Same Pines, Different Wind

"Joseph!"

Ben Cartwright opened the door of the ranch house and looked out toward the stable.

"Joseph, are you out there?"

When he received no reply, the older man stepped onto the porch. He glanced at the sky, noting that it was clouding over – not unusual for a day in the first week of December. The cold had advanced quickly this year and everyone was expecting an early snow. In fact, the day before while out on the range he had spotted a few flakes drifting to the ground. Yes, the year was winding down and soon there would be time for that book and glass of brandy by the fire that cattle drives, timberlines, and mining operations had so long denied.

That was, if he ever found his son.

"Joe!"

"What do you need, Pa?"

The voice came from behind him and not from the stable. He spun to find Joe emerging from the house. His son was dressed as usual in his tan hat, green leather coat, brown shirt and gray pants, and looked like he was ready to travel. He had a saddlebag slung over his shoulder along with a bag from the kitchen containing food that Hop Sing had no doubt prepared.

There was also an apple in his mouth.

"When did you come in?" Ben asked.

Joe finished the bite he was taking, pointed to his mouth while he chewed, and then swallowed so quickly he coughed. "Sorry, Pa. I've been in the kitchen with Hop Sing. I came in the side door."

"Oh." His son was twenty-eight years old now and had streaks of silver highlighting his once deep brown hair, but he still looked like that little boy with the mound of curls and great green eyes that he would swoop up and out of his mother's arms. He indicated the saddlebag with a nod. "Are you going somewhere?"

Joe looked immediately guilty. "What? Oh, this?" He winced. "I just thought I'd ride up and check out the timber on the north edge toward Crescent Mountain. It's been about six months since any of us was up that way to check things out."

"Hmmm, let's see." Ben snapped his fingers. "Now, that wouldn't be when you went to check up on Carrie Pickett, would it?"

Joe actually blushed. "It might be."

"Joe, if you wanted time off to go and visit Carrie, all you had to do was ask. What makes you think you have to sneak off?"

"I'm sorry, Pa. It's just, well, you know, when I went last summer, Hoss never let me hear the end of it."

He didn't remember it clearly, but he did remember the fact that Joe had decked his brother for implying that his feelings for the older woman went deeper than friendship. Carrie Pickett was his age, either near or over sixty. The idea that Joe had any sort of romantic connection to her was ridiculous and his brother knew it, of course. But there was something there. The 'stubborn, cantankerous old woman', as Joe put it, had definitely won a bit of his young son's heart – which said a lot about Joe and Carrie.

"You know how Hoss is," he said t last.

"With me? Yeah, I know." Joe ran a gloved hand through his ample hair. "I just thought, if I said you had sent me up to the timberline, that Hoss'd just think it was routine."

"So you lied to your brother? And were going to lie to me?"

Joe's brown eyebrows met in the middle. "Well, not exactly lied..."

"So what exactly would you call telling your brother that I told you to go when I didn't, if not a lie?" he asked, folding his arms over his chest.

Joe's lips pursed and his mouth twitched. "Creative thinking?"

Ben rolled his eyes. "Joseph, whatever am I going to do with you? You're too old to send to your room and definitely old enough to know better."

Joe hung his head for a moment. When he looked up, there was an odd light in his eyes. "I can't explain it, Pa. I feel responsible for that old woman up there. The last time I checked on her she only had enough food in her cupboard for a week. That's all. When I asked her why, she told me to mind my own business." Joe snorted. "Actually, she threw a kettle at me and then told me to mind my own business. Pa, Carrie's just so dang stubborn that she's liable to get herself into trouble."

"Well, you are not responsible for her," Ben replied. As Joe started to protest, he held up a hand. "However, if what you are saying is that you are concerned for a friend and you would like to ask to go and help her out for a few weeks in order to prepare her place for winter, I think that would be acceptable."

His son's eyes lit with hope. "Really, Pa. You mean you'll let me go?"

Ben stepped over to his son and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You're a grown man, Joseph. You don't have to get my permission. If I disagree with what you intend to do, it's still your choice. I reared all of you boys to be independent men. However," he wagged his finger, "no more lying, young man."

Joe grinned. "No more lying, Pa." His son hesitated. "So I guess that means I should tell you that Hop Sing's packing a wagon with stock from the kitchen for me to take with me to Piney Woods?"

