Summary: When a friend dies unexpectedly, fourteen-year-old Joe struggles with grief, loss, and the age-old question: “Why?”

Rated PG  WC 18,000

                                                     Swimming

 

“Here, Joe, take a drink of this,” said a voice. Huddled naked with somebody’s saddle blanket wrapped around his waist and somebody else’s jacket draped across his shoulders, Little Joe reached mindlessly for whatever they were handing him. A bottle, as it turned out. He took a swig and handed it back, never looking up to see who his benefactor was.

 

A commotion down at the shore seized his attention. He jerked to his feet, and the jacket fell to the ground. Clutching the blanket, he pushed through the crowd as Hoss carried the limp body up, out of the water. The men parted, and Joe reached out with one tentative hand to touch his friend’s cold, wet cheek. He looked up at Hoss, silently pleading for confirmation that what he saw before him was not, in fact, the truth.

 

“His foot was wedged in the rocks,” said Hoss, his deep voice rough with sorrow. “I’m sorry, Little Brother, I truly am.”

 

“Where’s his pa?” asked somebody. There was shuffling behind them, and Mr. Munson stood beside Little Joe. Like Joe, he reached out, almost in wonder, to touch his son’s cold flesh.

 

“Samuel,” he whispered.

 

“I’m sorry, sir,” breathed Joe. At first, he wasn’t sure Sam’s pa had heard him, but then, the older man’s wide blue eyes fixed on him, brimful of grief.

 

“Thank you, boy,” the father said at last.

 

He started to take his son from Hoss’ arms, but Hoss said, “I’ll take care of him, sir.” One of the men produced another saddle blanket to drape over the body. Gently, as if Sam were asleep and Hoss didn’t want to waken him, the big man laid his brother’s best friend carefully in the back of the buckboard they’d sent for when it became apparent it would be needed.

 

As men discussed in low voices how to get the Munsons home, Adam laid his arm around Joe’s shoulders. “You need to get dressed,” he said. With a gentleness not normally associated with the logical, rational Cartwright, Adam drew his brother off to the side and handed him his clothes.

 

Joe’s hands shook as he pulled on his pants. The last time he’d worn them, Sam was alive. The same thought crossed his mind as he pulled on his boots. As he fumbled for the buttons on his shirt, he caught sight of the buckboard that bore the body of a fourteen-year-old boy who would never be fifteen, and he started to shake.

 

“Easy, Joe,” murmured Adam. He held his brother’s shoulders as the boy doubled over, hurling the contents of his stomach on the ground. “You’re all right, I’ve got you,” he said, rubbing the boy’s back.

 

Finally, Joe straightened, drawing his hand across his mouth. “I’m okay,” he said.

 

To his credit, Adam didn’t call him a liar. He just patted Joe’s shoulder and said, “Let’s get on home.”

 

“Where’s Hoss?” Joe cast anxious looks around in the fading daylight.

 

“I’m right here,” said the big man. He’d already dressed, and now he reached out to button Joe’s shirt. “This boy’s cold,” he said as if Joe couldn’t hear him. “He’s shakin’ like a leaf.”

 

“I know,” said Adam. He retrieved his jacket from where it had fallen when Joe stood up and wrapped it around his brother. “Let’s go,” he said as the other rescuers dispersed.

 

It seemed simultaneously like no time and forever before they rode into the yard. “I’ll take care of the horses,” said Adam to Hoss. “You get him inside and warm him up.”

 

As they opened the door, they heard Pa’s voice, booming and annoyed. “It’s about time you all got back here! Supper’s been ready for half an hour. Where have you been, anyway?” He came around the corner from his desk and stopped short at the sight of Joe’s face. “What happened?”

 

Joe lifted his gaze for the first time since he’d dismounted. “Sam’s dead,” he whispered.

 

Instinctively, Ben reached out to his youngest son as he directed the question to his middle son this time. “What happened?”

 

“Him and Joe were up at the lake, swimming,” said Hoss. “Sam must’ve got his foot stuck in some rocks when he jumped in the water.”

 

“Oh, Joseph,” breathed Ben. Sam and Joe had been friends ever since the Munsons had come to Virginia City, back when the boys were four years old. Ben laid his hand against his son’s cheek. “You’re freezing,” he said. He peered more closely and saw that the boy’s lips were tinged with blue. “Come over by the fire so you can warm up.” Not waiting for an answer, he drew his son over to sit on the hearth.

 

Without being asked, Hoss fetched the brandy and a single glass. Ben assessed his middle son with a glance, filled the glass Hoss had intended for Joe, and said quietly, “Here,” as he handed it to Hoss. Hoss started to protest, but Ben saw in those light blue eyes the agony of recovering a young boy’s body. He patted the broad shoulder as he moved past his son to fetch another glass.

 

As Hoss drank, Ben poured another brandy and pressed it into his youngest son’s hand. “Drink this, son,” he said, his voice deep and gentle. He sat on the hearth beside Joe, his arm around the boy who shivered despite the fire only inches away. Joe took a sip of the brandy, but it was clear that he neither knew nor cared what he drank.

 

The room was silent save for the crackling of the fire when Adam came in from the barn. “Adam, have Hop Sing wrap up a couple of hot bricks and heat some broth,” Ben instructed. He rubbed Joe’s arm as he said, “Let’s get you up to bed, young man.”

 

Adam rested his hand on Hoss’ shoulder. “You okay?”

 

Hoss shrugged. A fellow could only be so okay at a time like this. “Come on, Shortshanks,” he said, rising. He moved around the table to where his younger brother sat. His eyes were dark with sorrow.

 

“We’ll be up in a minute,” said Ben as Hoss helped Little Joe to his feet and Adam headed into the kitchen. The two brothers made their slow, resigned way up the stairs. When Adam returned with more glasses, Ben asked, “How did it happen?”

 

“Joe and Sam were over at the cove,” said Adam. He poured generous drinks for himself and his father. “Joe said they’d been jumping from that one tree that hangs way out over the water. Then, Sam went under and didn’t come back up.” The two men drank in silence, letting the notion settle.

 

“Do his parents know?” Ben couldn’t imagine anything more horrible. For a second, he tried to picture what it would have been like if the situation had been reversed and it was Sam who had had to look for Joe. He shook his head quickly to rid himself of the image. Unthinkable.

 

“His pa was there,” said Adam. “He took the boy home.”

 

“Poor Jake and Ella,” breathed Ben. “Once Joe’s settled in, I’m going to ride over there and see if there’s anything we can do.” He drained his glass and peered at his eldest son, who was gazing at his glass. Hesitantly, he asked, “Is there something else?”

 

“It’s just—I’m not sure what to make of it and maybe it’s nothing, but—well, Joe hasn’t cried,” Adam said.

 

“What do you mean?” Braced, Ben drained his glass and set it on the table.

 

“Just that,” said Adam. “I expected him to fall apart before we ever left the lake, but he hasn’t shed a tear. He got sick, but that’s all.”

 

Ben exhaled in relief. “Well, I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “He’s had a pretty big shock, but he never holds anything back for long.”

 

“I suppose you’re right,” said Adam. “Let me see if those bricks are heated.” He returned a minute later with a tray bearing a cup of steaming broth and two bricks wrapped in towels. Wordlessly, he and his father climbed the stairs to Joe’s room.

 

Hoss had already gotten Joe into a nightshirt and into bed. The big man sat on the side of the bed, rubbing his brother’s arms vigorously. “How’s that, Little Brother? You warming up yet?” Hoss asked with forced enthusiasm, but Joe didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were dull and vacant, fixed on something only he could see.

 

Hoss moved aside as Ben wrapped an afghan around the boy’s slim shoulders and held him tightly for a moment. Adam slipped the bricks under the covers, down by Joe’s feet. Then, he held out the cup for his brother. “Here you go,” Adam said. “Nice and hot. Just what you need.”

 

Joe shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”

 

“It’ll help you warm up,” said Ben as he tried to wrap his son’s hand around the cup. “It’ll be good to get something hot into you.”

 

“I don’t want it,” said Joe, pulling his hand away and clasping his hands in his lap like a child. “I don’t want anything.”

 

“Just try a little,” urged Ben. He held out the cup again.

 

“I don’t want it!” Joe shoved his father’s hand away, and the cup crashed to the floor. Stricken, the boy looked up, eyes wide with panic. “I’m sorry, Pa, I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry—”

 

“It’s all right, son,” said Ben. He pulled his son close, murmuring “Just relax,” as he rubbed Joe’s back. He could hear Adam and Hoss cleaning up the shards of china and the puddle of broth, but he didn’t turn from the trembling boy in his arms.

 

Eventually, the tension in the young body eased. Ben loosened his grasp, and Joe sat back. His eyes were dry. Ben ran his hand through the boy’s unruly curls. “Why don’t you lie down for a little while,” he suggested. He half-expected his son to balk at this suggestion, too, but Joe lay back against the pillows, clearly worn out. He stood and drew the covers up over Joe’s shoulders. “Do you want to try to sleep?”

 

Joe shrugged. What did he want? He wanted things to be normal again. He wanted Sam, alive and well. He wanted for them not to have made that last jump.

 

It was the age-old story—they almost didn’t, and then they decided to. One last time before they had to get home for chores. Who had suggested it, Joe or Sam? Right then, Joe couldn’t remember. He only knew that he jumped, hitting the water heels first and going down, down, down, until he thought his feet might touch the bottom. Then, in a froth of bubbles, he began to kick and pull himself up to the surface.

 

When he broke through to the cooling air, he was farther out than he’d expected. He shook the water from his hair. Suddenly, he felt very tiny in this vast body of water. He remembered being in San Francisco and seeing the harbors. The Pacific Ocean didn’t look all that impressive from a dock. Pa had said that once you were out of the harbor, though, you could travel for weeks in a straight line and never see anything but water and sky—no land, anywhere. Joe had tried to picture what it would be like, for a ship as big as those docked in San Francisco to be nothing more than a dot in the vast ocean. He felt like that now, even though he could see the shores with their stands of ponderosa pines, straight and tall, like soldiers guarding the lake.

 

Then, he’d looked around again. “Sam!” he called. No answer. “Sam!” He treaded water as he squinted into the shadows of the branches. “Hey, would you jump already? It’s getting late!”

 

But there was no answer from the tree, not even a rustle of leaves. “Hey, Sam! Let’s get going!” Still no answer. “Sam!”

 

The only sound he heard was himself treading water. “Hey! This ain’t funny! You get yourself out here, now!”

 

The answering silence made his stomach twist. This wasn’t like Sam. Sure, he’d play a joke on a fellow if he had the chance, but he knew better than to fool around like this. “Where the hell are you!” The tinge of panic in Joe’s voice echoed across the water. “Munson, you worthless slug! This ain’t funny! Get out here right now!”

