Each Step a Journey
CHAPTER ONE
As he exited the station, the predawn mist hung heavily in the chilly air, shrouding the hissing engine. He watched as the porter, a young man he guessed to be in his early twenties, managed his luggage in three hurried trips. With the loading of belongings complete and the onslaught of passengers dwindling, he gathered his valise and approached the train. Confident in his decision, Adam lingered as he stepped up from the boardwalk to the small metal platform. He closed his eyes, resisting the silent voices and persuasive faces that beckoned him to stay. Fighting the temptation to glance over his shoulder, he nodded, bidding goodbye to the city he'd called home for the past three years. With one final, wistful sigh, he smiled and his thoughts quickly drifted to his long awaited destination.
His stride was lively as he climbed the remaining steps and made his way down the narrow aisle to his cramped, private cabin. Once inside, he chucked his weathered portmanteau into the far left corner and seated himself on the edge of the thinly padded cot. Immediately, the train jerked, its rhythm slowly gathering speed as he leaned forward, rested his elbows along the window ledge, and watched the town he'd never truly thought of as home flit away into his memories.
Five days and countless miles later, Adam sat on the edge of the narrow cot and rubbed his aching muscles. Still cramped inside the compartment, he longed for the spaciousness of Boston and the two adjoining rooms of his quaint Bostonian boarding house. Why only a few days ago, he'd walked through the gardens to clear his head and fill his lungs with the sweet scent of hyacinth and calltulips, jaunted to the bakery across town for some fresh baked blueberry scones, and strolled the final five blocks to the architectural firm of Timmons, Simbor, and Cartwright. Boston's easy pace and airiness appealed to Adam, unlike the compartment of an accelerating train he now found himself in. Stretching his arms upward until his hands met the compartment ceiling, Adam yawned and rolled his head from side to side, the crunching of the muscles in his neck resounding in his ears. He dressed quickly, anticipating breakfast fare similar to that of the past four days: eggs, crisply fried bacon, toast with apricot or strawberry jam, and several surprisingly mellow cups of freshly brewed coffee. As he slid his socked feet into his boots, he thought of home – still three days away – and wondered what dishes Hop Sing was toting to the breakfast table at the Ponderosa.
After breakfast, Adam found himself once again in the cramped confines of his quarters. Mindless hours of steadily changing landscape encouraged Adam to do something he'd neglected for far too long. He relaxed, Adam Cartwright-style. First, he filled the journal he'd all but abandoned shortly after arriving in Boston. Now, the pages showcased his fondest memories of his time in the bustling port city. Next, his detailed architectural drawings, standing neatly in the corner of his compartment, had been removed from their sturdy tubes, checked for possible improvements, tweaked, adjusted, rechecked, and finally rolled with precision before being placed back into their protective cylinders. A first edition copy of The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, a red ribbon marking its hinge at one of his favorite passages, lay atop the portmanteaux next to his bed. And his boots, both pairs, bore the luster worthy of the most skilled shoeshine the city of Boston had even known.
Sporting the more casual pair of those well-shined boots, Adam once again navigated the narrow passage from his quarters to the train's dining car. He entered and smoothed the windblown hair from his forehead as he quickly closed the car's door behind him. His companion for the evening's meal offered a salute, and Adam made his way to the third booth on the left. Adam sat, nodding at the offering of wine, and less than twenty minutes later, he found himself chatting comfortably with his newfound friend.
"And so, Adam, how long are you planning to stay?"
Adam reached for his second glass of wine, his eyes sparkling as he swirled the crimson liquid before sipping. "My plan is to spend a few days in Salt Lake," he replied. "Thought I'd have a meal or two in an elegant restaurant. Nothing too pretentious, mind you. Something with subtle ambiance and succulent cuisine." He smiled, his flushed cheeks giving way to subtle dimples that deepened as his smile grew. "I may make my way to a concert or maybe an opera or two. Who knows? I may even take a long walk and absorb a little . . . local color."
The gentleman seated across the table chuckled, his sapphire eyes dancing with mischief. "Now, I know we just met yesterday, Adam," he said, shaking his head as he sliced into his rare roast beef, "but I would have taken you for a man with more sense than to go wandering around a large, strange city when there's plenty of . . . How did you put it? . . . local color just waiting to be sopped up along the streets of Virginia City!"
Adam blinked his eyes heavily and chortled, the sound pulsing from deep within his chest. "Well, Albert, seeing as how we did meet just yesterday when you boarded the train, I'd guess you don't know me well enough to measure my sense."
"Pardon me," Albert said, propping his knife and fork at the edge of his now empty plate. "You are absolutely correct. Measuring the sense of another requires much more information and background than the little I know about you." Albert raised his glass, and Adam frowned as he noted his own sitting empty.
After draining the bottle into his glass, Adam nodded as the clinking sound tingled in his ears.
"To Adam Cartwright," Albert said, "the man who left it all behind to come back out west in search of local color!"
Both men laughed, and Adam couldn't help but stare at the luster of Albert's blue eyes. "Similar," he thought, sipping his wine, "but something's missing. Something I've missed for far too long."
Albert scrutinized Adam's pensive expression. "Four hundred's the same as four thousand."
With piercing, hazel eyes and a furrowed brow, Adam slowly lowered his glass to the table. "Where was it you said you went to school?"
Albert chuckled wryly, his amusement fading as he replied. "Four thousand miles or four hundred, the memories are still vivid, but they fail to satisfy the longing."
A melancholy smile tugged on Adam's lips, and he lifted his wine glass, staring into the burgundy liquid.
Albert raised his glass in turn. "In vino, veritas."
Adam grinned and shook his head. "I don't need wine to realize how far away I've been . . . or to convince me that I've missed more than I should."
CHAPTER TWO
"Salt Lake!" the porter announced as Adam hurriedly gathered his shaving mug and brush and shoved them into his bag. A quick inspection of his compartment assured him he was leaving nothing behind, and he hastily flipped the bag's leather buckle into place and grabbed the worn handles. Tucking the cylinders that protected his drawings beneath his arm, he made his way through the emptying car, nodding casually at faces that had become vaguely familiar over the last few days.
Anxious to leave the confinement of the train, Adam paused on the foot plate, inhaled the brisk, fresh air, and lifted his head to the warmth of the morning sun. He hopped down onto the sturdy wooden planks of the station's boardwalk and made his way toward the row of hansom cabs lining the street beyond. He'd said his goodbyes to Albert the night before, and the two had arranged to meet for dinner in three days, on Adam's last night in Salt Lake City. As he weaved his way through the crowd of people, he caught sight of a buckskin gelding at the front of a black and white buggy. He turned sharply, drawn to the horse's shimmering eyes. "Not as tall," he thought, "and certainly not as majestic." He nodded to the driver, gave him the name of the hotel recommended by his former East Coast partner, and tossed his belongings onto the seat before climbing into the buggy.
As the cab swayed with the horse's gait, Adam immersed himself in the sights of the passing buildings and the sounds of the people gathering for an early start to their day. He sat forward, his forearm propped along the front edge of the cab's frame. He watched the buckskin's head bobbing slightly, the muscles of its thick neck contracting with each step. "Similar, but not the same," he thought. "Maybe majesty befalls the animal when the one who rides ascends." As if on cue, the driver clicked his tongue, urging the horse into a swifter gait, and Adam settled back in the seat. His focus drifted from his curious nature at the passing shops and well-dressed men and women to the wistful ache in his heart as his mind wandered back to the typical morning routine on the Ponderosa. He suddenly wished he hadn't been invited to attend the private meetings at the Fillmore House - a gathering to discuss future Mormon-inspired architecture and the resources available in the newly named capital of Utah. He wished instead that he'd be boarding the afternoon stage, the first leg in the remainder of the journey that would have carried him from Salt Lake to Virginia City.
