’s training and strain my ears, trying to hear what the youngest Cartwright is telling his family.

But his voice isn’t carrying enough for me to make out the words. If he were shouting, I would be able to hear, but what he is saying, he is saying in a very low voice. I know it is not my business, and my ears want to be deaf to it—but my feet are traitors. Not virtuous at all. They quietly ease my ears and I over to the kitchen doorway. It seems my eyes are no more disciplined than my ears or feet, for in the next moment I am leaning out to see around the corner.

The older Cartwrights are staring at Little Joe as if he has sprouted horns. He is standing there, facing them all, his fists clenched, his face hard, his eyes shooting fire. His words may have been quiet, but his body is projecting anger that is impossible to ignore.

Mr. Adam is standing back near the fireplace. He doesn’t look angry. He looks . . . sad, wounded. Miserable.

I know that whatever Little Joe has said was most likely directed at his oldest brother. After, all, he has not had much good to say about Mr. Adam over the past week. Beneath all his anger, Little Joe is still hurting. Now he is striking out like a wounded animal. The storm that is breaking inside this room has been building for days.

“You’ve always got to come out on top, don’t you, older brother?” Little Joe says. “You saw something I wanted, and you decided to swipe it away before I had a chance.”

Mr. Adam only looks at him.

Tell him, I think. Tell him that you didn’t want to kiss that girl. Tell him how she put herself right where she wanted to be. Tell him what happened! For I myself know what happened. I saw it all through the open kitchen window. I wanted to shout at Mr. Adam to move away from her before damage was done.

But I did not shout anything at all, because it was not my business to see, and therefore not my business to say anything, then or now.

Mr. Adam says nothing to defend himself. He only leans against the fireplace and folds his arms across his chest. It might look like a nonchalant gesture to an uninvolved bystander, but I see it as what it is: a tiny act of self-protection. Even Mr. Adam probably is not aware of the connotations illustrated by that one small gesture.

“Joseph, you’re being unreasonable. You know what the circumstances were,” Mr. Cartwright says, and I can see that he is wounded, too, in the way that only fathers can be. So much wounding. “Adam did not . . . instigate what happened out there that day.”

To my surprise, Joe laughs. The sound is short and sharp and completely without humor. “He may not have started it, Pa, but he sure as hell didn’t seem too interested in stopping it, either.”

“Joe—” Mr. Cartwright lays a hand on Little Joe’s arm and Little Joe jerks it away and advances on Adam until he is standing right in front of him.

“Tell me, brother,” he says, and I have never heard the word “brother” sound as Little Joe is making it sound right now—like a curse, a lie. A vilification. “Exactly what was it that made you feel it was all right to kiss her? If I had already been engaged to Melinda, would you still have stood there while she moved close to you? If I had already married her, would you still have done exactly as you did that day? Would you have covered her mouth with yours, let her press against you? Would you?”

“Joseph!” Mr. Cartwright gasps, and I know the shock on my own face must mirror that on his.

But Little Joe ignores his father. He is shaking, and he pushes his face near Mr. Adam’s. “You know what I think, Adam? I think you just might,” he says softly. “I think you might have done exactly what you wanted with Melinda, whether I’d already had a ring on her finger or not.”

Mr. Adam flinches ever so slightly at Little Joe’s words, but other than that he does not move. Little Joe’s entire being is coiled and ready to strike. For a moment I hold my breath, certain that Little Joe is about to go after Mr. Adam, but he doesn’t.

I wonder if anyone else notices how Mr. Adam has paled. The two of them stand with their chins almost touching each other, Little Joe’s fists clenched and trembling at his sides, Mr. Adam’s arms still folded across his chest. I have the oddest feeling that Mr. Adam wishes Little Joe would strike him, that he would feel better himself if his youngest brother actually dealt him blows.

Mr. Adam still doesn’t answer, but Mr. Hoss does. “You take it back, Joe. This has gone about far enough. You take it back right now, you hear me?” Mr. Hoss’s voice has dropped down to a low rumble, like the sound the mines make when walls cave in from deep within. When Mr. Hoss’s voice has that particularly slow, careful sound, it means he is in a very dangerous mood. My heart is pounding; I quickly move back into the kitchen, back to my bread.

I hope Little Joe is clear-headed enough to realize that he is treading into dangerous waters with such careless, angry words. I shake my head, knowing he is not thinking much at all; his temper has a tendency to empty his head at times like this. He becomes like a wild, injured dog when he is hurting, snapping at any hand that draws near. And he is hurting . . .

I punch my hand into the dough with more force than is necessary. So much hurting, all started by a greedy, conniving woman and a daughter who isn’t right for either Little Joe or Mr. Adam. I wish the Bannings had never come to the Ponderosa. They have left a trail of damage, one I’m not sure can ever be repaired.