 

His arms and legs were getting tired from treading water, but Joe knew what he had to do. He sucked in the deepest breath he could and dove under the water, straining to see any sign of Sam. When he thought his lungs would burst, he came up, took another breath, and went back down. And he did it again and again, and still again, frantically refusing to let himself think how nobody could stay under that long and be all right.

 

“I’m gonna get help, Sam!” he shouted, just in case Sam could hear him. As fast as he could, he swam for shore. As soon as he gained solid ground, he scrambled up to where they’d left their clothes, and he grabbed Sam’s squirrel rifle, firing off three shots. He waited, and when he heard no answer, he fired again. This time, he heard answering shots. “Thank God,” he whispered. He plunged back into the water to search some more until help came.

 

When he surfaced again, he saw Hoss and Adam riding down the trail. He waved frantically. “I can’t find Sam!” he yelled. He could tell they couldn’t hear him, so he swam closer to shore and yelled again. Other men were coming now, and as soon as Joe was close enough to be heard, Hoss was undressing. Joe heard him say something over his shoulder, and Adam waded in and took Joe’s arm.

 

“I have to go back out and look for Sam!” snapped Joe, trying to wrench his arm out of his eldest brother’s firm grip.

 

“Let Hoss look,” said Adam. “You’re worn to a frazzle. You go back out, and we’ll be looking for you, too.”

 

“Adam. . . .” The protest melted at the sight of his brother’s eyes.

 

“Come here,” said Adam. “You’re freezing.” He wrapped a saddle blanket around Joe’s hips, draped his yellow coat around the boy’s shoulders, and sat him down on a rock. Around them, other men were undressing and wading into the cold water. And somebody shoved a bottle into Joe’s hand and told him to take a drink. . . .

 

Even with the afghan and the hot bricks and the fire in the fireplace, Joe still felt ice-cold. He pulled the blankets up higher as if that would help, but he knew it wouldn’t. Because it wasn’t the water or the air that made him feel cold.

 

It was the fact that the world was never going to be the same, and it was all his fault.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

The early morning light barely touched the edges of the breakfast table as Adam and Hoss started down the stairs. “How are you doing?” Adam asked.

 

Hoss shrugged. “Prob’ly better than Joe,” he said. “I can’t even think what he’s feelin’ now.”

 

Adam opened his mouth to answer, and then he stopped. “We can take a guess,” he said, nodding toward the main room.

 

Little Joe was curled up in Ben’s chair, sound asleep. The rough wool blanket that normally graced the settee was tucked around him. On the table sat an open bottle of whiskey and a half-full glass.

 

“Dadburnit,” muttered Hoss. The brothers headed down the stairs, their boots clattering, but Joe didn’t stir. “Joe! Joseph! Wake up!”

 

“Hey, Joe, come on,” said Adam, shaking his brother’s shoulder. “Hoss, clean up the whiskey. If Pa sees this, he’ll have a fit.”

 

Slowly, Joe opened his eyes. “What?”

 

“Come on, Little Brother,” said Adam. “Time to get up. What are you doing down here, anyway?”

 

“I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep,” said Joe, squinting against the light. “What’s the matter?” He peered at Adam, eyes bleary with sleep and booze.

 

“What were you doing with the whiskey?” asked Adam.

 

Joe laid his head back against the chair. “I’m not drunk. I didn’t have all that much. Two drinks, maybe three.”

 

“That’s plenty,” said Adam. For reasons he wasn’t quite certain of, Pa didn’t mind Joe drinking an occasional beer, but he didn’t want the boy drinking whiskey. It wasn’t as if a man couldn’t get just as drunk on either one, but Adam had no intention of testing Pa on his position this morning.

 

Hoss came back from the kitchen and sat down on the hearth. “How’re you feelin’?” he asked.

 

“I’m okay,” said Joe. “Whiskey doesn’t do much to me.”

 

Hoss rested his hand on the boy’s arm. “That ain’t what I meant,” he said.

 

Joe swallowed hard. “I’m okay,” he said again, but his voice sounded thin and uncertain this time.

 

“Sam’s pa came by last night,” said Adam. “The service is today at noon.”

 

Joe sat upright. “He came here? Why didn’t somebody call me?”

 

“You were asleep,” said Adam. “Mr. Munson said not to disturb you.”

 

“Was he all right?” Joe asked.

 

“As much as a man could be,” said Hoss. “He said to thank you for trying so hard to find Sam and for being such a good friend to him.” He rubbed Joe’s arm as he spoke, and he could feel the boy starting to tremble.

 

“I let Sam down.” The words were so quiet that his brothers almost missed them.

 

“You did everything you could,” said Adam. He sat down on the table and laid his hand on Joe’s knee. “There was nothing else you could have done.”

 

Joe pulled the blanket around himself more tightly. “It’s freezing in here.”

 

Adam and Hoss exchanged concerned glances. It wasn’t that cold. “I’ll get the fire goin’ better,” said Hoss. A few minutes later, the fire blazed brightly. “How’s that? Better?”

 

“No,” said Joe.

 

“You should get upstairs and get dressed,” said Adam. “You’ll be warmer. Where are your slippers?”

 

“Upstairs,” said Joe. He stood unsteadily, wincing as his bare feet met the chilly wooden floor.

 

For a minute, Hoss rested his arm around Joe’s shoulders. He thought Joe might move toward him, into a hug, but the boy remained stiff and motionless. Finally, Hoss just patted Joe’s shoulder. “Go on,” he said. “We got work to do this morning.” He watched as Joe plodded up the stairs without a word. After the boy was out of earshot, Hoss turned to his eldest brother. “What do you make of that?”

 

Adam shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But at least he’s not hung over.”

 

“I almost wish he was,” said Hoss. At Adam’s raised eyebrow, he said, “At least I’d know what to do with that.”

 

Adam nodded ruefully. “Good point,” he conceded. Lifting his voice, he called, “Hey, Hop Sing! Is breakfast ready?”

 

The little man came running out. “Breakfast ready, family not here!”

 

“We’re here,” said Hoss, looking back at the stairs as if Joe would reappear. A thought occurred to him. Very little got past Hop Sing. “Hey, Hop Sing, you didn’t see Joe out here before, did you?”

 

Hop Sing snorted in disgust. “Hop Sing have much work, make breakfast, no time look for Li’l Joe,” he said so convincingly that he didn’t have to tell them how, when he’d gotten up to start the bread, he’d heard someone wandering around in the main room. Even in the darkness, he’d seen grief and despair in the boy’s slumped shoulders and bowed head as he moved aimlessly through the room.

 

And so, Hop Sing had brought his Little Joe into the kitchen to sit by the warm stove and sip from a glass of whiskey as the Chinese man mixed up and kneaded the dough. He cast occasional surreptitious glances at Joe, but he said nothing, letting the boy stay quiet as he obviously wished. When Joe finally looked as if he might want to go back to sleep, Hop Sing ushered him into the main room, with Joe clutching his glass and the bottle. Without a word, Hop Sing settled him in Mister Ben’s armchair and gently took the glass and bottle, placing them on the table. He tucked the blanket around the youngest son, taking care to cover Little Joe’s bare feet. He stirred up the dying embers and put another log on the fire. Then, he sat down on the hearth, waiting, until the boy’s eyelids began to droop. He considered briefly putting the whiskey away, but he decided to leave it in case Joe wanted a bit more. He knew Mister Ben’s views, but he also knew that, under the circumstances, Mister Ben would have no objection. They understood each other, he and Mister Ben.

 

Adam gave the Cartwrights’ long-time cook, housekeeper and friend a considered look. “You, uh, wouldn’t happen to know how the kid ended up with the whiskey, would you?”

 

For the briefest instant, something flashed in Hop Sing’s eyes. Then, the little man stomped his foot. “Hop Sing not have time for foolishness. Breakfast ready. Now!” He flung himself toward the kitchen, pigtail flying, as Adam and Hoss exchanged a knowing smile.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

“. . . and we commit the soul of Samuel David Munson to Your eternal care, O Lord,” intoned the minister.

 

“Amen,” came the gathered murmur.

 

Ben stole a glance at his youngest son, who stood just out of reach. His jacket was buttoned all the way up in spite of the warm June sunshine. His jaw was set, his eyes were dry, and his knuckles were white as he clutched his hat. He hadn’t once looked away from the grave throughout the service.

 

Now, as people began to move, Joe approached Sam’s mother. Ben couldn’t hear what his son said, but Ella Munson gathered him in her arms as tears ran down her face.

 

Ben stepped forward to shake Jake Munson’s hand. “He was a fine boy,” Ben said. “We were proud to have known him.”

 

“Thank you, Ben,” said Sam’s father. He looked over at Joe and stepped closer. “It was an accident,” he said quietly. “We know that.”

 

Ben nodded. “Thank you, Jake.”

 

“Make sure the boy knows,” said Jake.

 

Ben nodded again. On another day, he might have suggested that the words would be more meaningful coming from Jake, but the man had just buried his son. No one had the right to ask more of him.

 

Hoss and Adam stepped forward. Jake reached out to both at once, taking their hands. “Thank you both for all you did,” he said.

 

“We’re sorry we couldn’t have done more,” said Adam.

 

“You did all anyone could have—you and the others, and especially Little Joe.” The bereaved father squeezed their hands. “Thank you.” He turned to speak to another mourner, and the Cartwrights looked around for Joe.

 

“He was just here,” said Ben, perplexed. Someone else was holding Ella Munson now. Robbie and Susan Munson, Sam’s younger brother and sister, were being held by other ladies as they wept.

 

“There he is,” said Adam. He nodded toward the horses, where Joe had already mounted. He opened his mouth to shout for Joe to wait, but in the next instant, he stopped himself. He couldn’t yell at a funeral. Instead, he hurried over to where his brother was about to ride off. “You could wait for the rest of us,” he said, grabbing the bridle of Joe’s pinto.

 

“I’m going for a ride,” said Joe.

 

Ben and Hoss reached them in time to hear Joe’s statement. “Hop Sing’s going to have lunch ready,” said Ben.

 

“I’m not hungry,” said Joe.

 

“Joseph.” Ben’s voice was gentle, but firm. “You need to eat something. You didn’t have supper last night or breakfast this morning. You can ride later if you like, but for now, you’re coming home with us, and you’re going to eat lunch.” He held the boy’s gaze until Joe looked away.

 

“I’m not hungry,” Joe repeated, as if it would make a difference.

 

“So you said,” said his father. He mounted his buckskin gelding. “Let’s go.”

 

“Pa, please—just leave me be.” A tinge of desperation colored the boy’s voice, but his father was unmoved.

 

“After lunch,” Ben said firmly. He pretended not to notice his son’s glare. Little Joe was upset, and he knew that, but he also knew that if Joe were left to his own devices, the boy could forget to eat for days on end. There might not be much else a father could do at a time like this, but at least he could get a meal into his son.

 

Or so he thought. An hour later, Joe had ridden out again, the food on his plate barely touched. The others sat at the table, listening to the receding hoofbeats, as Joe’s beef and potatoes cooled.