From the moment he signed his name across the hotel registry and requested a tub for a much needed bath, the idea of shirking his commitment was foremost on Adam's mind. As he sat stiffly on the edge of the perfectly dressed full-sized bed, he stared at the luggage resting in a haphazard mound in the center of the room. Torn between the promise he'd made to his partners back east and the searing need to hasten his return home, he massaged the side of his neck and quoted the voice resounding in his head. "A promise made by a man is only as good as the man himself." He stood, crossed the room, and with two fingers, swiped the lace curtains to peer outside. "I've carried your words with me to the east coast and back, Pa," he thought. He pulled the curtains further and leaned his shoulder against the window frame. "Your words, your wisdom, and your love. I'm almost home, Pa, and I'm not about to ignore those words now."
Later that day, the architects assembled at the Fillmore House, carrying with them samples and drawings and ideas for the expansion of the businesses, homes, and temples that would accentuate the town's growth in the face of California's gold rush. Hundreds passed through the city on their way to embarking on a future they believed would leave them wealthy, respectable, and happy. And with the suggestions and proposals made during the three days of brainstorming, Adam and the others were confident that the city would soon provide the necessary amenities for well-intentioned travelers and homesteaders alike.
On the eve of his third and final day in the city, Adam joined his former traveling companion for a relaxing meal at Salt Lake's most infamous restaurant. Their conversation touched on everything from politics to architecture, philosophy, and women. Though it was painfully obvious to Adam that Albert's tastes and beliefs were the product of a very different upbringing, he thoroughly enjoyed their brief debates and Albert's entertaining stories – so much so that, considering his early morning departure, Adam delayed his goodbyes much longer than he should have.
With promises of staying in touch offered by both men, Adam said his farewells and announced his decision to walk the six blocks from the restaurant to his hotel, leaving Albert waving as he stood next to his cab, his baffled expression conjuring a smile on Adam's lips. Immediately, he picked up his pace, the weightlessness in his step accented by the glimmer in his vibrant hazel eyes. "It's about time I stopped taking the easy way out," he thought as he passed by a row of idle cabs. "Can't let Pa think I've gone soft sitting behind my desk these past two years." He smiled, his glow quickly fading to a shade more worthy of guilt tinged with remorse. Though he continued on his way, Adam's vision clouded with flashing stills of the morning he'd said goodbye to the life, land, and people he'd left behind. "If only I'd known . . ."
CHAPTER THREE
Adam passed his suitcase to the stage driver and paused before boarding. Glancing down the crowded street, he considered the buildings that were quickly becoming the heartbeat of Salt Lake – their structural design, the materials adorning their facades, and the beauty of the lines and angles that spoke to him with a spirit even he did not fully comprehend. It'll never be Boston or New York City, but it will be grand.
The request of "all aboard" shattered Adam's concentration, the magnificent vista reaching out, begging him to stay. He climbed inside and coughed quietly while he brushed away the trail dust covering the coach's seat. As the stage made its way toward the outskirts of the main thoroughfare, he leaned into the window, the opening framing the wonder on Adam Cartwright's face.
Before the stage reached the fringes of the city, Adam's traveling companion, a tractor salesman by the name of Digger Burrows, had deemed it necessary to interrupt the serenity of the passing landscape with an exuberant introduction and the beginnings of a life story that centered on the proper care of plowing equipment. By the time they'd covered the first twenty miles of their shared journey, Adam's Cartwright graciousness was beginning to wear thin.
"And when you're turnin' over the fertilizer an' the chisel gets jammed," Digger explained, "all ya hafta do is shove your hand in there an' pull out the manure. Simple as that!"
Adam nodded, blindly filling the pause in the salesman's seemingly neverending discourse.
"But ya hafta be sorta cautious, being that the chisel's razor sharp an' all. I can't tell ya how many farmers lose fingers when their chisel gets jammed! You reckon, since I'm headin' ta Mexico an' all, that I'll be needin' ta learn how ta say watch them fing . . ."
The stage bobbed and pitched sharply from side to side as the left front wheel dipped into a sun-hardened furrow. Adam and Digger fought to right themselves, Adam steadying himself with a booted foot against the opposite seat, and Digger grasping frantically to the stage's door frame.
"Injuns!" Digger exclaimed, crouching low in his seat.
Adam sniggered at the panic-stricken young man.
"I'm gonna die at the hands of injuns somewheres between Salt Lake an' . . ."
Just then the stage righted itself, sending Digger sprawling against the dust covered floor. A lively chuckle escaped Adam's lips and he quickly drew his hand to his mouth and coughed to cover the insult.
When the stage's gait returned to its normal cadence, Digger looked up, his sheepish expression testimony that the invading Indians had apparently retreated. "Guess there weren't no injuns, Mr. Cartwright."
Adam smiled and offered a hoisting hand. "Guess not."
Digger's incessant ramblings all but disappeared for the remainder of the day, and Adam's long-awaited, peaceful ride now played heavily on his thoughts. Bored with the tan and flaxen landscape crawling by, Adam closed his eyes and focused on the lurching rhythms of the stagecoach. He faded in and out of agitated sleep and when his neck screamed for relief, he straightened his posture and slowly opened his eyes.
He smiled, rude as it was, at Digger - his mouth agape, a tiny rivulet of drool trickling down the left side of his chin. His smile waned as he recalled the first conversation they'd shared when Digger had climbed onto the stage in Salt Lake.
At the youthful age of twenty-two, Digger had decided that living in the shadow of his four elder brothers was a fate he could no longer tolerate, so the young man had accepted a job as a salesman and several months later, found himself on a stage headed south.
"How many times," Adam thought, "did Joe nearly do the same thing? Decide that he'd had enough of what he called 'living in mine and Hoss's shadows'? Decide that he needed to break away from Pa and what was expected from the son of a successful rancher?" Adam crossed his legs and returned his vacant gaze out of the window. "Joe even risked his life as the sheriff of a town full of selfish opportunists. And he pitted himself against the odds, not to mention Will Poavey, when he took on that logging contract." Adam's eyes darkened. "And Pa nearly lost him when Clay showed up with his tales of women and glory in Mexico." Adam's brow wrinkled. "Pa's strength is beyond measure, but losing Joe . . . he would never have survived that." With a shake of his head, Adam massaged the side of his aching neck. "Who am I kidding? Neither Pa nor Hoss would have survived that loss . . . and neither would I."
CHAPTER FOUR
Three days of jostling travel were beginning to wear on Adam's temperament. He'd booked passage on several consecutive coaches, each of which would bring him closer to the Ponderosa, but it seemed to Adam that no matter the distance covered, the ranch was still so very far away.
At the Schell Creek station, the talkative Digger Burrows had disembarked, but not before giving Adam one last piece of advice. "Remember, Mr. Cartwright," he'd said, the severity of his face summoning a giggle from Adam, "manure is a farmer's best friend. Better than a dependable helper. Better even than the love of a woman!"
Adam had nodded, pursing his lips to squelch his grin, and after shaking his head free of Digger's parting wisdom, he stepped into the stage office, hoping to buy a copy of the local newspaper.
Daily in hand, Adam skimmed the front page headlines as he made his way back to the waiting stage. Lost in the poorly written, yet amusing, column entitled "Hartman's Mule Missing" he practically plowed into Felicia Newman, a demure, young woman and her son, a chubby seven-year-old named Andrew. After heartfelt apologies and polite introductions, Adam offered a hand to the shy young boy who remained partially hidden behind his mother's green and yellow plaid skirts. The boy cowered, and Adam turned his hand instead to Mrs. Newman who graciously accepted the gentle hoist into the dusty coach.