The older man sighed. "It wouldn't hurt."

"I'll pay you back, Pa. I just want to make sure she's stocked up for winter." Joe glanced toward the horizon. "It looks like it's going to be a hard one."

"Yes, and that makes it even more imperative you go now." Ben lifted his hand from his son's shoulder. "Don't stay too long, Joseph. It's December, and you know what the snow can be up near Crescent."

"Sure thing, Pa. It takes a day to get there. I'll stay five or six and be back in a week. Will that work?"

It was pushing it as far as the weather, but he knew Joe would want to help Carrie out with her own preparations for winter. In the spring he had spent the majority of his time constructing a few small buildings, including a barn and a lean-to for Carrie's horse connected to the corral. This time there would be wood to lay in, butchering to be done, and much more.

"I don't suppose you could try to talk her into moving closer to the Ponderosa?" he asked. "A few more years and she's not going to be able to take care of that place or herself."

Joe laughed. "You can tell her that, Pa. Not me. I don't want to have my head blown off with a double-barreled shot gun."

"I suppose so. Anyhow, son," Ben held out his hand, "take care of yourself. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Jason Milburn is still active in that area and he has no love lost for you. You defeated a scheme of his that would have made him a very rich man."

Joe's eyes lit again, this time with a kind of pride. "He'll never be as rich as Miss Carrie, Pa. Not in a million years."

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The ride to Piney Woods was an agreeable one. The sun was bright and the air pleasantly brisk. He'd slept the night before in the open air and that always made him feel optimistic. It was going to be a good visit. He'd get there by sundown today and have time to give Carrie her surprise before settling in to sleep.

Cochise was tethered behind the wagon and he had a strong plow horse named Onyx pulling it. She was a Missouri Fox Trotter, black in color and pretty as a thoroughbred. He meant to leave the horse with Carrie so she could use it, along with her other one, to plant her fields in the spring. He'd come back, of course, to help and make sure she had a good crop laid in.

It was hard to explain, even to himself, what Carrie meant to him. She was the orneriest, most cantankerous and argumentative woman he had ever met. The first time they'd come in contact she'd almost shot him. Then she'd lied to him, played tricks on him, and made him just about as mad as he had ever been. And yet... There was something about her. It wasn't her looks, though he was sure she had been pretty enough when young. It was her spirit. She was like a proud stallion that had shed all restraints, standing on a mountain top, rearing up into the wind and whinnying for joy, not caring if it lived or died, only that it was free.

It made him wonder just what Amos Pickett had been like. He must have been quite a man to keep that flying filly content.

Joe slapped the reins against the Trotter's rump, coaxing one final burst of speed from the animal. They were almost there. In a half hour he should see the log cabin Amos Pickett had built for his young wife come into view with its single door, transom, and front window under which Carrie kept a bench just for sitting. There was a porch off the left-hand side where she kept a chair and liked to sit too, and another extension of the other side of the cabin that was her bedroom. The corral was to the right and there was a well nearby. That was the first thing he was going to tackle. The well had gone dry the year before and he hadn't had time to fix it yet. Carrie needed a well. A woman her age shouldn't be forced to go down to the lake and haul heavy buckets back every day. For one thing, it just wasn't safe. He figured a week should be long enough to do it. That, and other things like chopping wood and helping her with the smoked meat. Yes, he'd have Carrie all set for the winter before he left and then he could rest easy.

The sun was setting in the west by the time Joe arrived. It cast long thin shadows along the ground that partially hid Carrie Pickett's humble home. It wasn't until he pulled up out front and really looked at it, that he realized something was wrong. The porch on the left-hand side of the house was gone. Reining in the horse, Joe stopped the wagon and jumped out. He walked over to the charred part of the structure to examine what remained.

There had been a fire. A bad one that had burned right through the logs to the inside.

Joe walked straight to the door and banged on it. "Carrie! Carrie! It's Joe Cartwright. If you're in there, let me in!" He waited. When there was no reply, he banged again. "Carrie! Open up!"

He only answer was an ominous silence that set his nerves on edge.

Joe swung in a tight circle, looking out toward the lake, and then back to the woods that lay on the southwest portion of Carrie's quarter section. She could be anywhere – anywhere out there. As stubborn as the old woman was, she could have tried to chop down a tree or burn out a stump or any of a million things that might have left her injured. The wilderness was no place for a woman alone. He was sure her Amos would have agreed with him. He was going to have to find some way to convince her to go back to the Ponderosa with him where she'd be safe. At least for the winter.

