Chapter One
Waiting is an art, and patience is but a single brush stroke. He'd read that, but he couldn't remember where.
Diptera. A regal sounding name for an often squashed, never welcomed insect. Why two names for an insignificant, winged insect that humans and animals alike neither invite nor appreciate.
Seated on the unforgiving bench in Monoville's only passable gathering place, Adam watched the fly as it tirelessly made its way along the length of the back edge of the church pew.
Voices droned, the occasional sudden outburst barely noticed, just as they had for the past hour and seven minutes, and Adam vowed he would never again represent his family's lumbering interests at an upstart town's request.
Parts unknown. Instinct versus rational thought. Does that fly know where it's going, or for that matter, why? Is its entire existence composed of instinctive wandering? Or is it rooted in the acquisition of food?
Adam smiled. He knew another creature whose existence seemed dependant on food—his brother, Hoss. He chuckled, imagining Hoss walking mindlessly in search of his next meal.
"What's that you say?"
Discomfited by his actions, Adam adjusted his posture and quietly greeted the gentleman seated to his right with a slight smile.
Having paid attention to no more than the first twenty minutes of the Monoville town council's presentation, Adam felt confident in his response. "I said I don't believe I agree with our esteemed speaker."
The sandy-haired man snickered. "Can't say as I agree, either." Extending his hand, the man introduced himself. "Dawson McAllister."
Adam accepted the proffered hand. "Adam Cartwright."
Dawson's left eyebrow arched. "Of the Ponderosa Cartwrights?"
"That's what I've been told."
Dawson grinned. "So, you're here as a potential investor?"
"Absolutely not," Adam replied. "I am here because an acquaintance of an acquaintance asked my father to provide guidance in the town's so-called endeavor."
Dawson nodded and folded his arms. "I see. Your father passed the honor on to you."
"Honor?" Adam snorted. "That's an interesting choice of words for what appears to be a fool's folly of an idea." No sooner had the words left his lips than Adam regretted them— just slightly. He sat forward and turned toward Dawson. "Now it's me who's chosen his words poorly. If I've offended, please accept my apology."
Dawson waved his hand in the air. "No need, Mr. Cartwright. While I currently reside in Monoville, I assure you, I do not agree with the latest get rich scheme proposed by the town council."
Adam feigned indignation. "You don't think purchasing land on a nearby mountain, stripping the mountain of its trees, and destroying the watershed simply to supply Monoville's town owned mill is a viable plan?"
"Well," Dawson said casually, "when you put it that way!"
The men laughed, drawing glares and stares from several of those in attendance.
"You do realize," Dawson said, ignoring the situation, "there are three more speakers. And knowing the council members, it'll be too close to dinner time to continue after that."
Adam scratched his neck. "Where can a man get a nice, cold beer around here?"
"The Thirsty Cowboy Saloon."
"Really?"
"I'm afraid so."
Adam stood, confused that Dawson did not follow suit.
"You buyin'?" Dawson asked, folding his jacket over the crook in his arm. "Being a Cartwright and all."
Adam dipped his head. "Sounds fair."
Dawson took two steps, stopped, and turned. "Seeing as how it is getting late, and being a Cartwright, and all-"
"Dinner?"
"Why, how kind of you to ask." Dawson took three steps, stopped, smiled, and turned. "After that cold beer."
Adam's grin exposed a dimple.
Dawson's smile faded. "Do all you Cartwrights have those?"
"What?"
"Dimples."
Although the question seemed out of place, it was the strange tone in Dawson's voice and the brief, judgmental gleam in his eyes that nearly made Adam shiver.
Dawson's demeanor changed as quickly as it had before. "What about that cold beer?"
Adam paused, considering his reply. "Being a Cartwright," he said, 'I wouldn't have it any other way." Although they had just met, until that moment, Adam liked Dawson McAllister. But now, he wondered if the man had an agenda, and he planned on finding out.
As the two skirted their way out of the pew, the speaker continued his well rehearsed, overzealous proposal to the potential investors and good people of Monoville. At the end of the pew, Adam hesitated. Diptera. The fly, on his infinite quest, neared the rim at the end of the bench.
In front of him, Adam watched as Dawson slipped an arm into his jacket and pulled the rest to his other side. The fabric brushed swiftly against the pew's edge, knocking the defenseless fly to the ground.