An hour into their journey, Andrew curled against his mother's side, the excitement of the day and the rocking of the stage quickly lulling the boy to sleep. Adam's pleasant manner and calming voice lured the widow into conversation, and he soon learned that Felicia was a widow, and that the riding accident that had claimed the life of her husband had occurred when Andrew was merely six months old. Taken by the woman's honest emotion and her son's round, sapphire eyes, Adam listened with genuine interest as she spoke enthusiastically of the promise of a new life in the budding town of Smithton, the next stop in Adam's long journey.
"You see, Mr. Cartwright, my husband, Peter, was more than a good man," Mrs. Newman explained. "He was a lawyer. But more importantly, he was a remarkable man."
Adam's warm smile comforted the catch in her throat.
"He had a dream, Mr. Cartwright, a dream where we'd share everything, whether working or at home. Peter was training me to be his office assistant. He said that way we'd always be together, and when Andrew was born," she continued, "Peter was ecstatic. He told me that all of his dreams were coming true. You see, he'd always wanted to become an attorney, and he'd managed to do so with seemingly little effort." Her eyes bubbled along with the pride in her voice. "And now, he had a son." Felicia's eyes grew misty and she absentmindedly stroked her sleeping son's curly blonde hair. She glanced away, staring out at the passing landscape. "Forgive me, Mr. Cartwright. I'm just a foolish, sentimental woman."
In one fluid movement, Adam reached into his vest pocket, drew out a precisely folded, monogrammed handkerchief, and slipped it beneath Mrs. Newman's left hand. "It can't have been easy losing a husband, let alone doing so with a baby to care for."
Mrs. Newman dabbed at her eyes. "It was . . . difficult."
For several minutes, as Mrs. Newman gathered herself, the racket of the stage was stilled by the deafening silence in the coach. Adam waited empathetically as flashes of memory stole their way into his thoughts. Pa faced the same challenge. My mother shared his vision of a life in the west, a place where the trees towered into the heavens and the land disappeared into the horizon in every direction. Pa says they were so happy when . . . when I was born. And then Pa was left alone with a baby and a dream.Adam's nose tingled and he craned his neck, resting his forehead against the window's frame. How did he manage? Where did he find the strength to not only survive the sudden deaths of two wives, but to pursue his dream with first one, then two young children afoot?
Adam was startled from his thoughts when Andrew raised a sluggish fist to his face and called out to his mother as he rubbed the sleeping dust from his eyes.
"Are we in Smithton yet, Mama?"
"Not yet, Andrew," Mrs. Newman replied gently. She pulled her son atop her lap, wrapped her left arm securely around his plump waist, and with her right hand, rummaged in her satchel for their traveling canteen.
"Please," Adam said, offering his canteen to the young boy, "allow me."
Andrew pulled his legs up and buried his face against his mother's chest.
Adam raised his brows in question.
"Andrew," Mrs. Newman said, "Mr. Cartwright is offering to share his water with you. Mr. Cartwright is a friend. Now please, son, you know your father always said you should be polite to your friends."
The boy hesitated, his left eye peeking at Adam's likable face across the way. Slowly, Andrew shed his apprehension and reached for the canteen. His mother sighed and started to thank Adam for his favor, but her words were cut short when her son spoke up instead.
"Thank you, sir," Andrew whispered. He quickly offered the canteen to his mother. "Mama, you need some water, too."
Mrs. Newman beamed. "Yes, Andrew, I do. And thank you."
As mother and son drank, Adam thought back to his journey toward his father's dream and a new, secure home for his little brother and himself. I'm not sure which would be more difficult: being a widow with a fatherless son or a two-time widower with a young son and a baby.Adam felt his chest become warmer and his neck and face flush. How did he do it? How?Adam inhaled deeply, the pride he'd carried all his life swelling, doubling, tripling until Adam thought he would burst. My pa is amazing. He always has been. And it's about time I tell him exactly that.
As the stage continued south, Andrew listened eagerly as Adam shared stories of his childhood journey to the West. His mother, impressed by Adam's patience with her son, suppressed a gasp when the typically bashful boy slipped from his seat, crawled up next to Adam, and persuaded him to continue with his tales. Trusting Andrew to Adam's charge, Mrs. Newman rested her head against the back of the seat, her head slipping to the left as sleep claimed her travel-weary body.
By the time the quaint town of Smithton came into view, Adam's right arm throbbed and his lower back ached. He glanced down at the sleeping six-year-old, his head resting heavily against Adam's chest, his stocky legs stretched out on the stage seat. Melancholy settled on Adam's face, his thoughts drifting to another pair of chubby legs and a journey of long-ago. Day after day, mile after mile, town after town. It was more difficult after Hoss came and Mama was . . . gone. Pa did without more often than with, and not just sleep, but clothing and water and food. Andrew shifted, curling onto his left side, and Adam gently stroked the boy's arm with his thumb. So many days spent in the back of that wagon. Pa knew I'd do my best to take care of Hoss. He was my brother, and that's what brothers do. I'll never forget Pa's eyes, their silent apology penetrating my own. And there was pride in his eyes. I just hope he knew how much that pride meant to me, how it encouraged me, gave me strength . . . shaped me.
"Smithton ahead!"
Adam closed his eyes, pausing to lock his memories safely away. He was jolted from his solace by Andrew clambering to return to his mother's side.
"Mama!" he screeched. "We're here! We're here!"
Mrs. Newman leaned beyond the stage's window opening and her weary eyes quickly transformed to eyes of wide-eyed wonder. Adam smiled, the wind seeming to warm her soul, as well as her glowing face, as she scrutinized the settlement that would soon become her home. With Andrew perched on her lap, the two pointed and gasped at the sights and sounds of Smithton, and Adam knew with certainty that the young widow's strength, much like that of his father, would see them through life's twists and turns.
CHAPTER FIVE
A broken axle on the Smithton to Carson City morning stage had delayed that stage's subsequent departure, and after a cheerful lunch with Mrs. Newman and Andrew, Adam said his goodbyes with heartfelt good wishes and found himself, one day earlier than planned, boarding yet another southbound stage. As he waited for the driver to complete station business, fatigue, along with the second slice of apple pie he'd devoured at lunch, began to settle in Adam's weary body. He stretched his legs across the stage floor, tipped his black Stetson to his nose, crossed his ankles, and tucked his hands beneath his forearms.
As the tension of the trip trickled from his muscles, Adam heard the buzz of exuberant voices approaching the stage. He lifted the side of his hat, turned his head, and peeked with one eye at the source of the ruckus.
"Look, sonny," the driver said, "I'm already runnin' half a day late because of a cracked axle! I got one passenger ready ta go, and the mail and supplies've already been loaded up top. Now, please, sonny, tell your missus that this here stage is leavin' in exactly two minutes – with or without her!"
Adam righted his head, the brim of his hat sliding back against his nose. Two minutes of peace and quiet. His lips tightened, quivering against the yawn that wrinkled his brow beneath his hat. Make up your mind, Adam. Take this earlier stage or spend the night in Smithton and take the morning stage as you'd planned.
"Herbert! Darling, please come help me with these packages!"
Should I? Adam summoned the energy to part his lips and sighed. Me thinks not.
"Why Sarah Beth, honeykins," Herbert whined, "I thought you said you were just browsing, that you were passing the time until the stage was ready to leave. What on earth did you buy this time?"
From the darkness beneath his hat, Adam cringed as the shrill creak of the stage door filled his ears. He conjured up a vision of the young man and his wife scrambling into the stage, their arms burdened with packages.
"Now, honeykins, let's stack these here packages right in this corner," Herbert insisted, his voice a mere whisper. "And take care not to bother our fellow traveler. It appears that the old gent is either exhausted or quite inebriated."
Adam snorted softly at the double insults. He considered the potential amusement in suddenly springing to life, and he fought the urge to chuckle at the thought of Herbert and "honeykins'" faces should he do so.