When Mr. Adam decided to leave for a few days—after the kissing—Mr. Cartwright thought it was for the best. I did not agree. Better to stay. Better to keep everything out in the open when something like this happens.

But it was not my decision to make.

“Joseph, that is enough,” Mr. Cartwright rumbles. “I won’t tell you again.”

I listen. No one says anything for a long time. Then I hear Little Joe’s voice, very soft.

“I still love her, Pa.”

“Little Joe . . . ” Mr. Cartwright sighs heavily and hesitates, weighing his words. “How can you still be thinking of love, knowing that everything you thought you knew about her was a lie? Melinda herself realized that there was nothing between you.” He says it very gently, but I can hear the desperation in Mr. Cartwright’s voice as he repeats the refrain he has tried to drill into Little Joe for the past week. “She even told you herself she was sorry that the two of you didn’t fall in love.”

“And I told her that I did,” Joe says. “I did fall in love.”

I shake my head. That is indeed exactly what he said to her just before she drove away with her parents. I heard him myself, through the open kitchen window. The bad part, the part that is causing problems now, is that Little Joe spoke the truth then. He did fall in love with the young lady. Or thinks he did, and when a young man believes himself to be in love, belief is as strong as fact.

At first, I had hopes that the problem would simply disappear. I believe that is what Mr. Cartwright hoped for, too. The Bannings drove away that day, and Little Joe had seemed to accept that the love he felt for the Banning daughter would never become anything more. With luck and time, he would also realize that what had happened between her and his older brother did not really matter.

We should have known it wouldn’t be so easy. We should have remembered that Little Joe Cartwright has a tendency to hold onto love or the prospect of it the way most men hold onto life itself. By the next morning, he had already been grasping at possibilities, reaching out for various “maybes” and “what-ifs”. By the time Mr. Adam had come back home, Little Joe was, if anything, even angrier at him. He had also decided that he still wanted Melinda Banning for his wife. He wanted to go after her.

His family has been fighting hard to keep him from doing it. They know what Little Joe can’t see yet—that down that path lies his destruction. The Banning daughter is not for him.

Little Joe’s voice has a touch of desperation in it. “Not everything was a lie. Not the most important thing. I love her, and there’s nothing but truth in that.”

“But you’re continuing to ignore the fact that she doesn’t love you.” Mr. Adam has spoken for the first time, and I go still, leaving my hands deep in the soft, springy dough. Out in the great room, a heavy silence reigns.

At last Little Joe speaks, very quietly. “She has feelings for me. That could grow into something else. Maybe it already would’ve if you hadn’t—if you hadn’t—”

Mr. Cartwright sighs. “Joe, we’ve been over this so many times. Your brother . . . is not . . . to blame.” The words are spaced out very carefully, as if they will thread themselves into Little Joe’s ears more easily that way. “He’s already assured me that he has no feelings for the girl.”

Silence. And then, “And yet he kissed her.” Little Joe’s voice is still quiet, but it has grown raspy with building rage. Even here in the kitchen I can feel his anger stacking back up, growing dark and dangerous. “You saw the same thing I did that day, Pa. His mouth on her, his hands on her—”

“Joe, stop.” Mr. Hoss this time. “You just stop it. You ain’t bein’ fair. Adam didn’t know then that you had notions of marryin’ that girl.”

“He knew I was interested in her. That should’ve been enough. I shouldn’t have to announce an engagement just to make older brother here keep his hands to himself.” Little Joe is shouting now.

I tsk to myself. Reason is not being heard. Things are not calming down. They are growing worse. I sigh and force myself to leave the dough alone. Any more kneading and the resulting bread will be tough and rubbery.

Instead, I take a hunk of lye soap and the pot of water that has been heating on the stove and start scrubbing the wooden table along the wall. Nothing in my kitchen needs cleaning, of course, and I would be insulted if anyone insinuated otherwise. But I need something to keep myself busy while the Cartwrights work out their differences. If it wasn’t raining, I’d go outside to the garden where I wouldn’t be able to hear them. Because it isn’t my business to hear such intimate details between family members.

The good servant makes himself to be deaf and blind . . .

“He was lookin’ out for you, you mulehead!” Now Mr. Hoss is shouting, too. I scrub harder in my efforts not to listen. “He was worried you’d end up marryin’ a gal who didn’t love you, who wasn’t right for you—”

“Who wasn’t right for me?” Little Joe laughs, but the sound is brittle. “He was worried? Is Hoss right, Adam? Worry? Is that what it was? If that’s how a brother is supposed to show worry, maybe I’ve got a lot to learn.” Little Joe is talking very fast, very hard. “Because I’ve been there, Adam. We’ve all been there. When you were head over heels in love with Regina, Pa was worried that things couldn’t work between the two of you. We all were. Instead of waiting to see how things worked out, maybe I could’ve saved you a lot of time. I could’ve tested your love for Regina, and hers for you, just by grabbin’ her by the arm and tastin’ her for myself, just like you did with Melinda—”

An enraged roar explodes from the great room, making me jump. My elbow catches the edge of the pot of hot water, and it crashes to the floor. Sudsy water spills across the planks. I ignore it in my hurry to get back to the doorway to the great room, for the sounds of fists smacking against flesh are filling the air along with shouts from Mr. Hoss and Mr. Cartwright.