 

“What do we do now?” asked Adam after what seemed an eternity.

 

“We let him go,” said Ben. “We let him grieve.”

 

“I don’t know, Pa,” said Hoss. “I don’t like this. He ain’t—well, he ain’t actin’ like himself.”

 

“He just saw his best friend buried,” said Ben. “Twenty-four hours ago, they were having themselves a fine old time, and now that boy is dead. I don’t expect that Joe even knows how he feels right now.” He looked from one son to the other. “I’m sure you remember what it was like for you when Marie died,” he said. His third wife had died just as suddenly as Sam Munson. Her horse stumbled and fell, and she died of a broken neck in her husband’s arms, barely ten yards from their front door.

 

But Adam shook his head. “I had two little brothers to take care of,” he said. “I didn’t have the luxury of worrying about how I felt. I was numb, just going from one task to the next. It wasn’t until later that it began to sink in.”

 

Hoss nodded. “Little Joe didn’t know what was happening, so he kept pestering me to tell him,” he said. “All I mainly remember from that first week was feeling scared that I was gonna let you and Mama down by not protectin’ him from what was going on.” He sipped his water, remembering. “Then, when he started to understand, he just kept cryin’ and cryin’, and that was when I finally cried, too.”

 

“But it’s different, Pa,” said Adam. “Losing a parent—there’s nothing that compares with that.”

 

“I know,” said Ben. He refrained from telling them that losing a wife—lover, companion, beloved, friend—compared, and then some. Hopefully, they would never have to find this out for themselves. He forced himself back to his original point. “But this kind of sudden loss of someone you love—it takes time just to get your balance back after that, never mind trying to have civil conversations.”

 

“Jake Munson seemed to be handling matters very well today,” commented Adam as he refilled his coffee cup. He held up the pot in question, but Ben and Hoss both shook their heads.

 

“Jake Munson is a very strong man,” said Ben. “And he’s older, and wiser, than your young brother.” He drained his coffee cup and stood. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t be keeping a close eye on Little Joe. I’m just saying that this is all new for him, and we need to give him some room to sort things out.”

 

“I reckon you’re right, Pa,” said Hoss reluctantly.

 

Adam shrugged, also rising. “I guess there’s not much else we can do.”

 

Ben smiled. “Don’t worry,” he said. “He’s going to be fine. Now, why don’t the two of you get back out and finish those fences? Maybe if there’s time, you can even look around for a few strays.”

 

The older Cartwright brothers exchanged a quick look and a smile. They knew what “strays” their father was interested in finding.

 

“Sure thing, Pa,” said Adam. “Come on, Younger Brother.”

 

Ben watched his elder sons head out. As the door closed behind them, his smile faded. He knew all too well the kind of ache in Little Joe’s heart. And even though he knew he was right about giving the boy space to grieve, everything in him wanted to go after his son and hold him as tightly as he could.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Laughter and shouts, hoofbeats and firecrackers, filled the hot summer air. Clem Watson was trying to be heard as he explained the course for the Founders Day race. “Out of town on C Street, out to that old oak tree half a mile outside of town that got struck by lightning last year, go around it with the tree on your right, and back here by the same route. Everybody ready?”

 

Adam sat lightly in the black horse’s saddle, his eyes fixed on Clem so intently that no one would have known how much he’d have given to be cheering this horse to victory from the sidelines.

 

The sidelines which, by the way, included just about every spectator in town except his youngest brother.

 

Joe had spent all summer training this horse for the race. At least once a day, Ponderosa hands saw the mare racing along the road, Little Joe bent low over her neck. He’d gone on and on about how fast she was until his brothers threatened to dunk him in the horse trough if he didn’t shut up. Unflapped, he’d entered her in the race the day entries opened, cautioning them to get their bets in early if they wanted to win big on her.

 

But a week later, Sam Munson drowned. After that, if Joe rode the mare again, no one saw him. A few days passed, and Adam took to working her, hoping that Joe would show an interest if he saw someone else riding her—dog in the manger, and all that. But if Joe knew or cared that Adam was riding the little black horse, he gave no sign.

 

A couple nights earlier, on a day when Joe actually came home for supper, Ben asked casually if the mare was ready for the race. “I saw you riding her this afternoon,” he said to Adam. “She’s looking mighty fine.”

 

“I think she’ll hold her own,” said Adam, carefully not looking at his youngest brother. “Of course, she’s a little on the small side, but she seems to be all right with me riding her.”

 

Hoss was never any good at subterfuge. “Hey, Joe, mebbe you should ride her,” he said. “I bet she’d be sure to win then.”

 

Joe looked up briefly from his untouched plate. “I don’t think so,” he said.

 

“You know, if you wanted to ride her in the race, it would be all right with me,” ventured Adam.

 

Joe favored him with the briefest of glances. “You go ahead,” he said. “I don’t reckon I’m going to be there anyway.”

 

“Where are you planning to be?” asked Ben. His voice was deliberately steady as he tried to mask his alarm.

 

“Not in town,” said Joe simply. He laid down his fork. “May I be excused?”

 

“You’ve barely eaten anything,” said Ben. It had become the common state of affairs. The boy’s shirts were starting to hang off his skinny shoulders.

 

“I ate plenty,” said Joe. “I don’t want anything else.”

 

“Hop Sing made peach pie,” offered Hoss hopefully. “First peaches of the season. It smelled mighty good.”

 

“You can have my piece,” said Joe. “I’m not hungry.” He looked to his father, clearly unwilling to ask twice.

 

Ben watched his son. Fourteen years old. Neither hay nor grass, boy nor man. Still, too old to be forced to stay at the table until he cleaned his plate, but that was exactly what Ben wanted to tell him: You can’t leave the table until you finish your supper. He supposed he was fortunate that his early attempts to drill manners in the boy had succeeded enough that Joe was still asking, rather than simply leaving, but the request meant little if there was no reasonable way to deny it.

 

In the next instant, Ben had made up his mind. He looked from Adam to Hoss. “Would you two excuse us, please? Your brother and I need to talk.”

 

“Of course,” said Adam, rising. Hoss looked apprehensively from his father to his brother, but neither noticed.

 

The front door closed behind them, and still Joe hadn’t looked up from his plate. “Joseph,” said Ben. “Joe, look at me.” Joe looked up, watery defiance in his eyes. Not all that long ago, those eyes would have flashed fire. Ben reached out and laid his hand on the boy’s arm. “I know you’re hurting,” he said. “Believe me, I know how you feel.”

 

Little Joe looked startled, as if this was the last thing he’d expected to hear. For just an instant, his chin quivered, and Ben wondered if he might finally talk. But in the next moment, Joe had himself in hand again.

 

“Then you know that I just want to be left alone,” he said. “It’s nothing against you or Hoss or Adam. I just—I just need to be by myself for a while.” He took up his fork and stabbed at the piece of pork on his plate, conveniently moving his arm from his father’s reach.

 

“It’s not good to shut yourself off from everyone,” Ben said. “We care about you, and we want to help you.”

 

“You left after Mama died,” said Little Joe. It sounded like an accusation.

 

Ben drew a deep breath as he nodded his acknowledgement. “That’s true,” he admitted. “I shouldn’t have done it, but I did. And you and your brothers paid a heavy price for that.”

 

“I want to go away,” said Joe as if his father hadn’t spoken. He laid down his fork, waiting.

 

“No,” said Ben. The boy bristled, but before he could argue, Ben said, “I need you here now. We’ve got too much work to do, and we can’t spare anybody.”

 

Joe met his father’s eyes hard. “If I’d been the one to die, you’d have managed.”

 

Only by a massive effort did Ben keep his face immobile and his voice steady. “We wouldn’t have had a choice,” he said. “But, thank God, we do have a choice, and we need you here.” He reached again for Joe’s arm, and this time, he held firm. “Talk to me, boy,” he said. “Something’s eating at you, and it’s more than just Sam dying.” He waited, but Joe remained silent. “We’ve never had a problem talking before,” he said. “Tell me. What’s tearing you apart now?”

 

“Nothing.” Joe tried to pull his arm away, but his father held firm.

 

“It was an accident,” said Ben. “It wasn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could have done differently that would have changed what happened.” Joe closed his eyes, and for a moment, Ben thought that the dam might finally break.

 

But in the next instant, Little Joe was in control again. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “May I just be excused?”

 

Defeated, Ben nodded. He released Joe’s arm, and the boy leapt to his feet. As he reached the corner, Ben said, “Joseph.” His son stopped, half-turning back. “Don’t be late. We’ve got a lot of work to do in the morning.”

 

“Yes, sir.” The door slammed behind Little Joe, and Ben dropped his head into his hands. Maybe—just maybe—the boy would come to the race anyway. At this point, it was all he could think of to tempt his son back to normalcy.

 

And now, Adam was astride the little black mare. Ben forced himself to smile and call out encouragement, but they all knew it was a lost race. Adam was too big for that horse. She needed a rider who was smaller and lighter if she was to run her fastest race. She needed Little Joe.

 

Don’t we all, Ben reflected. He looked up as Hoss joined him.

 

“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him,” the big man said.

 

“Well, he said he wasn’t going to be here,” said Ben as if he, too, hadn’t been hoping.

 

“I reckon he told the truth,” said Hoss. He lifted his voice, calling out, “Come on, Adam, you ride that little mare!”

 

Adam touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement. As Clem raised his gun, Adam returned his focus to the race. He knew he didn’t have the chance of a snowball in July, but Joe wasn’t going to be able to say that he hadn’t done his best.

 

The pistol cracked, and the horses leapt forward. The crowd cheered as the hooves thundered through the streets, leaving the town behind as they headed out to the oak tree.

 

Adam kicked the mare’s sides, nudging her forward. She was a fast little thing, all right. If she’d had Joe riding her, she might well have won this race. He brought her up on the right-hand side of the road so that she’d have the shortest track around the tree.

 

As they curved around the tree, Adam looked up to make sure he had room, and he caught sight of something. He couldn’t be sure—it had all happened too fast—but he’d have sworn he saw someone small and slight standing in the shadows of the trees, some fifty feet away. He couldn’t have said who it was, but his heart pounded at the thought that, just maybe, his little brother had come after all.

 

“Come on, girl!” he yelled, kicking for all he was worth. He hollered like Indians were following him as he bent low over the mare’s neck, not caring about the dust flying or the sun hot on his back. If Joe had indeed come out for the race, he was by God going to see a race worth coming out for.

 

The noise of the hooves increased as they raced through the town. The finish line was in sight now. “Come on, girl, come on!” Adam shouted over the cheers of the crowd. Sweat was dripping in his eyes, but he didn’t dare take time to wipe it away. The cheers became a solid wall of sound, and he slowed the mare, his chest heaving nearly as hard as her flanks.

 

“Congratulations, son!” Ben shook Adam’s hand, grinning broadly. “Remarkable race!” He petted the horse’s sweaty neck.