Above him, the clunks and scrapes signaled the stage driver's preparations for departure, and the whooshing sound of the reins against the four horse team prompted Adam to brace his boots against the floor. The stage gathered speed quickly, and for the next few minutes, the only sounds were those of spinning wheels, trudging hooves, and the occasional snap and squeak of the speeding stagecoach.
Try as he might, Adam was unable to disregard the deep, baritone voice in his head. Manners, son. Always remember your manners. With a slight groan, Adam righted himself on the stage seat, his boots scraping the floor as he drew his legs inward. He grabbed his hat, placed it in his lap and, squinting against the midafternoon sun, smiled at the couple across the way.
"My name is Adam Cartwright," he said as he offered his hand to Herbert.
"This is my wife, Sara Beth. And my name is Herbert. Herbert Phelps."
Adam nodded at Sara Beth. He flashed a dimpled smile, and the young woman immediately blushed.
For the duration of the afternoon's ride, Adam wished he'd remained veiled beneath his hat. The constant ebbs and tides of his traveling companions' prattle thwarted any possibility of sleep, and by the time the newlyweds had finished reliving their wedding and honeymoon adventures, Adam considered slithering through the window and crawling up to the stage driver's seat to enjoy the peace and quiet of the din of the stage wheels grinding against rocks and crashing into chuckholes.
"And Poppa gave us three of his prized cows," Sara Beth said, beaming up at her husband. "Herbert is just wonderful around the farm. He has a way with the animals. Why, it's as if he was born to care for them!"
Herbert blushed, his blue eyes sparkling as he gazed down at his wife. "Sarah Beth, I still don't know what I did to deserve a beautiful, wonderful gal like you!"
Adam nodded politely, turning away from the private moment. He stared through the window at the passing landscape, his mind wandering instantly to the day Hoss had expressed the same doubts. Hoss doesn't give his heart easily, but when he does, he hands it over with more honesty and deep-seated trust than I can possibly imagine. And if anyone deserves to be loved with the same intensity in return, it's my brother. He found that love with Emily, God rest her soul. Melancholy washed over Adam, and a twinge of regret settled in his heart. Cameo, Helen, Margie . . . Regan. The name hung heavily in the tightness in Adam's throat. He stroked his jaw with his fingertips, the sting of the past welling in his eyes. Hoss deserved better. And from Pa's letters, it seems he found it with Erin. And she's gone, too. I wish I'd met her and seen for myself how happy she made Hoss. I should have been there for Hoss. Should have . . .
"Carson City in thirty minutes!" the driver called, his announcement startling all three of his passengers.
"Oh, Herbert," Sarah Beth said, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep. I guess the excitement of our wedding and our honeymoo . . ." Sarah stopped midsentence, her cheeks aflame with embarrassment. She covered her mouth and stifled a nervous cough.
Adam entertained several responses to the mortified woman's declaration, but chose instead to begin his goodbyes to his traveling companions. "I'm sure you're both anxious to get home and begin your lives together."
"Oh, we are, Mr. Cartwright," Herbert said, "and I'm sure you're anxious to get . . . Oh, my! I'm afraid we've been rude! Sarah Beth, honeykins, we done talked all afternoon. We don't even know where Mr. Cartwright is going!"
Sarah Beth smiled sincerely. "Where are you headed, Mr. Cartwright?"
Adam's breath seized, and he struggled to preserve his composure. "Home. I'm going home."
CHAPTER SIX
Adam waved goodbye as he stood alongside the stage, chuckling to himself at the sight of Sara Beth and Herbert, their arms and hands laden with packages and satchels. He spoke briefly to the stage agent, arranging for his own bags and boxes to be loaded onto the next stage for Virginia City. Assured that his belongings would follow him home, he turned and headed north toward the livery, peering over his shoulder for one last glimpse of Herbert and his giggling wife as they made their way down the busy street toward their home at the south end of Carson City. Continuing on his way, Adam nodded graciously at passersby, and when he reached the corner of B Street and Main, his eyes widened in surprise. "Three years," he mumbled softly. "All this in three years!"
As he ambled down Main Street, he marveled at the buildings and the variety of businesses housed within the wood and brick façades. On his left, merchantiles, tailor shops, and bakeries stood side by side with banks, law offices, and investment brokers. To his right, ironmongers, sweets shops, milliners, and drapers were mixed in between a saloon, a physician's office, and the Carson City Courthouse. Further down the thoroughfare, Adam's architect's eye was drawn to the tallest of the structures - the Carson City branch of the Bank of San Francisco, and he whistled softly as he glanced upward at its impressive windows and intricate stone work.
Continuing on his way, Adam nodded politely at an approaching group of smartly dressed young men, and he smiled at their youth as they openly admired a pretty girl on the opposite side of the street. His own smile caught the eye of an elderly woman seated just ahead on a sidewalk bench and when he tipped his hat her way, her eyes twinkled and her cheeks grew rosy. His smile blossomed into a grin, and he wondered at the sudden lightness in his own step, reminding himself that sometimes, age is merely a number.
He walked on, drawn to the aroma of freshly baked bread and the comforting fragrance of roasted pork and strongly-brewed coffee, the smells accompanied by the steady buzz of the restaurant's patrons. As Adam passed by the open windows of the restaurant, he heard laughter from two distinctive voices riding on the late afternoon breeze. The delight with which they spoke painted broad strokes on a canvas of gentle serenity, and Adam lengthened his strides toward the stable and the rented horse that would carry him home.
Miles and miles of countryside, untouched over the span of years, vanished behind him as Adam spurred his horse to a gallop. A steady wind blew warm against his face, and the familiar feeling of his Stetson sitting solidly atop his head invited a smile to his lips. He dipped his head, satisfied that he'd decided to don his long-ignored black trousers and shirt, book passage to Virginia City for his portmanteaus, and rent a horse to travel the final leg of his journey home. "Can't have Joe thinking I'm a tried and true city slicker, now can I?" he thought as he kicked his mount to a faster speed.
Just past the boarded entrance to the long abandoned Costello Mine, Adam followed the south road, leaving the town of Carson City behind. Less than two miles further, bathed in unscathed splendor, his eyes lifted toward the jades and emeralds of the soaring trees, their peaks dotted by splashes of brilliant sunshine. The sweet scent of the Ponderosa pines lured him onward and he grinned, knowing that within two hours, he'd come face to face with the landscape that was his legacy – the northernmost edge of the Ponderosa.
With the sun on his back and the coveted gait of a horse beneath him once again, those two hours proved both pleasant and fleeting. He pulled up on the reins, swung his right ankle onto his saddle, and thoughtfully scratched the back of his neck. All roads lead to home. Well, at least two of them will. The mountain trail to his left invited him, its wind-blown song whistling through the branches and its ever-changing backdrop tempting his curiosity. To his right, the trail, with its snaking curves and massive boulders, begged his attention, and he wondered at the diversity that he'd taken for granted not so long ago. His horse dipped her head sharply and snorted her impatience. "Alright, girl," Adam laughed as he swung his leg back into the stirrup. "Let's go."
With the mountain canopy towering above him, Adam led his horse to the left, and moments later, at the crest of the first knoll, an unexpected wave of apprehension blanketed his mind. Memories swirled in his head, colliding against voices in bits and pieces; the posturing of understanding and the candor of anguish-filled goodbyes. Adam's all-consuming longing to reach the Ponderosa was quickly buried beneath the jumble of words he'd attempted to string together for the past few weeks.