No, it is not my business, but I am frightened. There have been arguments in this house before, about many different things, especially between Mr. Cartwright’s oldest and youngest sons. They are like two sides of the same coin, Mr. Adam and Little Joe, different and yet alike. Each one is diminished without the other. Most of the time I think their hearts know this even when they themselves do not.

But now . . . oh, this rift is different. In his young, foolish attempt to make his family—particularly Adam—see how injured he is, Little Joe has struck too deep, too hard. He has opened up an old wound that should not have been touched, and the pain of it is too much for Mr. Adam to bear.

I have seen these brothers come to blows before, but the altercations have always been explosive and short-lived, like a small burst of gunpowder that is lit and then is gone.

Not this time. Little Joe is on his back and Mr. Adam is on top of him, dealing out blows that I never thought to see him use against one of his brothers. Usually Little Joe’s reflexes are so quick that it gives him a distinct advantage in a fight; those reflexes do him no good now, though, for he has been taken totally by surprise. I can see that he truly did not expect Mr. Adam to strike back like this, at least not physically. Because he is so unprepared, and because Mr. Adam’s anger is so fierce, it is all Little Joe can do to ward off some of the blows.

It takes both Mr. Hoss and Mr. Cartwright to drag Mr. Adam off of Little Joe, who scrambles up and backs away. Much of the anger that was on Little Joe’s face earlier has now been replaced by a myriad of emotions. Dismay. Shock. Regret.

Mr. Adam, usually so controlled, is still out of his mind with fury. He strains against his father and Mr. Hoss.

“How dare you?” Mr. Adam says through gritted teeth. “How dare you bring her name into this?” I have no doubt that if he were able to get free at this moment, he would come after Joe with everything he has in him.

It frightens me, and I can tell by his expression that it also frightens his father. It’s as if Little Joe has prodded a caged tiger with a sharp stick, awakening him and his fury.

Little Joe stares at this dark tiger that has, by all appearances, swallowed his brother, and for a short second his chin trembles almost imperceptibly. He opens his mouth to speak and then shuts it again. His head dips forward so far that his curls, wild from the tussle with his brother, hide his eyes. “I’m sorry, Adam,” he whispers. Too late, he has realized his mistake and the extent of it. As sick as I feel, I know Little Joe feels worse.

The room is now deathly quiet. I know I should withdraw, but I cannot make myself do it. I am as shocked as everyone else by the uncharacteristic violence that Little Joe’s words have wrought in his oldest brother. I cannot remember ever seeing him so… I cannot remember ever seeing his emotions careening so wildly out of control. Little Joe, yes, but not Mr. Adam.

Mr. Adam turns his face away from Little Joe then, his chest heaving, his breath coming hard. “You can let me go,” he says at last, and his voice is quiet and hard and strange. Mr. Hoss looks to his father for agreement. Mr. Cartwright hesitates, and then gives a short nod.

Released, Mr. Adam walks past Little Joe without looking at him. He opens the door and stalks out into the cold rain. He takes nothing with him; not his hat, not his coat, not his gunbelt.

“Adam!” Mr. Cartwright calls out, but Mr. Adam keeps going.

We stand frozen, the four of us. A short time later we hear the drum of horse’s hooves on muddy ground, moving too fast and disappearing too quickly into the distance.

We stand there, saying nothing. Words can only repair so much damage, and there are no words for something like this. In the window over Mr. Cartwright’s desk I can see wet pine boughs drooping low under the burden of the water clinging to them. The rain seems very loud next to the oppressive quiet blanketing the great room.

As so often happens, Little Joe is the first to move. He heads toward the door, but is stopped by a command from his father.

“No, Joseph.”

Little Joe looks back at him, and his eyes look like the pine boughs outside the window, green and glimmering with a wet shine. “I gotta go after him, Pa,” he says, and his voice is unsteady and pleading.

But Mr. Cartwright shakes his head. “No. Hoss and I will go. You—you will stay here.” His tone is hard and angry and brooks no opposition, and Little Joe nods and drops his head again. Mr. Hoss and Mr. Cartwright gather hats and coats and go out into the rain. I notice that Mr. Hoss shoves his older brother’s coat and hat under his arm as he leaves.

The door shuts, and the silence is so heavy that even the tick of the grandfather clock seems to bang like a gong. Little Joe slowly sinks down onto the hearth and stays there, his elbows supported on his knees, his head held in his hands. At a loss to know what to do, I slip back into my own domain, the safe haven of my kitchen.