 

“Dadburnit it, I never thought you was gonna do it!” Hoss pounded his brother’s arm delightedly. “When I saw you come flyin’ in like that, I thought mebbe you’d seen a ghost!”

 

Adam looked from his father to his brother. For a moment, he didn’t want to say anything. Then, he said, “Maybe I did.” At their perplexed looks, he said, “I’m not sure—but I thought that, just maybe, I saw Joe out near the oak tree.”

 

Ben’s face lit up. “You really think it might have been him?”

 

Adam rested his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I don’t know,” he said. “I just saw him for a second, but—well, whoever it was was the right size, and he was back in the shadows like he didn’t want anybody to see him. So yes, it might have been Joe.”

 

“There, you see? I knew he’d come back!” Hoss pounded on Adam’s arm again.

 

“Hey, would you stop that?” Adam rubbed his arm. “I’ve got to rub this horse down.” He swung out of the saddle and loosened the cinch. He looked again from his brother to his father. “I’m not sure,” he said again.

 

“But it might have been Joe,” said Ben. Please, let it have been Little Joe.

 

“It might have been,” Adam conceded. He led the horse through the streets as bets were paid off, men drifted back into saloons, and Ben and Hoss stood in the midst of it all, wondering and hoping.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Joe stood beside the tree long after the riders had headed back into town. So, Adam was in the lead. Good for him. He’d been griping about being too big for Jewel, but the little horse was tougher than she looked.

 

Not until after the judges who were to supervise the turn had set themselves in their buggy and headed back to town did Joe move from his hiding place. He wondered how the race turned out. He wondered if Adam had made good on his attempt to win.

 

Slowly, he stepped into the stirrup and settled himself in the saddle. Once upon a time, before Sam drowned, Joe used to swing-mount all the time, his boots never touching the stirrups until he was seated. Now, he didn’t feel up to such a strenuous act. He just mounted like everybody else. No reason not to.

 

He watched the road into town. The dust behind the riders and the buggy had settled. It occurred to him that, if he were to go into town, he could find his father and brothers. Regardless of how the race had turned out, they’d be pleased to see him. He closed his eyes, picturing their delight if he came riding up. Then, he opened his eyes and urged Cochise in the other direction, away from town. He just couldn’t do it. Too much work.

 

He hadn’t planned it, but he found himself heading down toward the lake. If Sam hadn’t died, there might have been a whole group of them there—Charlie and Seth, Billy and Albert, Enos and Clyde, along with Joe and Sam. Depending on what everybody was able to finagle, they might even have had some girls there—Mary Beth and Harriet and Daisy and Flossie. They were good girls, adventurous but still ladies, and while nothing untoward would have taken place, their presence would have made the unchaperoned party something unusual and exciting and even a little bit dangerous, if only because every last one of them would have been tanned something fierce if their pas had found out.

 

But nobody was here now, because Sam was dead. All their friends had been at the funeral, and Joe knew they’d all wanted to ask questions, but he’d managed to avoid them. He didn’t know what to say, anyway. What was there to say? They both jumped into the water, but Joe was alive and Sam was dead. It was the kind of truth that made a man’s blood run cold, because there wasn’t a thing he could do about it, before or since.

 

Cochise picked his way carefully down the trail to the familiar clearing. Joe dismounted, looping the pinto’s reins around a branch and loosening his cinch. The horse’s gentle snort brought the slightest hint of a smile to the boy’s lips. He ruffled the coarse hair of the pinto’s mane, and then he started down the path to the shore.

 

It looked almost exactly as it had four weeks earlier. The green of summer was giving way to reds and yellows and browns, and the path was nearly covered in fallen leaves, but nothing else had changed. The breeze still rustled the remaining leaves. The waves still lapped at the shore. He saw the rock where Adam had set him and wrapped the blanket around him and someone had given him whiskey as they waited for Hoss to bring Sam’s body out of the water. He sat on that rock now, and it took a minute before he understood that he was waiting for a different ending this time.

 

“Why?” Joe wasn’t usually one to talk to himself, especially out loud, but there was nobody to hear. He thought again of the freckle-faced boy with straight dark hair and piercing blue eyes who was so fearless.

 

The first time Sam had suggested jumping from that tree, they’d been twelve and Sam thought it sounded like great fun. He’d chortled at Little Joe’s flimsy excuses until Joe had no choice but to climb up after him. Then, once they were up on the branch, Joe looked down, and terror clutched his throat.

 

“I can’t do it,” he squeaked. He clutched the trunk of the tree.

 

“Sure, you can,” said Sam. “You just gotta get out far enough on the branch, and then you jump. Go feet first, and you’ll be fine.”

 

“I can’t.” Joe was shaking. He’d never been up so high in a tree. He didn’t like high places anyway, and jumping out of a perfectly good tree sounded like the stupidest damned thing in the world. He stole a quick glance down. His stomach lurched, and he squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could.

 

“Come on, Joe,” said Sam. “I’ll jump if you will.”

 

“I can’t!” Even his voice was shaking now. He didn’t care if Sam thought he was a baby. He’d never been so scared in his life.

 

Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Joe,” said Sam. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

 

He could feel tears leaking out from under his closed lids. “Leave me alone,” he whispered.

 

“Sorry, can’t do that,” said Sam matter-of-factly. “Let’s sit down.” Astounded, Little Joe opened his eyes. With a grace and agility Joe could only dream of, Sam sat down on the branch. “Come on, sit down,” he urged. “Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”

 

Ever so slowly and awkwardly, clinging to the trunk and with Sam holding onto him, Joe lowered himself to sit on the branch. Once settled, he was afraid to move. Out of the corner of his eye, he said, “What do we do now?”

 

“We sit here and relax,” said Sam. A fellow would have thought Sam was sitting on that bench in front of the barber shop for all he seemed to care.

 

They sat in the tree for what seemed like a long time. The breeze rustled through the branches, and Joe startled when a bird darted in front of his face. Finally, Sam said, “What do you want to do?”

 

Joe rested his head miserably against the trunk. “I don’t know,” he lied. He did know. He wanted to be on the ground, safe and secure. He just didn’t know how to manage it.

 

“You’ve jumped from the rocks out there,” Sam pointed out. “This ain’t that much higher.”

 

“But those are rocks,” said Little Joe. “That ain’t like a branch!”

 

“’Cause you can fall off a branch?” suggested Sam. Joe bit his lip and nodded. “Tell you what,” said Sam. “We’ll jump together. That way, neither one of us falls off.”

 

“Or we both do,” said Joe, uncomfortably aware that he sounded like Adam.

 

“Well, I ain’t gonna fall off, so if you hold onto me, you won’t fall, either,” said Sam logically. He rested a hand on Joe’s shoulder and pushed up to a standing position, reaching as he did for the branch above him. “What do you think? Wanna try it?”

 

Joe sat still for a minute. Sam was trying to hard to make it his choice, but the fact was that he couldn’t climb down the way he’d come. The only way to get down was to jump. Cursing his idiocy in making this climb in the first place, Joe clung to the trunk as he got to his feet. “You’d better not let go,” he warned.

 

“I won’t,” Sam promised. “Hold onto me with your right hand and the branch over your head with your left.” Joe did so. “Now, come with me out on the branch, and whatever you do, don’t look down until I say to. Got it?”

 

“Got it,” whispered Little Joe. Please, God, don’t let me die, he thought. He gripped Sam’s hand tightly as they edged out toward the water.

 

Finally, Sam turned to him. “You ready?”

 

Joe managed a weak grin. “No, but let’s go.”

 

“On three, and make sure you jump out toward the middle of the lake, not straight down, and take a big breath before you hit the water” said Sam. “Ready? One, two, THREE!”

 

And then, they were plummeting down, down, down. Frothy bubbles churned all around them, and Joe kicked and fought like a madman, working his way up to the surface. When at last he broke through, he took in the cool, moist air as if he’d been deprived of it for days.

 

“So? What did you think?” Sam grinned triumphantly, his hair almost hiding his eyes.

 

Joe hauled off and slugged Sam in the arm. “That’s what I think,” he said flatly.

 

Sam just laughed. “You had fun,” he accused, rubbing his arm. “Admit it. You liked it.”

 

“I’d never say any such thing,” insisted Little Joe, but somehow, Sam was right. Being up in the tree had nearly scared the stuffing out of him, but something about the jump itself made his heart pound in a way that had nothing to do with being afraid. He slugged Sam again, and once more for good measure. Then, he said, “Want to do it again?”

 

And Sam laughed and laughed, and the two friends started the swim back to shore.

 

“I shouldn’t have let him go back up,” Joe said aloud. “It was my fault.”

 

“He was pretty headstrong,” came a voice from behind. Joe’s head shot around, and he saw Sam’s pa standing there, half-smiling the same way Sam used to.

 

Joe scrambled to his feet. “Sorry, Mr. Munson, I didn’t know you were there,” he said.

 

“Sit, sit,” said Mr. Munson. He lowered himself to sit on one of the logs, and Joe resumed his seat on the rock, watching the older man.

 

“Sam loved water,” Mr. Munson said presently. “From the time he was a little thing, he was always trying to get into water. The only child I ever knew who liked to take a bath.” He gazed out over the lake, its surface gently rippled in the breeze. “He was barely old enough to walk when I taught him how to swim,” he mused. “His mother thought he was too young, but you’re never too young to learn how to swim.” A hawk soared overhead, its wings motionless. Almost too low for Joe to hear, Sam’s pa said, “I thought if he knew how to swim, he’d be safe in the water.”

 

Joe swallowed hard. He wanted to say something—anything—to reassure Sam’s pa that Sam hadn’t died because of anything his pa had or hadn’t done. It wasn’t your fault. The words chased around in his brain, but he couldn’t make himself say them out loud.

 

Finally, Jake Munson pressed his hands on his knees to get to his feet. “I should be getting home,” he said. “And so should you. Your pa will be worried.”

 

Joe shook his head as he stood. “Pa’s in town for the celebration,” he said. “He won’t be looking for me.”

 

“Don’t be so sure,” said Mr. Munson. “Go home, Little Joe.” He adjusted his hat and moved stiffly as he mounted his horse and rode off.

 

The air was cool and the sun was setting when Joe finally forced himself to tighten Cochise’s cinch and step into the stirrup. If Pa and his brothers were at home, he’d missed supper, but they might not be home from town yet. He hoped they’d stayed. They deserved to have a nice day.

 

When he came into view of the house, he reined in his horse. Warm, welcoming lights shown from nearly every window. The house beckoned him to come and sit, to surrender to its comfort and safety. It all but promised him that within its walls, all would be well.

 

Except that Joe knew better. There was no truly safe place, not really. No matter where you went or what you did, good people died, and the best anybody could do wasn’t good enough.

 

“I thought if he knew how to swim, he’d be safe in the water.”

 

Poor Mr. Munson, Joe thought. It was so clear now. Sam shouldn’t have died. It was a terrible, horrible mistake. It shouldn’t have been Sam.