Stepping to the edge of the property, Joe cupped his hands around his mouth and called, "Carrie! Carrie, it's Joe! Carrie, answer me!"

It was then he heard it. A clang and a clamor to the west. Frowning, Joe drew his gun and moved in the direction of the noise, heading to the area behind the cabin and into the trees that flanked it. It was almost dark, so it was hard for him to see. Still, there were stars and the moon was up, so it wasn't impossible. Joe traveled for several minutes and then paused to listen. He heard it again – a banging sound like Hop Sing made on a day when he took his temper out on one of Pa's fine copper kettles. Drawing a breath and holding it, he started to move again and was about halfway to the next clump of trees when he saw a flash of something shiny off to his right. Weapon raised, he spun – but he wasn't fast enough. Something hard made contact with his head.

And he was out.

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When Joe woke up he was in Carrie's cabin, sort of laying in her bed. His feet hadn't quite made it. He had a splitting headache and was nursing a goose egg the size of, well, a goose egg. He could hear someone bustling around in the room beyond the curtain that separated the bedroom from the rest of the house, rattling dishes, and talking to themselves. Righting himself, he waited for the herd of buffalo to stop thundering through his head, and then rose unsteadily to his feet. Gripping the curtain, he pulled it aside and stepped into the common room of the Pickett house.

Carrie had her back to him. She didn't hear him apparently, because she didn't turn around but continued to fuss with something on the stove. He noticed some of the supplies he had brought with him had been carried into the house. Carrie must have found the wagon after she...well...either found him or tried to kill him.

"What you got cooking, Carrie?" he asked softly. "I'm mighty hungry."

The older woman pivoted on her heel to look at him. Her hands went up in the air. "Joe Cartwright! If you bein' up and around ain't a sight to set a woman's heart singin'. I thought you was dead, boy!"

Joe gingerly touched his head where it had been struck. "I might feel better if I was."

She took his hand and dragged him toward the table. "Now you sit yourself right down and let me take a look at that there bump you got."

"I'm okay, Carrie," he protested as she pulled out a chair and practically shoved him into it. "Really. There's no need to – ouch!"

Carrie lifted her fingers. "Did that hurt?"

Joe winced as his hand went to his head. "No. I just felt like yelling."

She looked askance at him. "Now you are joshin' me."

"It's okay, Carrie. I'll survive. I just have a headache." He hesitated to ask and then did. "You wouldn't happen to have any whiskey around, would you?"

"Now what would I be doing with that there Devil water in this here house?" she asked, her tone indicating he had just suggested that she had stolen money from the church plate.

"I just thought...maybe Amos..."

"My Amos weren't a drinkin' man, Joe Cartwright, and you should know it."

"Er, I never met Amos, Carrie, remember?"

She was moving to a cupboard on the opposite of the kitchen from her bed. When she got there, she produced a key from her apron pocket and opened one of its sections. "No, my Amos never drank," she said, still sounding slightly put out. Then she turned around with a bottle of whiskey in her hand. "But he did keep a supply for medicinal purposes."

She returned to the table with the bottle and a smile on her lips. Joe took it. He whistled. The handwritten label read: Pure Kentucky Bourbon Whiskey aged 10 years. "Where'd Amos get this?"

She looked a bit chagrined. "Would you believe me if I told you it was a wedding present?"

Joe held the bottle up. It was over half-full. His look was skeptical. "When were you and Amos married?"

She shook her head and let out a sigh. "Nigh onto thirty years ago..."

He turned the bottle around and looked at the label again. Not only was the whiskey aged ten years, the bottle was only eleven years old. "Um, Carrie," he started.

She batted her eyes that way that she did. It made her look like a fresh-faced school girl. "Well, I have to take medicine too."

He wondered if she had had the bottle the year before when he'd tried to stake a claim for her in order to keep her land out of Jason Milburn's hands. She'd been sick with infection then; close to losing her hand to an animal bite. The whiskey would've helped with the pain she had to bear before Doc Belden treated her and her fever finally broke.

"I'll go fetch you a cup," she said.

Joe watched her cross over to the cupboard again and come back with a fine silver mug. He took it and then asked, "Another wedding gift?"