The industrious servant wastes neither time nor materials.

Since water and soap suds cover the floor due to my earlier clumsiness, I find a scrub brush and get on my knees to scrub it. No sense in wasting water or soap, even when the world seems to be turning upside down. I can at least ensure that my world has a clean floor.

Moments later I hear more hoof beats pound away across the yard, and I know that Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Hoss are hurrying after Adam. I let out a heavy sigh and scrub harder.

I spend a lot of time cleaning every floor plank. It is easier not to think when I am busy, and I don’t want to think right now. I especially don’t want to think about the pain I saw on the faces of the Cartwrights today. The sorrow on Mr. Cartwright’s face; the anguish on Mr. Hoss’s; the agony on Little Joe’s face mixed with fresh bruises as he realized what he had done. The traces of old torture and permanent regret that flashed through Adam’s eyes along with the fury.

When I am finished scrubbing the entire floor, I start all over again. I hear nothing from the great room, and I wonder if Little Joe has gone upstairs. My knees are beginning to ache, but I am thankful for that. Physical pain is useful for distraction.

At last I sit back on my heels. Even I can only clean a floor so many times. I listen, but still hear nothing. The heavy clouds have completely obliterated the struggling afternoon sun, and the house has grown dim inside. I get to my feet and move back to the doorway.

Little Joe is still there. He has not moved. He is still in the same position, head down, face in his hands.

The respectful servant is always aware of the need for privacy.

I look at the door to my room. I should go there now, and leave Little Joe to suffer in private. What has happened here today is definitely not my business.

But I cannot. I have watched him grow from babyhood, this boy. I have watched him laugh and run and grieve. I have seen him show great bravery and great foolishness. I have watched, every day, as he opens his arms to life with hope and optimism and a lack of restraint that makes me shake my head with admiration and unease, often both at the same time.

And I have seen him make many mistakes. Today’s was a most grievous one.

But today’s mistake also carries with it its own punishment. Nothing anyone says to Little Joe can possibly hurt him worse than he’s already hurting. For he has badly injured his brother, both with his accusations and his crude words about a woman I suspect was Mr. Adam’s true love. Surely Adam will forgive Little Joe; he probably already has. But the damage that has been wrought here today is so massive, I am not sure things can be repaired this time.

It is not my business, but I simply cannot leave Little Joe to suffer alone. Silently, I sit down on the hearth next to him. He raises his head out of his hands, but he does not look at me.

The rain falls harder, beating against the window panes. I watch the water running down the glass, and I hope that Mr. Adam does not travel far before his father and brother catch up to him. I should start a soup simmering on the stove. The three older Cartwrights will need warmth in their bellies when they come home. I have some leftover chicken from the noon meal that will work nicely. Carrots and onions, too. And some—

“What am I going to do, Hop Sing?” Little Joe’s voice is very quiet. I peer at him, but he is not looking at me. He is still staring straight ahead.

The prized servant keeps his opinions to himself, and a lock upon his lips.

I shake my head, suddenly exasperated. “Why you think you always must “do”, Little Joe? You always run, meet trouble. Make trouble. Now you want to do more? No. Better to stay still and quiet for once.”

He snorts softly. “Awfully good advice, Hop Sing. Too bad it’s too late for me to listen to it. What I said—” He shakes his head and now he looks at me, and the pain in his face makes me hurt. “I know Adam wasn’t trying anything with Melinda. I guess I knew it right away, as soon as I walked out of the house and…saw them together. I just wanted to blame somebody for the fact that Melinda’s feelings for me weren’t as strong as mine were for her. I suspected it all along—I just didn’t want to admit it.”

“So you want blame on Mr. Adam? Girl’s heart not for you, so you put blame on him? How that help?” I feel sympathy for Little Joe, and yet anger at the same time.

“It doesn’t,” he sighs. “I was wrong, and I know it. How am I going to make things right again? Adam was so  . . . ” He shakes his head again, and the movement is full of the kind of regret which comes from watching your brother bleed by your own hand.

I have no answer for him. Some wrongs cannot be righted easily; some cannot be righted at all. There are wounds which must simply scar over until they no longer hurt, even if they never go away. I have no answer, so I say nothing.

It is best that my thoughts remain my own anyway, for the events of this day are not my business.

**********

The diligent servant does not delay in performing his appointed tasks.

The afternoon wears on, and the rain does not lessen. I stand in the doorway of the kitchen looking out into the sea of mud that is the yard, and I sigh. I had hoped that the rain would pass through by now, but it is looking more and more like the kind of storm that holds on tight and doesn’t let go for days. Meanwhile, the chickens still must be fed and the eggs gathered, rain or not. I usually take care of this task early in the morning, but it was raining already then, and so I put it off. And then there was the noon meal to prepare, and then the trouble in the house started, and…and so the chickens are still hungry.