 

It should have been Joe.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Ben was pouring coffee as Hoss came down the stairs. The big man took his place at the breakfast table, accepting the coffee pot with a grunt of thanks.

 

“He ain’t in his room,” he said without preamble.

 

“I know,” said Ben wearily. He’d checked on his way downstairs.

 

“Did he even come home last night?” asked Adam as he spooned eggs onto his plate.

 

“Eventually,” said Ben. He’d waited up for his wayward son. When Little Joe finally came in, it was nearly eleven o’clock, and they were both too tired to have it out.

 

Whatever this was, it had to stop. The boy was wearing himself to a frazzle doing heaven only knew what. He was out of the house before the others were up, and half the time, he didn’t come in until they were asleep. He’d honored his father’s prohibition against going away, but in letter only—he was here, but he might just as well not have been. He did the tasks assigned to him, but he did his utmost to stay as far away from everyone else as he could manage, and he was as terse as he could be without being downright rude.

 

Nothing seemed to bring him any pleasure. Time was when Little Joe Cartwright would have spent his spare time whooping down at the corral, breaking broncs or cheering on those who did, and then he’d have gone off to visit friends or maybe spark a girl. Instead, he watched with dull eyes as other hands broke the broncs, and he didn’t seem to care if he got a chance or not. He turned down all invitations to accompany anybody to town. If he’d even spoken to a girl, nobody knew of it. After church on Sundays, where he’d once been the despair of his father with his unabashed flirting right in front of the house of the Lord, he stood silently beside the buggy until his family was ready to go, barely acknowledging any greetings and initiating none.

 

They’d tried to talk to him, all of them, but they’d gotten nowhere. Ben tried to think of somewhere he might send Joe to get away—maybe to an old friend who might welcome a young visitor—but he couldn’t think of anyone who was equipped to handle the boy when he was in this frame of mind.

 

“You figure you’ll finish those fences up at Buckhorn Meadow this week?” Ben asked as he poured himself a second cup of coffee.

 

“Depends,” said Adam. At his father’s raised eyebrow, he clarified, “On whether Joe’s around to help.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Ben set down his cup. “Hasn’t he been doing his work?”

 

Hoss shot a glare at Adam. “Mostly,” he said. “But he’s been helpin’ out over at Munsons’ a fair bit, too, so he ain’t always around.”

 

“I didn’t know that,” said Ben. “He hasn’t said anything about it to me.”

 

“He hasn’t said anything to anybody,” said Adam. “We only found out because Jake Munson happened to mention it last week when we ran into him in town. I guess Joe’s been trying to help him pick up the slack by doing some of Sam’s chores.”

 

Ben considered this as he bit into a piece of toast. His first instinct was to be proud of his son for helping out, but somehow, this news had a darker feel. “How long has he been going over there?”

 

Adam shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “Jake just mentioned it in passing—he seemed to think we knew. Said he hoped it was okay that Joe was spending so much time there and that he appreciated the help until he can hire somebody. I guess Robbie and Susan are trying, but they’re just too young to do some of what Joe’s doing.”

 

Hoss nodded. “If I remember right, I think Robbie’s only about eight, and Susie’s maybe a year older. They couldn’t do the kind of work Sam and Joe could do, not yet.”

 

Ben drained his coffee cup. “Well, if they need the help and Joe’s willing, I don’t suppose there’s anything we can say,” he commented. “Let me know how far you get on those fences. If we need to, we can send another man up there with you.”

 

“Pa.” Hoss’s normally genial expression was somber. “How long you figure we should let him keep goin’ over there?”

 

Ben looked from one son to the other. He saw his own discomfort mirrored in their faces. There was something about Joe spending so much time at the Munsons’ that just didn’t feel right, especially with the boy keeping it a secret. And yet, how could they object? Little Joe wanted to help a neighbor who needed him. How could they say he shouldn’t go?

 

“You said that Jake’s looking to hire, right?” he asked. At Adam’s nod, he said, “Once he finds somebody, he won’t be needing Joe anymore. So, I suppose we should just let Joe keep going over there until Jake hires a new hand.” He folded his napkin and rose, adding, “I’m heading into town this morning. If I hear of anybody looking for work, I may be able to steer them over to Jake.”

 

Hoss frowned as he dropped his napkin on the table. “Pa, it ain’t that we don’t think Joe should be helping out,” he said as he stood. “It’s just—” Words failed the big man, and he looked helplessly to his older brother, who shrugged.

 

“I know,” said Ben. There was something disconcerting, almost macabre, in the notion of Joe stepping into Sam’s place this way. He shook his head quickly to dispel such thoughts. His boy wanted to help, and that was admirable. He would focus on that.

 

And hopefully, he would find a new man for the Munsons, and Joe would come home.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

“Okay, put it on,” said Jake Munson. Quickly, Joe slid the wheel onto the wagon axle and slipped the pin in place to hold it. With a grunt, Jake set down the wagon. He straightened, wiping his hands on his leather apron. “Well, Little Joe, I’m much obliged for your help,” he said. He looked up at the sun, assessing the passage of the morning. “I suppose it’s time for you to head over to the Ponderosa.”

 

“I can stay here and give you a hand if you need one,” said Joe quickly. He turned to pick up the tools, adding, “I’m sure there are enough hands to take care of everything over there.” Jake didn’t say anything, and Joe turned to face him. “I can stay here as long as you need me,” he said.

 

Jake Munson eyed the boy. As much as he appreciated the help, he couldn’t get past the feeling that there was more going on here than just a neighbor helping out. For nearly three weeks, ever since he’d met up with Joe down at the lake, Joe had been over here at all sorts of odd times, doing the chores that Sam used to do, and more. He was helping Robbie get that calf ready for the fair, and he praised Susan’s clumsy attempts at pie-baking to high heaven. Almost like he was their big brother, Jake reflected.

 

The thought stabbed his heart. A man never got used to losing a child, but when it was his first-born, his son, the one who was to follow in his footsteps . . . well, he figured that was probably the worst. Everything about the first one was etched in his memory. Ella whispering in his ear that she was with child. Pacing on the porch until he heard the infant’s indignant cry. Those unfocused slate-blue eyes in that red wrinkled face. Watching the baby turn into a little boy who stumbled after him, wanting to do everything his pa did. Listening to his chatter as they milked cows and repaired the chicken coop and cleaned out the barn. Reaching out his hand so Sam could place in it the nails or tools that he needed to shoe a horse or fix a door or do any of a thousand other ranch chores. Holding Sam in front of him in the saddle, and then walking beside the pony as his boy learned to balance. Watching as Sam did all the same things with his little brother and sister.

 

Teaching Sam to swim.

 

Jake didn’t realize that he’d just been standing there, not saying anything, until Little Joe said, “Mr. Munson?”

 

Jake swallowed hard. He knew the boy meant well, and Lord knew, he needed the help. Still, every time he laid eyes on Little Joe Cartwright, he couldn’t help but be reminded that Joe was alive and Sam wasn’t. Like he didn’t have enough reminders already, every time he looked around and his boy wasn’t there. The empty place at the table. The unused cot in the corner of the other bedroom. The saddle that had grown dusty. The look in his wife’s eyes.

 

“I’m fine here, Joe,” he said. It wasn’t Joe’s fault, after all. “You go on back to the Ponderosa and take care of your own chores. We’ll be fine here.”

 

“But I can—”

 

“Go home, Little Joe,” said Jake Munson. Neither his words nor his tone were unkind, but the boy’s face fell, and it was all Jake could do not to concoct some other chore just so that he could stay. But that wouldn’t be good for anybody. They all needed to move on.

 

And so, he said, “We’re done here, boy. It’s time for you to be getting on home.” He patted Joe’s shoulder. “I thank you for your help. Now, you go on.”

 

“Yes, sir.” Little Joe’s voice was barely audible, but Jake Munson nodded his thanks and picked up the bucket of grease, signaling that the conversation was over.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Joe didn’t know why he went down to the lake instead of heading off to find his brothers. There was work to do, and he knew it. But instead of heading up to Buckhorn Meadow, he found himself riding down the trail to the lake.

 

I’ll just stay a minute, he promised himself. He dismounted and loosened Cochise’s cinch, and the pinto blew out his breath as he dropped his head to graze.

 

The sun on the water was so bright that it was like somebody was holding a mirror out there. He squinted, but it did little to soften the light. Without thinking, he settled himself on the rock that had become his habitual seat, and he gazed into the blinding light as though it was some form of penance.

 

But it was only a few minutes before he closed his eyes, dropping his head. He rubbed his closed lids in an attempt to soothe his aching eyes. Fool, he thought. Now, he’d probably end up with a headache that would plague him all day long, giving everybody one more reason to look at him like there was something wrong.

 

The sound of hooves behind him startled him upright. He turned to see a pretty little bay pony approaching. As the horse came through the trees, he saw that the rider was a lovely red-haired girl, and his breath caught.

 

Hannah Sorenson.

 

“Hello, Little Joe,” she said.

 

“Hi, Hannah,” he said, getting to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I just wanted to go for a ride,” she said. “Help me down?”

 

“Of course.” He reached up and lifted her from her sidesaddle. She barely came up to his nose, and she was so finely built that it almost seemed as though a man could tuck her into his pocket. Her eyes were a vibrant blue, and her curls a soft red-gold. The tiniest smattering of freckles dusted her nose. Her smile was wide and sweet and could stop a man’s heart.

 

She’d been Sam’s girl.

 

Well, not exactly. Sam had been sweet on her, but he’d never gotten too far in letting her know that he wanted to court her. Joe had pushed him to ask her to a dance, to sit beside her at the church picnic, to ask permission to take her for a drive, but Sam had had one excuse after another. He was perfectly at ease with any other girl, but around Hannah, he got so tongue-tied that he could barely manage a cordial “Good afternoon.”

 

Little Joe had never been certain whether Hannah knew of Sam’s feelings. Of course, it seemed to Joe that anybody with the slightest sense must have known, but Hannah never seemed either to encourage or discourage him. She was just as pleasant with Sam as she was with Joe and any other boy, and there was no way to know whether she favored anybody at all.

 

Now, as they stood together by the lake, all of Joe’s social graces seemed to have flown away like the bird taking flight from the tree above their heads. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Finally, he said, “Nice day, isn’t it?”

 

Oh, that’s great, Cartwright. She’s going to think you’re brilliant.

 

“It’s lovely,” Hannah agreed. Her cheeks pinkened ever so slightly. She turned away from Joe, walking over toward the water’s edge. “It’s very pretty here,” she offered.

 

“Thanks,” said Joe. It was as though he’d forgotten almost every word he’d ever known.

 

Without turning to look at him, she said, “This is where Sam died, isn’t it?”

 

He felt like she’d kicked him in the stomach. “Yeah,” he managed after a minute.

 

She turned to Joe then. “Do you come down here a lot?”