"Hi, Pa. I'm home," Adam thought, his face ridden with anticipation. "Hi, Pa. I'm home," he said aloud. "Sounds just as pathetic out loud as it did in my head!" Adam slowed his mount, continuing with caution as he descended the rock-strewn knoll. "Pa," he thought, "I've decided to come home." Adam shook his head and slipped his hand behind his neck, kneading the tensed muscles with his fingertips. "Not exactly a heartfelt admission!" Craning his neck, he cleared his throat and turned his face toward the glow of the mid afternoon sky. "Pa," he said sternly, "I had to leave, had to satisfy the voices that were reaching out to me." Adam shook his head. "Oh, who am I kidding? He didn't really understand then and . . . he may not forgive now."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Recognizable groves soon led to familiar outcroppings, each one evoking vague memories, fractions of events from a lifetime on the Ponderosa. Adam's trail carried him through the now adolescent timber stand that several years ago had tested Joe's independence as well as his business sense. He smiled as he recalled the youthful pride on his brother's face, and he chuckled aloud at the memory of Will Povey's comeuppance. Joe sure did himself proud. Accepting our help wasn't easy, but admitting that he needed it was the mature thing to do.
The sudden tilt and straddle of his horse caught Adam off guard. He pulled up on the reins, stiffened his legs, and leaned back as the horse descended down the steep mountainside. "Easy, girl, easy," he soothed. "There'll be plenty of cool water waiting for you at the Truckee below."
As he negotiated his way downward, Adam was surprised at the exhilaration he felt, and he unexpectedly found himself grinning. "That's it, girl," he called, "take your time. We're almost there." Tugging the reins to the right, Adam managed to avoid a patch of loose, sandy soil. Almost immediately, the trail led him toward an area covered in rocks and branches, remnants of a recent landslide from the hillside above. "Careful, girl," he said softly, adrenaline rushing through his veins. "Whoa, there. That's right," he praised, leaning from side to side for the best view. "I have to admit, I've missed this, girl. This and so much more."
The final distance kept Adam and his mount alert, and together they dodged fallen branches and rotting stumps, loose earth and shattered rocks. Once the land flattened and the sounds of the rushing Truckee River could be heard, Adam spurred his anxious mount to the rocky surface at the water's edge. His horse, after having had her fill of the fresh, cool water, stood busily nibbling at the sweet grass surrounding the river's bank. Adam knelt, whistling as he filled his canteen. His tune tinted the air with its lively caress, and Adam smirked at the opposing cadence of the horse's incessant chomping. Shading his eyes with a temporary tilt of his hat, Adam turned his face to the bright afternoon sky. "Finish up, girl," he said softly. "I reckon it's nearly three o'clock, and we've still got a ways to go."
The following hour took Adam across an ever-changing vista. He brought his horse to a gallop across a lowland meadow speckled with hundreds of clusters of brightly-hued wildflowers, the lavender milkweed budding close to their thin, stocky stems and the creamy pink whiskerbrush lilting from side to side in the warm breeze of the day. When the landscape slowly morphed to a scrub-covered, sandy expanse, Adam slowed his gait, watchful of hidden chuckholes and sunning rattlers. Further along, the countryside transformed yet again, this time, to the open range that had nurtured and educated Adam so many years ago.
Wasn't it right over there . . . Yes, that bunch of trees and that sudden dip on the hill. That's where Joe and I found Hoss, lying face down, left to die. If we hadn't come this way, turned off the main trail when we had . . . Adam shivered, his eyes locked in an empty stare at the spot where they'd found Hoss hours after he'd been shot by Red Twilight. We were supposed to condemn the man who shot Hoss in cold blood, and we did. We hated him for what he'd done. Adam shook his head, tossing the loathing aside. But as much as I wanted to see Twilight punished, a part of me always considered the "what ifs". What if someone had tangled with Hoss and accidentally killed him? Or Joe? Would I have sought out vengeance? Could I shoot the man responsible for taking my brother away from me? For leaving a void in my life that could never be filled? With one final glance, Adam spurred his horse to a canter. I can't imagine losing one of them. Or Pa. There are four Cartwrights, and that's the only reality I want to fathom. If just one of us were to . . . Well, I went away, and then there were three. But I'm going home, and God willing, we can be four once again.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The next ten miles held sights and sounds that paired vivid memories and strong emotions. Small ponds, their reflective waters distorting the silhouette of man and horse as they rode by, reminded Adam of lazy afternoons spent fishing with his brothers at his side. Flat spots, protected by surrounding trees and rocks, conjured memories of campsites with three bedrolls, three saddles, and two exhausted, snoring young boys flanking him as they lay beneath the starlit sky. An old watering hole, long forgotten but for the thick, rotting tree that had fallen across its expanse, brought a smile to Adam's face. We'd shuck off our boots, roll up our trousers, and sit on that tree for hours. Hoss's and my feet would soak in the cold, murky water, but Joe's . . . Adam laughed aloud. Little Joe's legs barely cleared the bottom of the log! But every time we came here, he insisted on hanging his bare feet over the edge, just waitin' for the day when he could dip his toes into that water. Adam's mount bobbed her head. Alright, girl. Enough reminiscing. Let's move on. He tapped his heels against the mare's sides, and stole one final glance at the small pond, and in his daydream, he thought he heard the high-pitched cackle of a delighted, curly haired six-year-old boy.
As Adam rode on, memories rocked lazily in and out of his mind. He lost all track of time, though his path remained focused and his destination, summoning. He ducked beneath a low, dangling branch, his lingering smile soon fading. When he came upon a clearing, his skin prickled and his breath caught in his throat. "Whoa, girl," he said suddenly, his carefree expression all but gone. "I think . . ." he continued, turning in his saddle as he surveyed the area, "Yes, this is it." I'll never forget it, all that blood on Pa's saddle. Joe brought Hoss and me up this way after Buck showed up at the ranch. He showed us right where they parted ways, down at the end of this knoll. Adam sat still, the quiet of the spot broken only by birdsong heralding his intrusion. I'd never been so angry before. And it wasn't until I walked into the house and saw him sitting there that I realized it wasn't anger after all. It was fear. All consuming fear. Adam settled his breathing, startled that after all these years, the notion that he'd almost lost the one constant in his life could still affect him with such overwhelming force. That day Buck came in without Pa, my brothers and I rode off in three different directions. We each had a job to do. Adam's knuckles faded to white as he clutched his saddle horn. I rode off, angry, afraid, and alone. Adam sighed, his warm breath billowing across his lips. "C'mon, girl," he said. "There's someplace I need to visit."
Less than an hour later, Adam brought his horse about. He secured the reins, arched the kinks from his back and sat amid the plush emerald grass. With his back pressed against a sizable boulder, his knees drawn in, and his hat hanging freely from his fingertips, Adam stared at the crystal ripples of Lake Tahoe, each one snaking along as they chased one another across the water's surface. With his eyes closed, he sighed, letting the soothing breeze whisper across his flesh. As the tension in his muscles settled, so did the anxiety in his mind. He summoned images of the water glistening in the early spring sunshine and with those sketches came the sounds of his little brothers scurrying toward the water's edge, their bellies filled with picnic fare, their innocent giggles of the past quickly bringing a smile to his face.