Armed with the old umbrella that stays behind the kitchen door, I carefully make my way across the yard, the slippery mud making my journey to the barn a precarious one. At least I know I won’t have to search beneath any bushes for the eggs of wayward chickens. All of today’s eggs will be under the barn’s roof, for chickens don’t care for rain, either.

Sure enough, most of the eggs are in the nesting boxes inside the barn, toward the back of the building. I know, though, that I will find a few more in the pile of hay that has been pitched down from the loft above, so I move one toe around in the hay, gingerly, so as not to accidentally step on one.

The barn door squeals on its hinges, and I look up. Little Joe has come in, and he is headed very purposefully toward his saddle. So he means to go and look for Mr. Adam himself, does he? No surprise there—the only surprise is that his father’s orders have restrained him for this long.

I walk up behind him as he flips a blanket across Cochise’s back.

“You go look for Mr. Adam?” I ask, as if I need an answer.

Little Joe jumps slightly at the sound of my voice, and I smile innocently as he aims a grimace at me.

“For Pete’s sake’s, Hop Sing,” he mutters, “can’t you learn to walk a little louder or something?”

His question doesn’t warrant an answer. Of course I could move around more loudly should I wish to do such a thing, but what useful purpose would it serve?

Remaining unseen and unheard is the mark of a valuable servant. 

I am a very valuable servant. Not a perfect one, alas. As happens so often, I cannot restrain myself from offering yet another opinion.

“Perhaps Mr. Adam is down at old miner’s cabin at Bramer Creek?” I suggest, doubting that the oldest Cartwright son would ride much farther than that without coat or gun. Even hurt as he was, he would have too much sense to do such a thing. Then again, I could be wrong. After all, Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Hoss have been gone for some time now.

Little Joe nods slightly as he settles the saddle into place atop the blanket. “Yeah, the cabin might be a good place to start.”

I watch silently as Little Joe settles the saddle atop the blanket. “I tell Mr. Cartwright where you go if he come back first,” I offer.

Little Joe nods again. A loud crack of thunder makes us both jump then, and the drum of rain on the barn roof grows louder. The storm is worsening, and the line of Little Joe’s mouth thins accordingly. He hurries to slip the bit between Cochise’s teeth and is leading him out of his stall when we hear the sound of horses splashing through the mud outside.

Is it two horses or three?

I peer out the door and sigh in relief. “They are here,” I announce to Little Joe, “and Mr. Adam is with them.”

Little Joe’s eyes shut for a brief instant, and then he leads Cochise back into the dim confines of his stall and begins to unsaddle him again. I return to my task of locating stray eggs in the hay.

I listen to the faint sounds of the three older Cartwrights dismounting out in front of the barn, their voices raised in an effort to hear each other over the rain and thunder.

“No, Pa, really,” Mr. Adam calls, “you and Hoss go on inside. I feel bad enough already for getting you out in this weather. Go on. I’ll take care of the horses.”

“I’ll help,” Mr. Hoss argues.

“No, Hoss—please. I’d like some time to myself, if you don’t mind.”

More murmurings from Mr. Hoss and Mr. Cartwright, but Mr. Adam’s request, along with a series of loud thunder crashes, apparently helps to persuade them. A moment later the barn door swings open and Mr. Adam comes in with a surge of wind and water, the reins of all three horses in his hand.

By now Little Joe has finished with Cochise. He has come out of the stall, and Mr. Adam pulls up short when he sees him. Mr. Adam hesitates for only an instant, though, before continuing on with taking care of the horses.

I hurry to find the remaining eggs, for I need to get out of the barn and back up to the house. Things are bound to be said here, things between the hearts of these two men, things which are not for my ears to hear.

“I’ll help you,” Little Joe says quietly, and I watch them out of the corner of my eye as my toe nudges at hay fallen from the loft. Mr. Adam says nothing at all; he simply removes Buck’s saddle and blanket and turns to do the same for Sport. Little Joe moves to Chubb’s side and unsaddles him. In silence, they wipe the horses down thoroughly and fill the wooden troughs with hay and grain before turning to the bridles and saddles. Time must be spent in drying and oiling the tack to prevent the leather from cracking.

For a long time no one speaks. When Adam’s voice breaks the silence at last, I jump slightly even though his voice is low and controlled. “You had no call to say what you did,” he says. “None of it.” He never looks at Joe; he just keeps rubbing the oilcloth hard along the saddle.

Little Joe’s throat works up and down. “No. I had no call to say it.”

It is unusual for Little Joe to agree so completely with someone he has had an altercation with, particularly when that someone is Mr. Adam. His doing so now is sign of how deep his regret is.