 

Joe nodded. The last thing in the world he wanted to do was to talk to Sam’s girl about Sam’s death. He was about to say he had to go, but she was still talking.

 

“I heard about it,” she said. “It must have been awful for you.” She rested one small gloved hand on his chest. “I heard how you kept looking for him and how your brother finally found his body. You were such a good friend to Sam. It must have been so terrible for you.” Her blue eyes held his green ones, and he felt powerless to speak or to move.

 

Then, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the lips.

 

Shock jolted him like a lightning strike. He stared at her, and she cocked her head with a small smile.

 

“I’ve always wanted to do that,” she said. “I’ve always liked you, ever since we were nine and you carried my lunch pail for me.”

 

“You did?” He didn’t remember carrying her lunch pail, any more than he remembered ever having the slightest reason to believe she’d wanted to kiss him.

 

Her smile grew wider. “Of course, silly,” she said. “Didn’t you ever want to kiss me?”

 

He didn’t know what to say. His hand reached out to caress her cheek, and she took it as an invitation to lean in and kiss him again. This time, her arms went around his neck, and she kissed him until he began to kiss her back. His hands rested on her back, pulling her to him, and she nestled in his arms as they kissed.

 

Finally, she drew back. “That was nice,” she said, sounding utterly content. Joe nodded, but then she continued, “We could never have done that before.”

 

He blinked like he was still staring into the sun. “Before what?”

 

“Well—before—I mean—well, you know that Sam liked me, and even though they say all’s fair in love and war, I knew you would never kiss me as long as you thought Sam wanted to, but now—” She broke off at the expression on his face.

 

Because as he stared at this pretty girl, Joe was suddenly overwhelmed by an urge to grab her and shake her. How dare she come here and stand on the shore by the lake where Sam died and talk about how it was a good thing Joe’s best friend was dead because now she could kiss Joe? What would she have done if Joe had died instead of Sam? Would she have come here and kissed Sam and talked about how nice it was that Joe was out of the way?

 

“Sam was the best person in the world, and you don’t deserve him.” Joe’s voice was shaking, and he swallowed hard to hold in his rage. “Get on your horse, ride out of here, and never, ever come back. Do you understand?” He clenched his fists as fury coursed through him.

She stood open-mouthed before him. “Go!” he shouted, and she turned and ran for her horse.

 

He stood still, head bowed, as he listened to her ride away. That little tramp. How dare she come here with such intentions? And yet, what was he? The girl Sam liked appeared in front of him, and with barely a word, there he stood, kissing her. If the tables had been turned, Sam would never have done such a thing to Joe. Sam would have been a good, loyal friend. Not like Joe. Joe let his friend die, and then he kissed his girl.

 

Joe sank to his knees on the damp ground. He folded in on himself, clasping his head in his hands. It made no sense, none of it. Sam was dead, and Joe was alive. Why? They both jumped from the same branch. Why wasn’t Joe the one who was dead? Why wasn’t it Sam standing by the lake, kissing Hannah Sorenson?

 

And why didn’t anybody else seem to care? Didn’t they realize the wrong person had died? How could they not understand? They all went about their days just like nothing had happened, talking and working and kissing people. Could Joe truly be the only one who knew there had been a terrible mistake? How else to explain why Sam, who’d been swimming since he could walk and who had jumped out of that tree a hundred times, drowned?

 

He didn’t realize he’d bowed down so far until he felt the cool mud on his arms and the backs of his hands. Part of him wanted to push down deeper, until he was buried in the mud, gone as he should have been. He and Sam, both gone, joined in death as in life.

 

Almost without thinking, he got to his feet. He shed his hat and boots and socks. Not bothering to undress farther, he began to climb the tree. He hadn’t climbed it since that day, and he’d never done it without Sam there, but he started anyway, feeling the rough bark beneath his hands and feet. He slipped once, and the rough edge of a broken branch cut into the fleshy part of his palm, but he kept going, noticing only that the blood made his grip a bit less secure.

 

It seemed to take a lot longer to climb the tree alone than it had with Sam, but finally, Joe stood on the branch. It didn’t feel as thick as it had before, and for a moment, he couldn’t remember how to reach for the branch above to keep from falling to the ground below. Then, he inched his way up the trunk until he stood straight, and he clutched the branch above.

 

He’d never really looked around from up here. He had no idea how far up he was. Sam had always said not to look down, and so he never had, but Sam was gone and he could look down if he wanted. He didn’t look straight down, but he looked out toward the water which glistened in between the leaves in that fluttered in a thousand different shades of green. He looked back up the hill, and through the branches, he saw a horse and rider. For an instant, his heart clutched at the thought that it might be Hannah returning, but then he saw the buckskin gelding whose stall was next to Cochise’s, and he strained to see whether Pa was looking around or just riding.

 

Even though he stood in the tree, hidden from sight by branches and height, Joe held his breath. Don’t come down here, he begged silently. Leave me alone. He waited, motionless, as the buckskin made its way down the leaf-covered trail to where Joe’s horse was tied as though there was a chance they wouldn’t notice the pinto if Joe didn’t move.

 

“Joseph!” called Pa. His commanding voice echoed across the water. “Joseph! Can you hear me?”

 

Leave me alone, he implored. Go home.

 

“Joseph!” Pa’s voice was sharp and authoritative. “Where are you?”

 

Joe watched as Pa’s horse picked its way through the tangle of brush near the clearing. He thought about calling out to Pa—but why? What earthly good would it do? So Pa would know he was here—so? What could possibly be gained by that?

 

He peered down, and so he saw what Pa did not: the rabbit darting through the bushes. In the next instant, it was nearly under Buck’s hooves, and the horse startled and stumbled, and Pa fell from the saddle and cried out once as he rolled down the slope, coming to a too-sudden halt against a rock.

 

“Pa!”

 

For an instant, Joe stared at the scene below. Then, hardly realizing what he did, he moved out on the branch and leaped into the lake below. Frantic, he clawed at the water, churning bubbles and kicking violently until he reached the surface. A brief moment to identify the shore, and he was swimming for all he was worth.

 

“Pa!” Joe called again as he gained the shore and scrambled to his feet. “Pa!” What had been so clear from above was a mess of bushes and trees, and he couldn’t recall which path Pa had been on. “Pa!”

 

Then, he spied Buck, and he ran for the horse without noticing the stones and sticks beneath his bare feet. He pushed through the brambles, oblivious to the thorns tearing at his clothes. When he reached the wider portion of the path, he ran as though released from hell itself.

 

Pa lay facedown and unmoving. “Pa!” Joe shouted as he scrambled up the trail, but there was no answer. With shaky fingers, he felt his father’s neck, and it was only when he detected a pulse that he realized he’d been holding his breath. “Pa,” he whispered. Carefully, he turned Pa on his back.

 

Blood trickled from a wound on Pa’s temple. Joe pulled off his wet shirt and wadded it up, pressing it against the wound to stop the bleeding. “It’s okay, Pa,” he said as though his father could hear him. “You’re going to be just fine. I’ll get you home, I promise. You’ll be fine.”

 

Joe didn’t know how long he knelt beside his father, but the shadows were lengthening by the time Pa’s eyes finally opened. “Joe?”

 

“Ssssh,” said Joe. “You’re going to be fine, Pa. I’m going to get you home.” He turned the shirt so that a different, unbloody spot pressed against the wound. “Where do you hurt?”

 

Pa started to try to sit up, but with a cry of pain, he fell back. “My right shoulder,” he said between clenched teeth. “I think—I think it might be out of the joint.”

 

Joe’s stomach lurched at the thought, but he just nodded. Ever so lightly, he ran his fingers over Pa’s shoulder. “I think you’re right,” he said as if he had any idea what he was talking about. “Do you want me to try to put it back, or do you want to let Doc do it?” Please, wait for Doc, he begged silently

 

“You’d better do it.” Pa sounded out of breath, like the pain was taking him over. Joe leaned over him so he wouldn’t have to speak up, and he clenched his teeth, nodding as Pa gave him instructions.

 

It took four tries, and Joe was terrified that he was doing more harm than good with each attempt, when suddenly the arm popped back into the shoulder joint. “Good boy,” Pa managed. Joe started to help him to sit up, but Pa murmured, “Wait.” Joe knelt beside Pa, waiting, and finally Pa said, “Let’s try it.”

 

Pa was taller and broader than Joe, and he probably outweighed his youngest son by fifty pounds or more. Joe did his best to support him as they staggered down to where the horse waited, but the path was uneven, and more than once, the older man’s unsteadiness was enough to drive them both to the ground. Why hadn’t he brought Buck up to where Pa was? “I’m sorry, Pa,” Joe said each time, but it didn’t seem as though Pa even heard him.

 

Afterward, Joe couldn’t have said how he managed to get Pa onto his horse. It was clear that Pa couldn’t ride alone, though, and it was equally clear that Joe didn’t have the strength to hold him if he started to fall off. “Hold on tight,” Joe instructed. He took Pa’s rope and looped it through everything he could think of to secure his father to the saddle. Then, he swung up behind Pa on the buckskin and whistled for Cochise. With Buck’s reins in one hand and Cooch’s in the other and both arms around his father’s waist, Joe clucked to the gold horse, pressing his bare heels against its sides.

 

The ride from the house to the lake was normally less than an hour at an easy lope. At a painstaking walk, it took the better part of three hours. Pa’s head lolled back as he drifted in and out of consciousness, and Joe struggled to keep him upright. More than once, he was grateful for the rope that held his father on the horse. His arms ached more than they ever had in his life, and he could barely feel the reins in his hands.

 

By the time they rode into the yard, Joe felt as if they’d been riding forever. Every inch of him screamed for relief, but he wouldn’t let go. Instead, he said, “We’re home, Pa.” When Pa didn’t move, he stopped Buck and dropped Cochise’s reins. “Don’t worry, Pa, I’ll get you down,” he said. He shifted his right leg to dismount, biting his lip as the cramp in his thigh held it in place. “Hey!” he called. “We need some help here! Somebody! Anybody!”

 

Hoss came out of the house. “What the—Pa!” The big man hustled over to the horse. “What happened?”

 

“His horse spooked,” said Joe. He sat still, holding onto Pa, as Hoss bellowed for help and began to unfasten the rope. Within moments, the yard was full of men, and Hoss was barking instructions as they gently eased Pa off the horse. “Watch his shoulder,” Joe warned. “It was out of joint. I had to put it back.” Hoss nodded, his attention remaining on Pa, and Joe sighed with the relief of handing over the responsibility.

 

Adam rode in just as Hoss and the others were helping Pa into the house. “What happened?” he demanded of Joe, who remained on the back of the buckskin.

 

“His horse spooked,” Joe said again.

 

“Where?” Adam asked as though he already knew.

 

“Down at the lake.” Joe met his eldest brother’s eyes. Yes, he was there because he was looking for me, he said in silent defiance. Yes, it’s my fault he’s hurt. Go ahead, blame me. It’s all my fault.