The sights and sounds of his childhood lulled Adam to the brink of much needed sleep. His fingers relaxed, releasing their grip on the brim of his Stetson, and the sudden void jerked Adam awake. Shaking his weariness away, he closed his eyes and kneaded his neck, groaning as his fingertips pressed against knotted muscles. With his head cocked to the side, he opened his eyes and smiled. "Guess I can't hide behind the scenery and the memories any longer," he said aloud. "I stopped here for a reason, so I might as well get to it." Adam tugged at his ear and spoke to the spirit present in the warm breeze. "I know this was one of your favorite views on the Ponderosa, but I have to tell you, Marie, that when Pa said this would be your final resting place, I didn't understand. I do now. This spot comforts us, the living. I remember you standing here, speaking with such enthusiasm about the "bleu saphir de l'eau" and "la chance que vos précieux petits garçons étaient de vivre au milieu du portrait du lac." Adam unknowingly puffed out his chest, a lingering childhood gesture of pride. "I think I got that right. You were an excellent teacher, but it has been a . . . It's been too long. And you were right. Your little boys are lucky to live as a part of the lake's portrait. Only we aren't so little anymore, and I chose to erase myself from the painting for a time." Adam slapped his hat against his thigh. "When I left, Hoss said he didn't understand, but he qualified that with . . . How did he put it? . . . Oh yeah. 'I cain't reckon what ya mean, Older Brother, but if'n ya got a hankerin' ta go, then go. Jist make sure ya hurry back.'" Adam snatched a handful of pebbles from the ground and let the sand and smallest of the rocks sift through his fingers. "Joe was in a state. He thought I was deserting him – he even told me so, but I was so defensive, hiding my own emotions, that I didn't realize then that he was just plain scared." Adam glanced sideways at the impressive headstone. "Your petit Joe is a product of sequence and order. Not his, of course, but of those around him, of those he loves. And I shook his world too soon after your death." He reached for another handful of stones, drawing his hand away sharply at the sight of a long, skinny salamander scampering across the way. He chuckled, remembering the creatures he and his brothers had invited as guests at the ranch house, and when the creature disappeared between two rocks, Adam glanced at the marker and sighed. "Will Hoss and Joe forgive me, Mama? And if they do, will they help me put things right with Pa?"
Adam hung his head, his insides shrinking all perception of age as he paused for answers he knew he'd never hear. Hat in hand, he stood and approached the stone. He traced the intricately carved lettering that whispered the name of the mother he'd known at a time when young boys naturally pull away from their mothers. "Three years of whys and what ifs have surely added to changes at the ranch. Just like the whys and what ifs we carried in our hearts and minds when you left us." Adam lifted his fingers to his lips and placed a gentle kiss on his fingertips. Touching the elegant scrollwork adorning her name, Adam delivered a tiny bit of the love he held in his heart. "I promise I'll be back soon, but today, I'm going home."
CHAPTER NINE
As he traveled the final leg of his journey, the trail's familiar bends, dips, and rises excited Adam and plagued him at the same time. Every twist and turn of the road reminded him of hundreds of trips and thousands of idle conversations, and each hill and valley spoke to him of the void he'd left behind.
Wrestling demons and butterflies alike, Adam soon found himself riding down a stretch of road he'd memorized as a young boy. The flutters in his stomach quickly smothered the demons, and his heart raced with anticipation as he rounded the final bend in the road.
Adam's horse slowed suddenly, and he wondered if his gasp had frightened the animal. There it is. Leaning forward, he stroked the mare's neck, his eyes never veering from the majestic sight before him. He straightened, memorizing the spectacle that somehow seemed smaller than he'd remembered – smaller, but never more grand. Annoyed at the horse's lack of haste, Adam spurred his mount into the yard. He panned the house, noting the delicate flower pots that dotted the length of the porch and sat in the center of the old, wooden table. "Marie's rocker . . . and two chairs," he said, his smile clouding at the sight. "There used to be three."
Lost amid memories of leisurely conversation, dewy morning coffee, and relaxing evenings of checkers and song, Adam's grip on the reins loosened. His horse slowly wandered right, drawn toward the company of the curious mare approaching the gate of the Ponderosa corral. "Well, now," he said softly as he swung from his horse. "Remember me?" he asked, smiling as he rubbed Cochise's muzzle. "It's good to see ya, girl."
"What are you doing here?"
Adam jerked, the harshness of the unmistakable voice searing through layer after layer of his instantly wounded heart. He turned slowly, and met the jarring, blue eyes.
"Hello, Hoss."
Hoss's hands settled firmly against his hips, supporting a stance that embodied pure resentment. "I asked you a question," Hoss growled.
Adam took a step toward his imposing salvation, hesitating as the front door of the house swung open.
"Hey, Hoss, I heard someone ride . . . Adam?"
Adam's heart fluttered, the lift in Joe's voice as he called his name bringing a surge of childhood memories. "Joe!" Adam cried.
"Why are you here?" Joe asked, tucking himself just behind Hoss's squared left shoulder.
Adam's face stiffened, his eyes fixed on the young men standing before him. "I've come home," he said, more a question than a pronouncement. "I've . . ." His words fell heavily at his feet with the sound of hoof beats galloping in from behind. He saw Hoss and Joe's faces abandon all contempt, adopting instead a mask of concern for the man riding into the yard. Adam turned, and for the first time in three years, he set his eyes on his beloved father.
Adam's back straightened, his chest swelled, and his heart silently summoned a long-awaited greeting. He waited patiently while Ben, still averting his eyes, lifted himself from his saddle and, despite the obvious trembling in his legs, planted his feet firmly on the ground. He stiffened, mirroring Adam's stature, his palms pressed against Buck's side, and Adam closed his eyes, imagining the ambivalence in those of his father. As endless seconds trudged by, the hair on Adam's neck signaled that his brothers had closed in the ranks behind him. His throat tightened, the hunger to once again stand equally at their sides nearly choking his every breath. His father turned, and Adam permitted himself an optimistic smile. That smile faltered when slowly, stoically, his father walked toward him with measured purpose.
As his father's imposing stride brought him closer and closer, Adam clung to the impassive, chestnut eyes that bore into his soul. "A worthy man takes command with more than his strength." His father's words echoed in Adam's mind, and he raised his chin, ready to meet his father with stalwart resolve.
As he stepped nearer, Adam flinched as his father's distant stare crumbled, leaving behind eyes void of the sparkle they'd once held for his eldest son. Instead, Adam saw eyes weathered by disappointment and loneliness; eyes that no longer drew him near, eyes that threatened to repel him backward. One daunting step followed another. "Pa," he whispered, his arms outstretched, his voice imploring. "Pa, I've come home."
Ben's jaw dimpled and swelled, his icy stare never wavering. "You've come to the Ponderosa," he said, his tone even, his words clipped, "but this is no longer your . . ."
Adam jerked sharply. His arms and legs scrambled frantically as he fought to gain some semblance of balance. His heart drummed in his ears, and his eyes grew wide and searching as he gasped for breath. Bewildered at the sudden change in scenery, he pressed his palms against the velvety grass, steadying himself as he pressed his eyes closed and shook the mist from his mind. "No longer my . . . my home?" he whispered, his tear-filled eyes pleading into the void.
The unexpected shrieks of a soaring, Red-tailed hawk led Adam further from his nightmare. He gazed into the late afternoon sky, following the bird along until it disappeared into the tree tops along the mountain. When he lowered his head, his eyes fixed on the headstone to his left, and he sighed as the pieces of his dream slowly faded away. I must have fallen asleep. I never left here, never rode into the yard, never . . . never saw Hoss or Joe . . . or Pa.
CHAPTER TEN
Frustration surfaced as Adam struggled to collect himself, the unthinkable premonition clinging to the edge of reality. Seconds of rational clarity faded into murky, never-ending scenes, more incredulous than when he'd lived them in his nightmare. "What are you doing here?" The loathing in Hoss's tone roiled the bile in Adam's empty stomach. "Why did you come back ?" Adam's heart ached at the thought of Joe's betrayal-filled eyes.
Adam inhaled sharply, settling the nausea and clearing his head of the nightmare's whispers. Satisfied that he'd shed himself of the haunting dream, he pursed his lips and blew the air from his lungs, but when he dropped his chin and massaged the knot in his neck, a chill trickled through his body as one voice from the nightmare returned. "This is no longer your . . ." Adam scrambled to his feet, grasping wildly at the emptiness around him until his hands found solace along the cold, smooth surface of Marie's headstone. He lowered his head and closed his eyes, shutting out the bitter faces of his father and brothers. "Pa would never . . ." he said, as he gripped the marble stone, every breath bursting forth in a raspy spurt. "A nightmare," he said, his assuring tone calming his rapid pulse.