If Mr. Adam realizes that, he doesn’t comment on it. For all the notice he takes of Little Joe’s words, a person might think he didn’t hear it at all, except for the tightness in his jaw and the way his hand clenches the oilcloth as he rubs it along the leather.

Another long length of silence. “I don’t know what else to say now, Adam, except—I’m sorry.”

Mr. Adam goes right on rubbing at his saddle. “It’s not enough,” he says, and he still doesn’t look up. My breath catches.

Somewhere outside, a bolt of lightning sizzles down, and the noise is so loud that I am almost certain a tree has been hit. In that instant I decide that any eggs that are left can stay in the hay. It is more important that I remove myself and let these brothers work out their differences. Quietly, I walk from my end of the barn to theirs and begin to move past them.

“Hop Sing,” Mr. Adam says, and his tone is slightly surprised. “I didn’t see you.”

“Late in gathering eggs,” I explain. “I leave now.”

But Adam shakes his head. “No. It’s too dangerous. The lightning is too close. Let’s just give it a few minutes and let it settle down. Then you can go.”

I sigh, for the truth is that I would much rather face the lightning and the wind than be in this barn with these two Cartwrights right now. The tension in the air is just as electric as the storm outside.

An obedient servant is a worthy servant.

Reluctantly, I sit down and wait. Perhaps they will put off their quarrel until I am gone.

But no. Sometimes arguments refuse to wait. Especially when they involve Little Joe Cartwright and his oldest brother.

Mr. Adam’s refusal to accept his apology does not deter Little Joe. He keeps right on speaking, rubbing at Chubb’s saddle but keeping his eyes on Mr. Adam. “I just wanted you to understand how I felt,” Little Joe says. “I thought if I were to reverse our positions, it would—I don’t know, make things even, somehow.” His voice drifts off, and for several long minutes, I don’t think Mr. Adam is going to answer.

But at last, he says, “So you evened things out. Let’s just forget it, all right?” Mr. Adam’s eyes are still on the saddle he is rubbing so vigorously, and his face is hardened enough to hide any hurt that might remain.

“It wasn’t an even trade, though,” Little Joe continues doggedly on.

Mr. Adam stops rubbing for only an instant, then continues. “No?”

“No. I think what you felt for Regina and what I feel for Melinda are two different things. So, no, it’s not an even trade.”

Mr. Adam’s hands have stopped moving again, but he keeps his eyes on the saddle. I stare at Little Joe, wondering what in the world he could possibly be getting at.

Little Joe keeps talking. “What I feel for Melinda is a…well, it’s sort of a wishing for something, Adam. A want. And maybe a little bit of fear.”

At last Mr. Adam looks at his youngest brother, puzzlement drawing his brows together. “Fear?”

“Fear. Fear that by letting a chance at love go by, I’ll be making the same mistake you did. And that was a cowardly mistake for you to make, I think.”

I groan softly and put my face in my hands, but not before seeing the dangerous look that crosses Mr. Adam’s face. He stands up, the bridle in his lap falling unbidden onto the earthen floor of the barn.

“Joe, do us both a favor. Shut your mouth and get up to the house.” His voice is very, very quiet. Apparently he thinks Little Joe is safer braving the lightning than remaining in the barn with him, and I think perhaps he is right.

But Little Joe rarely does the safe thing, and now is no exception. He puts down the saddle he has been working on and moves to stand directly in front of Mr. Adam.

“I didn’t intend to talk about this when you came in. I only wanted to apologize. But now I’m thinking that some things have to be talked about, and this is one of ‘em.” If Little Joe even recognizes the threat that is emanating off of his brother’s tense stance, he ignores it and pushes on. “Losing part of yourself—sometimes I think that’s what’s happened to you, and I don’t want it to happen to me. You loved Regina, Adam. Really loved her. You could’ve had her, had everything, but you just didn’t hold on tight enough.” To my surprise, Little Joe’s voice has risen, and he sounds angry again. “You let her go, and you’ve regretted it ever since. Part of you left on the trail with her, and it’s never come back. Why didn’t you just hold on?” The last is said as an accusation, and my head swings toward Mr. Adam, certain that I am about to witness the second fist fight of the day between the two of them.

But Mr. Adam doesn’t move. His fingers curl into fists, straighten, curl again. “You know why,” he finally rasps out, but Little Joe shakes his head.

“No, I don’t.”

“We were too different. Her religion, my convictions—it wasn’t going to work.” Mr. Adam sounds almost desperate now, as if he is trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

“You know what I think?” Little Joe says softly. “I think it was easier for both of you to decide it wouldn’t work, to just walk away instead of risking the pain that would come from tryin’ your darndest only to maybe have it end up failing anyway. Only it might not have ended that way, Adam. Maybe it would’ve worked between the two of you.”