 

But Adam just shrugged and headed into the house, leaving Joe to slide down from the horse’s broad back on his own. He stifled a yelp as one bare foot landed on a rock; he’d forgotten that his boots were still down at the lake. He leaned against the horse as he tried to work the cramp out of his leg, but his arms and hands were so utterly exhausted that he could barely move his fingers.

 

Please be all right, Pa, he begged. He wanted desperately to go inside, but suddenly, he didn’t dare. If he did, there would be more questions about what Pa was doing, and everyone would know how Pa had been hurt because he was looking for Joe, and so it was all Joe’s fault.

 

With one hand, he bent the fingers of the other around the horses’ reins. Slowly, painfully, he led them into the barn. He bit his lip as he tried to unfasten Buck’s cinch.

 

“You want me to do that?” offered one of the ranch hands. It was one of the new fellows. Joe didn’t know his name.

 

“Thanks,” he murmured.

 

“Rusty went for the doc,” the young cowboy offered as he unsaddled the buckskin.

 

“Good.” All Joe wanted was to curl up and go to sleep, but the rough hay under his feet reminded him he needed to go back and get his boots. “Saddle another horse for me, will you?” He ignored the fellow’s startled look as he tried to flex his fingers. They ached, but they moved a bit more easily now. “I’ll be right back,” he said as he climbed clumsily into the saddle. Before the ranch hand could ask any questions, he was riding back out.

It didn’t take nearly as long to get to the lake. His things were right where he’d left them. He sat down on the moist ground to pull on his socks and boots, but suddenly, he was overwhelmed with how tired he was. Just for a second, he promised himself as he lay back. He tried not to think about Pa, who was so badly hurt because of him. He tried not to think about the look that would burn in his brothers’ eyes when he returned. He stared out at the lake water, which was a soft gray now in the late afternoon light. He couldn’t figure out how one more day had gone so wrong.

 

Just for a second, he thought as he closed his eyes.

 

When he opened them, stars twinkled in the darkness. For a moment, he wasn’t sure where he was. Then, knowledge crashed around him like waves on the shore, and he leaned over, retching. How could he have lain here on the shore, sleeping peacefully, when Pa could have been dying at home? Was there no end to what an awful person he was?

 

He yanked on his socks and boots and hat. He ignored the pain in his foot as he stumbled over to the horse and managed to mount. “Come on,” he muttered, urging the animal up the trail. Please don’t let him be dead, Joe begged.

 

And he deliberately shoved from his mind the memory of the last time he’d stood on this shore and asked for exactly the same thing about Sam.

 

* * * * * * * * * *

 

Adam was sitting in Ben’s chair, book closed in his lap, when Hoss and Joe entered the room. Hoss had been out in the barn when Joe came in. One look at the boy’s face, and Hoss knew the best course of action was just to stay quiet. They’d spent the evening trying to calm Pa whenever he woke up and asked for Joe, and while Hoss had been ready to clobber Joe for not being there, he could see now in his brother’s eyes that it had been better this way. What Pa needed was rest, and Joe looked anything but restful.

 

“He’s asleep,” Adam snapped. “You managed that one just right.”

 

“Adam!” Hoss remonstrated.

 

Joe hadn’t lifted his head. He closed his eyes briefly at his brother’s harsh words. “Don’t worry about it,” he said to Hoss. Then, he looked up, meeting Adam’s hard gaze. “I know what you think of me,” he said quietly.

 

Adam raised an eyebrow. “Really,” he drawled. “Why don’t you just tell me what I think, and we’ll see if you’re right or wrong.”

 

“Ease up, Adam,” said Hoss. The warning in his voice would have made almost any other man back off.

 

“It’s all right, Hoss,” said Little Joe. He faced his eldest brother, his back straight. “You think I’m a coward, that I’m weak for not being here. You think it’s my fault Pa’s hurt. And you think it’s my fault Sam died.” He dropped his eyes, and so he didn’t see Adam’s anger turn to confusion.

 

“What are you talking about?” Adam demanded. “That’s not true, any of it. You’re wrong, Joe.”

 

“I’m not,” said Joe, not looking up. He knew the truth. He’d been living with it for weeks.

 

But Adam was never one to see truth that didn’t agree with his way of thinking. “You’re wrong,” Joe’s brother insisted. “I don’t think any of this is your fault. I know it isn’t. It was an accident, that’s all.” He crossed the room to grab the boy by the shoulders and make him face facts. “Is that what you think? That you’re responsible for Sam’s death?”

 

“Leave me alone!” Joe wrenched himself free of his brother’s grip. Too late, Adam understood the look in Hoss’s eyes.

 

“Joe, listen to me—” Adam began.

 

“I said, leave me alone!” Little Joe drew back his fist to swing at his brother, but Hoss caught his arm.

 

“Easy, now, Little Brother,” he said, as calmly as if he were taming a wild range pony. He held the boy’s arms behind him. Joe’s breathing was harsh and his nostrils were flared. Adam had the good sense not to touch him, but Hoss could see that he wanted to.

 

“Joe, you need to listen to me,” said Adam with deliberate calm. “I don’t know where you got this idea, but you couldn’t be more wrong. Everybody else knows it. Pa knows it. You’re the only one who thinks this.”

 

“No,” said Joe. “Everybody does.”

 

“I don’t,” said Adam. He glanced briefly at Hoss, who shook his head, and Adam nodded to show that he understood. If Hoss released him now, Joe would run back out, into the night. “And none of us do—except, apparently, you.” He stepped closer and rested his hand on the boy’s tense shoulder. He shuddered at how thin his brother had grown in the past few months. There was barely anything to him.

 

“Don’t touch me,” said Joe in a voice that would have been threatening if there had been any chance of following through.

 

Adam lifted his hand, holding up in surrender. He didn’t know what was going on in Joe’s head, but one thing was finally clear to him: in the forest of his grief, Joe had lost his way. What had started out as mourning his friend had turned into something else, and the boy didn’t know any more which was the way out. Adam met the clear, hard green eyes, and he knew in his gut that Little Joe had never cried for Sam.

 

He met Hoss’s eyes, sadness recognizing more sadness. “Let him go,” he said. Hoss looked uncertain, but he released Joe’s arms. Adam hadn’t realized Joe had been pulling at Hoss until their youngest brother almost fell forward when Hoss let go of him. “Joe, we need to talk,” he said as gently as he could. “Come on. Let’s sit down.”

 

Little Joe shook his head. “I want to see Pa,” he said, his voice quivering just a little.

 

“He’s asleep,” said Adam, but his tone was very different from a few minutes earlier. “You can see him in the morning.”

 

“I want to see him now,” said Joe. He was starting to tremble.

 

“Let him sleep—” Adam began.

 

“Come on, Little Brother,” said Hoss, cutting Adam off with a look. He put his arm around the boy’s skinny shoulders. “It’s like I told you—he’s gonna be just fine. You can take a look in, but you can’t stay, ’cause Pa needs to sleep, an’ so do you.” He started to shepherd his brother toward the stairs, but Adam stopped them with a hand on Joe’s shoulder.

 

“I’m serious,” he said. “You’re not responsible for Sam’s death.” Joe kept his gaze focused on the floor, and after a long minute, Adam stepped aside to follow his brothers go upstairs.

 

At the doorway to Ben’s room, Hoss held his finger to his lips. Silently, he opened the door and nodded to Joe.

 

The white bandage wound around Ben’s head gleamed dully in the moonlight. The bandage on his shoulder was barely visible above the top of the quilt. Adam rested his hand against Joe’s back, and he could feel his little brother trembling. The three brothers stood in the doorway for a minute or so before Adam nodded to Hoss, who pulled the door closed again.

 

“See? I told you he was all right,” whispered Hoss. “Now, you get yourself to bed, Little Brother.” When Joe didn’t move, Hoss cupped his chin in his hand as if he were a child again. “You hear me? You get yourself in bed and go to sleep.” Finally, Joe nodded as best he could with his chin being held, and Hoss smiled.

 

Alone in his room, Joe undressed. He was shivering as he hadn’t in weeks; somewhere along the line, he’d stopped feeling so cold. But tonight, he was freezing, just as he’d been the night Sam had drowned. He pulled his nightshirt over his head and climbed into bed, burrowing down under the covers, but he was still cold. He poked his head back out and blew out the lamp, huddling beneath the quilts, but he was shaking so hard he could barely keep his teeth from chattering.

 

Adam said he wasn’t responsible. Adam said they all knew this. How could they know? They weren’t there. They didn’t see both boys jump. Why had Sam died instead of Joe? There had to be a reason—something Joe did or didn’t do. Boys Sam’s age didn’t just up and die. There had to be some explanation.

 

And now, Pa was hurt, because he’d been looking for Joe. If Sam hadn’t died, Joe wouldn’t have been out, and Pa wouldn’t have come looking for him. So, whose fault was it that Pa was hurt? Joe’s, or Sam’s? It couldn’t be Sam’s fault, because Sam was dead. So it had to be Joe’s. It was Joe’s fault that Sam was dead, and it was Joe’s fault that Pa was hurt.

 

And what if Pa died? Hoss said he was all right, but would he have said anything else? Maybe he didn’t even know. Adam hadn’t said anything. Maybe Adam knew something Hoss didn’t.

 

The thoughts chased round and round in Little Joe’s mind until he could feel their frantic fury getting ready to explode. He pulled the covers up over his head, but it didn’t help. He needed . . . . he needed. . . .

 

Without thinking, he threw back the covers, grabbed the top quilt, and made his way to Pa’s room. He opened the door as silently as Hoss had earlier, but this time, he stole inside, closing the door after him. He stood just inside the room, his chest heaving as if he’d been running a long way. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fists, willing the feelings to simmer down, but they were churning his insides into butter.

 

He wrapped the quilt around his shoulders and made his way to the bedside chair. Pa was motionless. For a moment, he felt as if his heart had stopped. Ever so gently, he laid his hand on Pa’s chest. The quiet rise and fall reassured him, at least for now. He sank down into the bedside chair, watching the immobile face in the moonlight.

 

“Pa,” he whispered. Anguish broke his voice. “Pa. . . .” He could feel the hitching in his chest, so hard that it hurt, and he tried to fight it, but it wouldn’t be fought. Like a flock of birds rising as one from the glassy lake, he felt the summer’s agonies rise up in him and finally, finally, spill over. “Pa,” he whispered again, and he bowed his head, clinging to his father’s hand as his grief escaped at last. He tried to choke back his sobs, and he pressed the back of Pa’s hand to his cheek, mindless of the scalding tears that ran over the strong fingers.

 

And then, Pa’s hand turned, and his fingers caressed Joe’s face. “Joseph,” came the deep voice, tired but strong.

 

Joe sat up abruptly. “I’m—I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, Pa—” He choked on his words as tears streamed down his face.

