Second Best

Hoss glanced at his little brother as he, Adam, and Joe pulled up in front of the saloon. It was the first time they'd been to town since Clay Stafford had ridden away. They hadn't said much on the way in. It, well, it hung between them – the fact that Joe had been willin' to throw them all over – includin' Pa – for a man he hardly knew.

It was true Joe and Clay shared the same blood, but no more than him or Adam did. The only difference was that the blood came from Little Joe's mama. Now he knew Joe was, well, sensitive about his mama. He'd known her after all, and though all of little brother's memories – or almost all of them – came from them, there was another tie. It was somethin' he couldn't even begin to understand, though he'd known it too. His mama'd nursed and held him. Joe's had rocked him and sung him pretty songs. It was somethin' Adam hadn't known at all.

Maybe that explained why older brother was mad enough to kick his own dog.

"I'll get a table," Little Joe tossed off as he dismounted and brushed past Adam to enter the saloon. Hoss watched as older brother' s hand shot out, his fingers shakin', but watched too as he pulled back. Adam knew better than to pick a fight. Joe was still hurtin' from that beatin' he'd taken at the miner's hands and Doc Martin had warned them that – if he was hit again in just the right place – his ribs would break. From the looks of it, Adam had been considerin' it in spite of the doc's warnin'.

"Let it go, Adam," I said, meanin' it.

Older brother jerked and looked at me. "Let what go?"

"You're mad enough to chomp a hunk out of an axe. Joe didn't mean nothin'. He was just thinkin' about his mama."

"Marie's dead," older brother snapped. "Joe needs to think about the living and what he's doing to them!"

I held it a moment, but only a moment. "That 'livin' being Pa...or you?"

"I could care less what that kid does," Adam snarled. "Little Joe could ride into Hell without a canteen and I wouldn't bother to bring him one. He hurt Pa. Badly." Older brother's eyes narrowed and his lips drew into a straight line. "I can't forgive him for that. For making Pa think he's...second best."

Second best.

Somehow I didn't think it was Pa who was feelin' 'second best'. Pa understood just like I did. What Joe did smarted, like a ruler on the knuckles, and carried just about as much sting.

"Pa don't think he's second best." I drew a breath. Brother Adam was just like brother Joe in a lot of ways. He hid it better, them deep feelin's of his, but they were there. "You do."

Adam was slappin' the cinch over his saddle, like he was gettin' ready to ride. Sport was givin' me the eye, wonderin' what it was all about.

"Don't be ridiculous! If you think for one minute that the actions or choices of a juvenile barely old enough to wipe his own nose have any effect on the esteem in which I hold myself, you have another think coming!"

I waited a second. Adam had his foot in the stirrup. He mounted and plunked down hard enough in the saddle to make Sport snort.

Before he could leave, I walked over and took hold of Sport's bridle. "That ain't what I'm sayin', that's what you're hearin'."

"Then what the Devil is it that you are trying to say!?"

I glanced into the saloon. I could see Little Joe over the batwing doors, sitting at a table in the corner. He had an untouched beer in front of him and his head down in his hands.

If those two weren't a pair!

"Lookee here, Adam. I know you. You may pretend you've had it up to here and more with that there 'juvenile', but you love him just like I do, faults and all. Clay Stafford comes waltzin' in with his slick smile and winnin' ways, givin' Little Joe everythin' he thinks he wants includin'," I drew a breath, "a different kind of oldest brother. You know, one who don't yell at him all the time. One who listened to his ideas and made him feel like he was a man, not a little boy who's just past wipin' his own nose – or other parts."

Adam looked into the saloon. "Do I make him feel that way? Really?" Adam's smile was chagrinned. "I thought I was a better actor."

"Yeah, you do, and you know what? Joe loves you in spite of it. He loves you more than Clay Stafford." I paused and then added softly. "He just liked Clay better."

Adam got that look. The one where he purses his lips and wags his head from side to side.

"Oh, and just how do you know that? It seems to me since Little Joe was ready to run off with Clay and leave us all behind in the dust, that he loved Clay more."

I wanted to punch that look right off of his face, but didn't. Stifling a sigh, I asked, "Adam, where's Little Joe?"

Big brother scowled. He raised a hand and pointed. "Sitting in the saloon." He frowned. "Looking rather, well, despondent."

Whatever that meant.

"Don't you think if Joe loved Clay more he'd be sittin' somewhere else? Say, in a cantina in Mexico?"

Adam's lips remained pursed. He kept silent for a moment and then let out a long sigh. "I'm still mad at him," he said at last.

I nodded. "That's okay, Adam. Little Joe's still mad at you too."

As he dismounted, those hazel eyes locked on mine. "Whatever for?"

"For thinkin' you're second best."