Mr. Adam is shaking his head. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I got into a shooting match with a man after she begged me not to. He ended up dying a violent death by my hands. Her religion wouldn’t allow her to come to terms with something like that.” He looks at Little Joe, and I find myself swallowing hard at the pleading look on his face. “Do you hear me, Joe? She begged me not to, and I did it anyway.”

Little Joe puts a hand on his arm, and Mr. Adam doesn’t shake it off. “You only did what you had to do. She knew that.”

“Yes, she knew that.” Mr. Adam smiles, but there is no mirth there. “The funny thing is, I think she knew all along what was going to happen.”

“Because she knew you,” Little Joe says. “She knew you, Adam. Like you had been together for years instead of days. She knew you, all the good and the bad, and she loved you anyway.”

Mr. Adam chuckles at this, but still the sound holds no happiness. “Yeah, she loved me anyway.” He shakes his head and picks the bridle up off the ground. “Love isn’t always enough, Little Joe.”

“If it ain’t, it oughta be,” Little Joe says stubbornly. “That’s where we differ in opinion, older brother. I want to take the risk of chasing after love when it shows itself, because the thought of…always wondering…wondering if things could’ve been different—no, I just ain’t gonna do that.”

They are quiet for a long time. At last Mr. Adam says, “So you’re still dead set on going after Melinda, then, regardless of what happened? Against Pa’s advice?”

“It ain’t Pa that’s going to lie in bed wondering if I should’ve followed that chance. It’ll be me lying there night after night, week after week, year after year, thinking maybe…”

“…maybe if you had just held on…” Mr. Adam whispers, and I hear in his words a reluctant echo of laments to himself. Little Joe nods.

“Yeah. Maybe if I had just held on, it might have worked. I have to know for sure, Adam. Do you understand?”

Mr. Adam stares at him, his fingers rubbing up and down along the cheek strap of the bridle. “You said it yourself, Joe. What passed between you and Melinda is a completely different thing from what—from what I had with Regina. I think it’s you that still doesn’t understand.”

Little Joe’s shoulders sag slightly. “Maybe that’s just what you want to believe.”

Mr. Adam’s lips tighten. “If you chase after that girl, Joe, you’re going to get hurt, one way or another. And you’re possibly going to hurt others in the process.” He waves a hand in dismissal. “But go ahead and do it if you’ve got a mind to. You’re going to anyway.” He hangs up the bridle and then bends to pick up Buck’s saddle, settling it across a wooden beam, and then he stands looking down at it, his hands splayed across the smooth leather. Even from where I sit I can see the stark whiteness of the skin stretched across his knuckles.

Little Joe watches him closely and then sighs. “You’re going to hold this against me for a long time, aren’t you? What I said?”

Mr. Adam continues to stare down at the saddle, his back to Little Joe, but I can see him chewing hard on his upper lip. And then suddenly he turns, and he is trembling, and it is easy to see that rage still consumes him. He has only been hiding that rage, but now it is bursting free of the careful hold he has kept on it and is making itself known.

“Why can’t you just learn to control what you say?” Mr. Adam grinds out. “What if Pa and Hoss hadn’t been there? What if you and I had been alone today when you saw fit to run your mouth the way you did?”

Little Joe stammers, “I don’t know what you mean…”

“Come on, Joe.” Mr. Adam blows out a quick, hard breath and turns away from him again, drawing a hand hard down over his eyes and mouth. “If Pa and Hoss hadn’t pulled me away, you’d most likely be visiting Doc Martin by now. And I’m going to be thinking about that for some time to come, thanks to you.”

Now Little Joe’s eyes narrow. “I would’ve held my own plenty fine without Hoss or Pa,” he says, and his tone is familiar in its brash challenge.

Mr. Adam answers this challenge with a loud, disbelieving snort, and he turns away from his brother again. He stands there, stiff and unyielding in the dim light of the barn while Little Joe stares at his back.

“If I had accomplished what I set out to do to you back in the house this afternoon…I could never have forgiven you for that.” Mr. Adam shakes his head. “To be honest, I still don’t know if I can.”

For once, it seems Little Joe has nothing to say. His eyes are on his brother, large and soft and troubled.

I want to plead with them both, to beg them to make a fresh start, to put all this behind them and go on. I want them to know how upset I am that things have taken such a deplorable turn. I want them to think about how upset Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Hoss are right now. But of course I say nothing.

The judicious servant does not allow emotion to shake his decorum.
He retains his dignity, and therefore his employer’s dignity, at all times.

Little Joe jams his hands into his pockets and shuffles his boots in the dirt. “If you can’t forgive me, then how the heck can I forgive myself?”

Mr. Adam takes a deep breath. “I don’t know. I’m still trying to figure out how to find absolution for my own self.” I’m not sure if he’s speaking of the fists he laid on his brother or for something to do with Missy Regina. Most likely, I think, it is both.