 

“Sssssh,” whispered Ben. “Come here, boy.” He patted the bed beside him and then reached for Joe’s hand. “Come here,” he said again, and Joe moved from the chair to the bed. Ben reached out and drew his son close so that the boy lay with his head on his father’s chest. “That’s it, let it out,” he murmured. He ignored his throbbing shoulder and pounding head as he stroked his son’s curls and felt the boy’s hot tears dampen his bandages.

 

Ben couldn’t have said how long his son wept. He was able to make out some of the words Joe choked out—not all that many, but enough. Bits about Sam, and about Pa, and about being responsible. Ben kept stroking his son’s head and back, making reassuring noises, until at last, Joe was quiet. He was clearly exhausted. Not surprising, Ben reflected: the boy had been holding all this in for a long, long time.

 

“I’m sorry,” Little Joe said, lifting his head. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

“I’m glad you did,” his father said truthfully. He tousled Joe’s disheveled curls. Joe sniffled, wiping his nose on the cuff of his nightshirt, and his father grimaced. “Go and get a handkerchief out of my top drawer,” he added.

 

Holding his quilt around him, Joe padded across the floor and retrieved a handkerchief. He blew his nose and refolded the square, setting it on the washstand. Then, he poured water from the pitcher into the washbowl and splashed it on his face. He dried his face, took the handkerchief, and returned to the bedside chair.

 

“Come up here,” said Ben, patting the side of the bed. He hid a smile at Joe’s hesitation; it was one thing for a fourteen-year-old to fling himself on his father when he was distraught, and quite another to come up on the bed when he was under control. But Ben waited, and after a minute, Joe settled himself on the side of the bed.

 

“How’re you feeling?” his son asked.

 

Ben let himself smile this time. “I’m all right,” he said. His smile faded, and he took his son’s hand. “The bigger question is, how are you feeling?”

 

Joe opened his mouth to say he was all right, but instead, he said, “I don’t know. Cold. I was so scared. I saw you fall, and you’re hurt and it’s all my fault—”

 

“What makes you think that?” Ben furrowed his brow, feeling the bandage tug.

 

The boy sounded perplexed by the question. “You wouldn’t have been out there if you hadn’t been looking for me.”

 

“And you think that makes it your fault,” said Ben slowly. At Joe’s nod, he reached for the boy’s shoulder. “Come closer,” he said when he couldn’t reach. Joe slid closer, and Ben rested his hand on the bony shoulder. “Son, it was an accident,” he said. “It wasn’t anybody’s fault. It could just as easily have happened when I was going into town or heading out to the timber camp or doing any of a dozen other things. Horses get spooked sometimes. It’s nobody’s fault.” He couldn’t see the boy’s eyes in the darkness, and it suddenly frustrated him. “Light the lamp, Joe,” he said. His son obeyed and then settled himself back onto the bed without being told.

 

Ben reached for him again, his hand cradling the boy’s face. “Listen to me, Joseph,” he said. “Things happen in this world that are nobody’s fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault that my horse bolted, any more than it was anybody’s fault when your mother’s horse fell—or when Sam died,” he added gently. Joe stiffened under his hand, and Ben continued, “You’ve been blaming yourself for too long, son. You’ve got to let it go. You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise.”

 

Little Joe swallowed hard. “But—but if it’s not my fault—why did it happen?”

 

“Why did Sam die?” Ben wasn’t sure what made him ask the question—Joe’s words seemed clear enough—but then, Joe shook his head.

 

“Why is he dead instead of me?” The words were lashed with anguish and grief and fear.

 

Ben caught his breath. Oh, my dear boy, he thought. His heart ached at the realization of the burden his son had been carrying. All this time, he’d thought it was simply grief that a young life had ended too soon, the loss of a dear friend, the knowledge that there was nothing to be done except to keep living. He knew those feelings all too well. But never had he suspected this.

 

Joe’s eyes were steady on him now. In the lamplight, a spark of hope glimmered among the pain and apprehension. It was the look that Ben had seen a thousand times—the one that said that no matter how bad things were, Pa could make them all right.

 

Silently, he prayed for wisdom to help a young man through his first real encounter with the kind of loss nobody could make all right. “Joseph,” he began. “There are some questions we just don’t get to know the answers to. . . .”

 

They talked far into the night. Every now and then, tears slid down Joe’s cheeks as if making up for the weeks and weeks they’d been pent up. There were moments when Joe broke down and wept, and other times when he pressed hard for answers, questioning each facet so intently that Ben almost felt as if he were talking with Adam.

 

“I think I know some of how you feel,” Ben admitted at one point. At Joe’s look, skeptical and hopeful, he said, “When Hoss’s mother was killed, I spent a long time wrestling with guilt. It was my dream that had put us square in the middle of Indian trouble. If we hadn’t headed west—if we’d stayed in a civilized little town and been shopkeepers—she could have seen her boy grow up. Instead, she died in a wooden shack with an arrow in her back while Adam and the baby watched, and we marked her grave with a cross made of two sticks tied together. And I thought—it should have been me, not her.” His voice trailed off, remembering the feel of Inger in his arms that last time and how she grew inexplicably lighter as life left her.

 

“Pa.” Joe’s voice broke on the single syllable. He clutched his father’s hand, his head bowed, tears streaming. He’d heard this terrible story before, of course, but it had new meaning now, more than just the tragic loss of a beautiful, innocent person. Beneath his anguish over such senseless deaths as Inger’s and Sam’s was a faint, almost bizarre relief to know that he wasn’t the only one who had ever had such thoughts, that someone as strong as Pa could think this way, too. His shoulders shook as he pressed his father’s hand against his wet cheek.

 

“All I’m saying, son, is that I know how you feel,” he said. He waited, and when at last Joe lifted his head, tears glistening, Ben squeezed his hand and nodded, his own eyes moist.

 

By the time the darkness outside the window was lightening, Joe had stretched out beside his father and was fast asleep, the quilt half-covering him. Ben reached across the boy to turn down the flame on the lamp. He thought briefly of waking Joe so that he could go back to his own room before his brothers woke and found him gone, but suddenly, he was too tired. He rested his hand on his son’s shoulder and closed his eyes.

 

A light tap, and the door opened. Hop Sing entered, carrying a tray. He met Ben’s eyes and nodded, smiling, as he set the tray on the bedside table. The little man had brought two cups of coffee, as well as the sugar and cream that only Little Joe added at breakfast. Ben smiled his thanks as Hop Sing adjusted the quilt that covered the sleeping boy.

 

“Li’l Joe feel better,” whispered Hop Sing.

 

Ben nodded. “I think so.”

 

Hop Sing peered more closely at Ben. “Mister Ben get good rest today,” he ordered, still whispering.

 

“I plan to,” said Ben. Without thinking, he rested his hand on his son’s shoulder, frowning at how thin Joe had grown over the summer.

 

Hop Sing caught his eye. “Hop Sing see that Li’l Joe eat good breakfast,” he promised.

 

“Thank you,” said Ben. They understood each other, he and Hop Sing.

 

Just then, Little Joe stirred, almost falling off the edge of the bed. “Morning, Pa,” he said, catching himself. “Morning, Hop Sing,” he added as he sat up, stretching.

 

Hop Sing poured coffee into the cups and added cream and sugar to one. “You drink,” he said, handing each of them a cup. “Breakfast ready. Hop Sing make big breakfast, Li’l Joe eat lot!”

 

“Wait a minute—” Joe began.

 

Ben chuckled. “I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, son,” he said. “This was all decided before you woke up.”

 

“Guess I’ve got to start waking up earlier,” grumbled Joe.

 

“I’ve been saying that for years,” came a voice from the doorway. Adam leaned against the doorjamb, Hoss behind him. Ben tensed, but in the next instant, he caught his eldest son’s slight smile, and he relaxed.

 

“Hey, Joe, you’d better get yourself dressed and get downstairs, or Hoss isn’t going to leave you anything for breakfast,” Adam continued.

 

“I’m hungry as a bear in springtime!” Hoss chimed in.

 

“When aren’t you?” Joe shot back.

 

For a moment, no one moved. It was as if they weren’t certain what they had just heard. Cautiously, they looked at each other. It was true: for the first time since Sam Munson died, Little Joe had made a joke.

 

Hoss was the first to react. Eyebrows drawn together in mock outrage, he shouted, “Dadburn your ornery little hide!” He charged into the room, and Hop Sing grabbed Joe’s coffee cup just before Hoss threw Joe headfirst over his shoulder. “I’m gonna teach you respect for your elders! You’re gettin’ dressed if’n I have to sit on you!” he added as they disappeared down the hall.

 

“How’s he supposed to get dressed with three hundred pounds on top of him?” called Adam, but the laughter from Joe’s room made it unlikely anyone had heard. He turned back to his father, whose eyes were shining. “Is he all right?” Adam inquired.

 

“He’s on his way.” Ben leaned back against his pillows, more peaceful than he’d been in a long time. “You hear that?” he said of the laughter drifting down the hall. Hoss’ deep rumble was accented by Joe’s distinctive cackle. It had been far too long since he’d heard his sons this way. “I could listen to them all day,” he mused.

 

“Well, you just might get the chance if I don’t get the two of them moving,” said Adam. He straightened and headed down the hall, bellowing, “All right, you two, enough horseplay!”

 

Ben chuckled as his eldest son assumed command. He set his own coffee cup on the tray. His eyelids grew heavy as Hop Sing bustled around the room, folding Joe’s quilt and putting things in order, and the voices moved from Joe’s room down the stairs.

 

“They good boys,” said Hop Sing. He drew the covers up over Ben and picked up the tray. “Mister Ben sleep now. All well.” He slipped out of the room, closing the door behind him before Ben could respond.

 

They are indeed good boys, Ben reflected. He thought again of Sam Munson, who had also been a good boy. There was no way to know why Sam had been taken instead of Joe. It could so easily have gone the other way. In the end, all a man could do was to trust that the number of days ordained for him and for his loved ones was right, even when it didn’t feel that way.

 

He remembered reading someplace that faith was believing what you knew to be true, even when it didn’t feel as if it was true. He would tell Joe that when they talked tonight. Joe hadn’t mentioned it, but Ben knew one talk like last night’s wasn’t enough. His son had more questions, more thoughts and feelings to work through. He’d taken a mighty blow, and it wasn’t something any man could shrug off. But the boy was still standing in spite of everything, and that was a start.

 

His hand rested on the place where his son had slept. Joe might wrestle with his questions like Jacob with the angel, but in the end, it was the kind of struggle that would make that good boy into a good man.

 

Ben smiled drowsily as a vision of Joe the man flashed through his mind—taller, broader, with wild gray curls and flashing green eyes and the same irrepressible giggle. A good man, his Joseph. He couldn’t have said how, but he knew in his heart that this was the son who would one day take over the reins of the Ponderosa, and it would be secure in his hands.

 

As he drifted off into peaceful, healing sleep, Ben Cartwright whispered his thanks for the gift of good boys, and for the grace that would help them grow into good men.

The End

 

Tags:  Family, Joe / Little Joe Cartwright