"I stopped here, to talk to Marie and I . . . I fell asleep." Adam released his hold and shifted his feet. His balance restored, he raised his eyes to the monument's fluid lettering.
"It was just a nightmare, Mama," Adam said softly, his lips curling into a brief smile. "I remember you telling Little Joe that nightmares disappear when a strong will meets them head on." Squatting next to the grave, Adam's fingers followed the scalloped edges of the flower etched in the upper corner of the headstone. "When I left, I know they didn't understand. Truth be told, neither did I." Adam smiled as he pressed his open hand against the glossy surface. "The reasons don't matter now. I knew if I came here, you'd find a way to give me strength." Adam quickly pulled himself to his feet. "I'm going home and I'm going to meet head on whatever nightmares my leaving four years ago created."
Stepping back from the grave, he stared at the name etched on the marker for all to see. "I've missed talking to you, Mama. I've missed so much." Silently, Adam bade goodbye to Marie, his eyes moistened by emotions of the past. He donned his hat, and the snug band hugged his head and brought a smile to his face. He gathered the reins loosely in his palm and turned, reaching through the distance for one last, invisible caress from the delicate soul guiding him. "Thank you," he whispered. "I'll be back soon."
Moments later, Adam sat comfortably in the saddle, and with one final nod, he rode through the narrow, overgrown trail and onto the main road leading to the ranch. While he worked to camouflage his nightmare with his anxious smile, Adam instinctively searched for the markers that would lead him home. "I remember when Pa taught me to look for the signs," he thought. "And together, we taught Hoss." He smiled as the first of the landmarks, a grouping of six trees seemingly planted in a straight row, came into view. "Perfectly planted pines," Adam said aloud. "That's what Pa called them, and I never forgot."
Adam's nose tingled as he filled his lungs with the aromas of the surrounding landscape. The road, lined with petite, Blue-eyed Marys and dainty, yellow Buckbeans, arched and ascended as he traveled further from the lake. Adam's eyes lured him onward, and he stood stiff-legged in his stirrups at the sight of another of his father's markers. "Rectangle Rock," he mused. "Now that's a marker that time and nature will never change." Anticipation prickled his skin, and he urged his horse to a speedier gate. As he passed the huge rock, Adam smiles as he recalled a scorching, August afternoon when he'd asked his father to stop at Rectangle Rock so that he could take measurements and calculate the weight of the granite mass. I'll never forget Pa's face when I told him that rock weighed in excess of four thousand pounds! Adam's eyes darkened suddenly. And I'll never forget the day Pa, Hoss, and Joe met the stage when I returned from college. Joe was so subdued, sitting forward in the back seat of the buggy, clinging on my every word. I thought he was still angry with me – he'd never hidden his feelings about my leaving. Adam's throat tightened. But he was listening, intently, to everything I said, soaking it in, until we came to Rectangle Rock. "Hey, Adam! Guess what Hoss told me? He says Rectangle Rock weighs more than four thousand pounds! Can ya believe it, Adam? Ain't that the heaviest thing ya ever did see?" "It just might be, Joe" was all I could say. The kid was so proud of that knowledge, and I suddenly realized how many things I hadn't been there to teach him. Adam stared into the distance, Joe's floundering, young voice still whispering in his memory. I wonder now how many things Joe could have taught me.
The subtle descent in the trail shook Adam's nerves, yet his mindset adjusted quickly to welcoming signs that he was almost home. Another marker came into view, and Adam reined his mount to a stop. "I wonder how many times that's been painted?" he asked himself. "I lost track over the years." He dismounted and knelt reverently at the simple, arrowed pine plank that read "Ponderosa." Silently calling them out in his mind, he traced the nine carved letters, noting that several would soon require another coat of black paint. "Funny," he mused, "but with all of my schooling, those letters still spell 'home.'"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Adam wasted no time, swinging stirrupless into the saddle with the lightness and grace of his youth. "I think I'll do that more often!" he said, grinning first at the exuberance he felt and second, at the thought of the looks on the faces of his father and brothers. "Joe's not the only one who can swing mount!" he mused. No sooner had he clicked his horse forward than a boisterous laugh erupted from deep in his chest. Somehow, I can see Pa pulling one off, but Hoss? Now, that would be a sight to see!
It wasn't long before anticipation stirred Adam's senses. With each twist and turn in the road, the hues of the foliage lining the trail seemed to deepen, and the whisper of the wind and chattering of the birds resounded in his ears. His back straightened, his eyes pleading into the distance, predicting sights he'd thought to be long forgotten. He marveled that weather and the passage of time had done little to mar the final distance that led into the front yard of the Ponderosa. The road stretched onward, and when the angles of the barn's roof came into view, Adam gasped, his quickening pulse flushing his neck and face. At once, time slowed and hastened, and as the building emerged amid the lush copse, a smile crept across Adam's beaming face. I never noticed before. That barn, with its redwood finish and graying roof belongs here, right here, in the midst of the imposing pines and low lying brush. It simply belongs here, as if nature had planted it, fertilized its roots, and made way for the structure to grow. Adam slipped his hand to his hip. It belongs here, and God willing, I'll make Pa and Hoss and Joe believe me when I say that I know now that I belong here, too. As he rounded the northernmost corner of the barn, he slowed, all thoughts and memories suddenly vanished into a blackened silence. But instead of an overwhelming void, the emptiness was immediately filled with a warmth and security that Adam had neither known nor forgotten in his four years in Boston.
"There it is," he whispered, a chill trickling down his spine as he heard the words from his dream. A nightmare. That's all it was. Adam shook his head, unable to shed himself of the anxieties of his long anticipated return. I know they didn't understand why I left. And because they didn't, I'm sure they felt I was turning against the ranch, Pa's dream, and them. Why didn't Pa see that my following my dream didn't mean that I was abandoning his? Why couldn't Hoss and Joe accept it? As Adam continued on, his mind raced from one possible outcome to the next. I can't change the things I've done. I just hope the decisions I made haven't changed . . . us. Tugging gently on the reins, Adam directed his horse further into the yard. The porch and . . . Marie's rocker. Adam smiled wistfully. And there are still three chairs.
A nicker drew his attention from the geranium blossoms dotting the porch's window sill. Well, what d'ya know? Another pull on the reins led his horse toward the corral, and in one nimble movement, Adam swung from his saddle and headed for the welcoming sight.
"Hello, boy," he said softly, reaching for the buckskin's muzzle. "Remember me?" Adam studied the horse's lustrous, chocolate eyes, and when Buck rubbed against his hand, Adam grinned. "You're still one of the best looking horses I've ever . . ." A whinny as familiar as his own voice stopped Adam in his tracks. He quickly tethered his horse to the fence, his eyes never leaving the source of the overwhelming sound. Without thinking, Adam made his way to the corner of the corral just in time to see the chestnut ambling toward the gate. "C'mere, Sport," Adam said, his hand reaching toward his friend, his voice wrought with emotion. "C'mere, boy."
Sport snorted, dipped his head, and nudged Adam's hand.
"I've missed you too, boy," Adam said as he released the latch on the sturdy gate and stepped inside the enclosure. He stroked the gelding's neck, staring at his fingertips as he caressed the glossy chestnut coat he'd thought of every day for the past four years. "They've taken good care of you," Adam said, stretching up to rub Sport's ears. "And I hope you kept an eye on them in return."
Sport raised his left hoof and dug at the ground.