Little Joe appears to chew on that awhile, and then lets it go. “I am going to San Francisco, Adam. To see Melinda. To talk to her.”

Mr. Adam leans against the wooden plank wall beside him, suddenly looking as if he’s too tired to hold himself up. “Go then. You won’t hear any further argument out of me.”

“I’ll still hear plenty out of Pa.”

“Like you said, if you don’t go, it won’t be Pa wondering whether or not you should’ve held onto her,” Adam shrugs. Mr. Adam watches Little Joe’s face. “Joe.…”

Little Joe looks up at him in question.

“I still think you’re making a big mistake—but I also think you deserve the chance to make it. Fair enough?”

Little Joe nods. “Fair enough.” More silence. “Adam?”

“Yeah?”

“I am sorry. Really.”

Mr. Adam hesitates, and then he nods slowly. “I know you are. I—” He swallows and looks at the ground. “I want you to know that there really was nothing between Melinda and I. And even if there had been, I never would have—”

Little Joe puts a hand up, cutting him off. “Don’t. I was just mouthing off, reaching for anything I could get.”

Mr. Adam nods. Little Joe doesn’t say so, but he knows, as do I, that Mr. Adam has forgiven him, even if Mr. Adam himself hasn’t quite realized it yet.

The rain is not hammering quite so hard on the barn roof now. Mr. Adam cocks his head, listening. “Sounds like the storm is dying down about as much as it’s going to.” He looks at me and gives a little smile, and I am a little surprised that he has remembered my presence. “What do you say, Hop Sing? Ready to make a run for it?”

Oh, yes, I am ready. Supper will already be greatly delayed because I have remained out here so long. Mr. Hoss will not be happy. I look at Mr. Adam and Little Joe, and then I change my mind about that. I do not believe that Mr. Hoss, for once, will mind waiting for supper. There were large things at stake here tonight. Very large things.

I grab the old black umbrella. Together, the three of us step into the wet world outside, where the wind immediately twists the umbrella into a useless mess. Instantly I am soaking wet; I run toward the house with Little Joe on one side and Mr. Adam on the other, and we are halfway across the yard when Little Joe slips in the mud and goes down in front of me. I gasp as my feet tangle in his, and the next thing I know I am on my hands and knees in dark ooze. Something catches against my foot, and my grunted “oomph” is repeated from beside me as Mr. Adam lands hard on his belly.

In the dim light from the porch lantern, both their eyes are wide and startled in faces streaked with mud, and I know mine must look the same. Now they look at each other through a heavy curtain of rain, and they start to laugh; they keep laughing as they struggle to regain their footing, holding onto one another to remain upright. They each hold out a hand to me and help me to my feet as well.

My initial shock gone, I start to spit and sputter in my native tongue, and these two Cartwright brothers, so different in so many ways, have an identical reaction: they both laugh even harder. We stagger on toward the safety of the porch, and while my ranting gets louder, so does their laughter. The laughter rings up through the darkness, twining together with the rain and the thunder and my own voice.

Mr. Cartwright and Mr. Hoss emerge from the door, their faces registering confusion even while slow, uncertain smiles ease along their mouths. On into the house we go, tracking in mud and water, and I continue to rant. Both Mr. Adam and Little Joe are patting me on the back, Little Joe now trying to curb his laughter but failing miserably. Mr. Adam’s own laughter has died away to a soft smile, but I can still see the layers of wounding beneath that smile. I realize now that the worst pain did not come from Little Joe’s words, though. No, it came from what those words uncovered—an old, festering wound that needs to be drained. Still, he is smiling, even though there is pain behind the smile. Healing will come.

The Cartwrights are all trying not to laugh as they wipe at my skin and clothing. I let more angry shouts pass through my lips, and then I brush off their hands and stalk off to the kitchen, leaving them to each other as I continue to rant in my native tongue.

It is only when I am out of their sight that I allow a smile to cross my own lips.

They all assume that I am shouting due to temper, and I will let them continue to think so. They do not need to know that I am actually shouting a prayer to the heavens, thanking God that the worst of the crisis seems to have passed and that two brothers who were torn apart are on a path back toward each other.

I disguise my prayers in this manner quite often. It is a very freeing thing to be able to express one’s thoughts and worries aloud without worrying about anyone else knowing what one is actually saying.

And of course, as I shout, I throw in a few grumbles about foolish men and how tired they make me.

Glad relief continues to flood through me as I start to prepare supper, and I feel my smile grow upon my face as warm voices from large, vital men drift into my kitchen from the great room. The tone of their conversation is different now, still cautious, but easy, supportive. The tide has indeed turned.

The virtuous servant always has the welfare of his
employer’s family uppermost in his heart, for that family is as his own…

Of all my uncle’s old directives, this is the one I reach for most often. Indeed, I keep it safely ensconced within my heart.

The End