Adam shook his head. He glanced around the church at the crowd, engrossed in the promise of quick fortune and future prosperity. Instinct versus rational thought.
Tomorrow would bring the opportunity for him to present the Cartwrights' recommendation to the people of Monoville, and Adam knew he had the potential to insult their instincts and knock them to the ground. Men in search of immediate wealth could be as defenseless as a tiny fly. But Adam believed in what he planned to say. These were grown men and if they chose to ignore the obvious, so be it.
Sunrise without the promise of chores can be as unwelcome as a saddle burr on the way to a Sunday Box Social picnic.
Should've pulled the blinds when I got in last night. Adam rolled over, facing away from the window's assaulting light. Or was it this morning?
For an upstart town—population seventy seven—morning certainly came early, and along with it, the bump and grind of wagon wheels, the cadence of horses' hooves, and several muffled greetings shouted from one side of the street below to the other.
Should have shut the window, too. He snatched up the pillow next to him, covered his head, and groaned.
Later that morning, the meeting at the church would no doubt draw the same crowd, but it would be Adam who would address the crowd of potential investors, interested citizens, and the few remaining townsfolk who came for the spectacle often provided by a town council.
Beneath the down-filled pillow, Adam huffed. Potential investors. A label the council assigned to the very people who elected them. From what he'd seen the day before, Adam knew it was their way of asking for money they knew very well their constituents neither had to spare nor could obtain. Predicting the same, Adam had warned his father that their "invitation to advise" could easily become pressure to invest.
Tossing the pillow to the floor, he pounded his fists once against the mattress, pushed himself up, and swung his legs over the edge. Sitting directly in the sun's morning rays, he flexed his neck from side to side, rolled his shoulders, and took a deep breath. Suddenly, the promise of ranch chores back home sounded very, very appealing.
Adam washed, shaved, and dressed with no enthusiasm for the upcoming day. His breakfast at Gabe's Cafe consisted of two eggs, burned at the edges, four slices of undercooked bacon, two heavy, over-baked biscuits, and one cup of surprisingly good coffee. As he worked at buttering one of the biscuits, he thought back to dinner the night before.
He and Dawson had dined at the same restaurant where Adam was now seated. It was the only one still in business in Monoville.
Before he'd left the Ponderosa, Adam's father, Ben Cartwright, had spoken of the town's recent rapid decent toward ruin. Less than ten years ago, gold had been discovered in Monoville. The town and a handful of investors had decided hydraulic mining was the way to go. A conduit was constructed to divert water from Virginia Creek to aid the hydraulic operations. That waterway, named the Mono Canal, was at its time the only such project in the county, and building it cost all concerned a mere seventy-five-thousand dollars.
As he'd listened to his father's recollection of the events, Adam suddenly recalled having overheard a discussion ten years ago between his father and Oscar Jones, Virginia City's banker at the time. Adam had understood enough about hydraulic mining to know that once the mine was blasted and flooded and plucked clean of its treasure, what was left behind would be ugly, useless, and dangerous.
And now, as he sat at a corner table in Gabe's Cafe, Adam recalled a conversation from the night before—a conversation with Dawson McAllister over tough pot roast, lumpy mashed potatoes, and large slices of dry, strawberry rhubarb pie.
He had enjoyed the beer at the saloon and the time he'd spent with Dawson. What the food at the café lacked, the two men had made up in conversation. At least he'd thought so at the time. But now, staring into the coffee swirling as he stirred, Adam realized one thing. He'd done all the talking about Monoville's past and present situation. His new friend, Dawson, had simply agreed with all he'd said with little or no elaboration at all. Once again, Adam began to wonder about Dawson McAllister.
Adam finished his coffee and left a more than generous tip atop the paid bill. He started for the door, turning at the sound of the young waitress's voice.
"Excuse me, sir. There must be some mistake," she said, holding the paper bill and cash in her extended palm.
"I don't believe there's a problem," Adam said, stepping toward the woman who'd waited on him late the night before as well as early that morning.
"But, sir, there is too much money here."
Adam smiled. "The money is what I intended to leave. Thank you for your excellent attention."
The woman's eyes filled with tears.
Adam tipped his hat, spun on his heels, and started for the church.
Was it kindness that told him she needed the money? Or was it instinct that told him things in Monoville were doomed to get worse?