Adam chuckled and thumped Sport's shoulder. "I've got to go and see them now, boy, but I'll be back soon. I promise." After one last caress, Adam latched the corral gate and turned, glancing into the barn. His heart dropped at the sight of two empty stalls. "If Cochise and Chubb aren't here," he thought, "then Joe and Hoss aren't, either." Disappointment shone on his face, and he sighed as he headed toward the house. "Maybe it'll be better this way," he thought, "seeing Pa first, alone. Maybe . . ."
Hesitantly at first, Adam made his way across the yard, his eyes focused on the sturdy pine door. His right hand reached instinctively for the wrought iron latch, the familiar coldness of the dimpled metal snatching his breath. He paused, unsure of the proper way to enter his home. Do I knock? Nervously, he shifted his weight. No. This is home. My home.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The creak of the latch's metal spring harmonized with Adam's attempt at a deep, calming breath, and as the dependable door bid Adam to enter, his chest swelled with anticipation. His lungs seemed to shiver as the warm, woodsy scent of the morning fire's ashes wafted through the open space. I had a fireplace at my place in Boston, but this . . . this smells like home.
As Adam gently laid the palm of his hand against the finely sanded finish of the front door, it swung further into the room, a welcoming invitation from the house to a returning son. He leaned forward, his feet holding fast in the mire of guilt he'd nurtured over the past four years. With effort, Adam managed three hesitant steps, crossing the threshold of the home that lived and breathed on the edge of his consciousness. "Anybody home?" he called, shocked when his voice echoed with the resonance of his youth. "Pa!" he shouted. "Hoss! Joe! . . . Hop Sing?" Adam stood, motionless, his eyes glowing with childlike awe as he scanned the open rooms, whispering as his eyes lingered, at last, on the staircase. "I guess no one's home."
"Always set the nail head, son. That way, no rough edges will be exposed."
"Okay, Pa. Hoss is getting real good at remembering to hold on to banisters. I wouldn't like it if he hurt his hands on ours."
Adam's chest swelled with pride as he recalled the conversation he'd had with his father. They'd worked side by side for days on end, building the L-shaped stairs that led to the newly-constructed upstairs of the ranch house, and the final touch – attaching the smoothly sanded banister – meant that father and sons would soon have reason to celebrate. "I wonder," Adam thought, "how many times Hoss has steadied his way up and down that staircase since that day. And not once did he ever feel those nail heads." Adam smiled, nodding slightly. "Pa and I did a good job."
Pulling himself from the vision of the young boy silhouetted against the stairs, Adam's eyes drifted left, lured to the whispering hue of the blue velvet chair. His thoughts lingered there, memories of evenings spent, book in hand, listening to idle chatter as the family settled in for the evening.Most nights, I spent an hour or two reading - without turning a page. Adam smiled. So many conversations in this room, I can almost hear the voices . . . voices and the sizzle of the fire. Craning his neck toward the ceiling, Adam marveled at the grand fireplace. His arms felt strained, suddenly burdened by the memory of working at his father's side as they unloaded the hundreds of stones that made the showcase's impressive façade. "How many days?" he asked himself, tucking his hands beneath his arms. "I think it was fourteen - fourteen long, exhausting days of hauling rocks and fitting them in place. And Roy was here, in his spare time, helping Pa as he scaled the scaffolding." Drawn unaware to the magnificent structure, Adam startled at the hearth's cold surface beneath his hand. I watched Pa climb up and down for days, and every time, I held my breath until his feet touched the safety of the floor. Once again, Adam's eyes lifted upward, his palm pressed against the stone. I was so afraid something would happen, that Pa, as strong as he was, would carry a rock that was just too much for him, that he'd stumble and . . . and Hoss and I would lose him. Adam shivered and backed away from the hearth. "Pa was all we had," he thought, his hand bumping against the armrest of his father's favorite chair.
Adam's gaze fell downward, coming to rest on the worn, red leather chair. Instinctively, he ran his fingertips along the tufted seam, years of memories floating through his mind with each faded spot and loosened stitch. He noted the seat's cushion, the shallow depression speaking to hours of well-deserved relaxation, as well as moments of anxiety and even fear. He chuckled and then sighed, recalling that at the age of twelve, his father had rearranged the furniture, placing his favorite, most comfortable chair directly across from the front door. How many times did one of us come home, our guilty shoulders hunched, our tentative steps light, only to find Pa sitting wide awake, his elbows on the armrests, his fingers steepled in thought. Adam stroked the back of the chair, its stuffing surrendering slightly to the pressure of his hand. Pa always knew when we needed him the most. And when it counted most, he set aside his anger, and he listened, considerate of our feelings and opinions. Adam squeezed the top ridge of the chair. Sometimes, there was disappointment in his eyes – the kind of disappointment that burns straight into your heart, the kind I saw on the day I left four years ago. Adam turned away from the chair, his gaze moving along the woven rug and across the weathered floor, coming to rest on the reliable old desk that held within its grain a lifetime of plans, calculations, and decisions.
"Pa's desk," he whispered, remembering times when he and each of his brothers had perched themselves, tip-toed, trying in vain to see the papers that occupied much of their father's time. Adam quickly made his way past the black iron heater to his father's desk, the open ledger readily catching his eye. Looks like Pa's working on this month's payroll. Adam slipped into his father's inviting green chair, his mind working effortlessly with the columns on the open page. A warm smile crept across his lips. Well, what do you know? Not a number out of place! He examined the page carefully, furrowing his brow at the neatly written figures. Lifting his father's pencil, he stared at the pristine eraser on its tip. I wonder . . . Was it all a ruse? All those years, did Pa really need my help with the books? Or was he doing what he always did – fueling my confidence, exposing my potential? Adam's silent thoughts lodged in his throat. Reverently, he closed the ledger, resting his palm atop the tooled leather cover. Was he simply being the father I needed him to be?
A twinge of guilt coursed through Adam, flooding his veins with the memories he'd hoarded for the past four years, memories of Hoss's confused expression as he swallowed his questions and doubts and wished Adam well in his new adventure, memories of Joe's face, his years melting away as his eyes welled and his lips quivered, his emotional voice bidding Adam a happy future, and memories of his father, bracing his stance with fatherly sustenance, trying in vain to mask his heavy heart with wishes for a successful journey.
All of the letters. Could they really have been filled with lies? Did Joe fake his excitement about my joining the firm in Boston in his letter? Could Hoss have exaggerated when he said he was happy for me, when that meant my staying in the east for several years? Would Pa have lied when he wrote that he was proud of my accomplishments? I just can't be . . .
The pounding rhythm of hooves and the screeching revolutions of wagon wheels brought Adam bolting to his feet. His eyes danced, the colors in the room deepening to vivid hues as the angles and lines sharpened into focus. His heart raced, pressing against his chest as his breath came in ragged spurts. He stepped around the desk and hurried toward the door, his body trembling with anticipation. Voices - melodic, missing pieces of Adam's core – caressed his mind as they approached the front entrance. Adam reached for the doorknob, his nervous palm damp with expectation. He hesitated, exhilaration shivering across him like a chilly winter breeze. His hand fell rigidly at his side and he stepped back, the approaching footfall resounding in his ears.
The voices grew stronger. The metal knob slowly shifted. The door was liberated from its latch, and Adam gasped in tandem.
"Joe," Adam said.
"Adam!" Joe lunged forward into Adam's waiting arms.
"Hoss," Adam said.
"Well, I'll be!" Hoss grabbed Adam's hand and clapped him on the shoulder. "It's Adam!"
Joe and Hoss grinned, standing tall as they took their places on either side of their older brother.
Adam's chest heaved, his eyes clouded with unspent tears as he gazed at the final figure in the doorway.
"Pa," Adam whispered, his voice a mere whimper.
Ben closed his gaping lips and swallowed, his eyes brimming with tears.
"Pa," Adam said. "I've come . . ."
"Home. My son has come home."