There was something odd in the way she answered. "Well," she huffed, "it was a gift anyway."

He poured himself a glass, sniffed it, and then taking a sip let it roll back on his tongue before he swallowed. "Mm, mm!" he said, making a noise of approval. "Nothing in Pa's stock can rival that! Your Amos had good taste." He looked at her, sitting there, watching him, and smiled. "But then I knew that. He picked you."

"Oh, pshaw, Joe," Carrie said, blushing like that school girl.

Joe took another sip and let the warmth course through him. It helped a bit with the pain in his head, but not much. The knot on it was throbbing and hot to the touch.

"Say, Carrie, where did you find me, and how did you get me back here?"

She was running a finger over the table, following the grain. "I got hold of that there horse of your'n and used him to drag you here."

No wonder his head ached! Joe thought a moment. He remembered moving into the woods and hearing a strange noise, like someone banging pans. "Where'd you find me?"

She glanced up. "Layin' flat on your face in the grass."

"Did you see anyone around, I mean, did you see who cold-cocked me?" When she said nothing, he went on. "Come on, Carrie. There could be someone out there looking to hurt you. If you didn't see them, then I need to – "

"It were me! Oh, Joe, it were me." She looked crestfallen. "I thought you was one of them boys who's been givin' me trouble."

Somehow he was not surprised. "Boys? What boys?"

She sighed and rose to her feet. "I'm gonna get you somethin' to eat, Joe Cartwright, and then we can talk."

He wanted to protest because he really wanted to know. But then again, he really wanted to eat too. He hadn't had anything since noon and could tell by rising light outside that it was near morning. He thanked Carrie as she placed a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread in front of him.

"You eat, Joe. We'll talk later," she said as she went about her business.

As he ate, Joe thought back to the first time he had met Carrie Pickett. He'd come to this land, fifty miles south of Crescent Mountain, and found her living here all alone. She'd been a handful and more when he tried to get her to understand that she had to stake a claim and file it at the land office in order to keep hold of the Piney Woods, as she called them. Jason Milburn, a timber baron and thief, had been willing to do just about anything to get his hands on her piece of land as it was crucial to his lumber business. Milburn wanted the trees and a way to get them out, little caring that he would strip the land bare and destroy twenty ranchers' livelihoods as well as effecting the watershed. Fortunately, with the aid of Doc Belden – who had actually been working for Milburn at the time – they were able to get Carrie to sign a claim and have the man from the Carson City land office file it. Milburn had ridden off that day with his tale between his legs. He'd wondered at times if Carrie had had any more trouble with him. Obviously if she was out in the woods hunting someone down with a frying pan, she'd had some kind of problems besides the fire.

Joe pushed his empty bowl away. "Sit down, Carrie. Now, tell me why you were out in the woods tonight."

She sighed as she took the seat next to him. "Well, I was sitting here, minding my own business, when I heard a noise outside. I figured me it was those rascals that set fire to the porch afore and so's I went after them. I'm out of ammunition, Joe, so the shotgun weren't any use."

"So you took a pan? To defend yourself?"

She straightened up. One graying eyebrow arched. "Took you down right quick enough, didn't it?"

"Yes," he laughed. "It certainly did."

Joe's eyes strayed to the far side of the cabin. He hadn't noticed it before, but the wall was covered with a flannel blanket. Rising, he walked over to it and pulled it aside, revealing the log wall that was charred black and falling away in places.

He glanced at her. "Boys did this?"

"You know young'uns. They was playing with firecrackers. I heard 'em. I was sittin' here readin' and I heard them."

Joe looked at the wall again. He didn't say anything, but it was obvious to him that the damage he was looking at had not been caused by a wayward boy with a sparkler. "What would kids be doing out here?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "There's people on every side anymore! Closest neighbors nigh on my doorstep."

"How close?"

She threw her arms wide. "Barely three miles away!"

"Three miles." Joe thought a moment, hesitant to mention his fears, but then decided to speak. "Carrie, it wasn't any boy who did this to your cabin."

"No?"

"No. The damage is too thorough." He paused. "Tell me, have you had anything else happen?"

"Well, there were the corral fence."

"What happened with the fence?"

"I came out one morning and found more than half of it on the ground! Them animals you brung me was practically in the lake by the time I found them."

"I see. Anything else?"

"Oh," she said, "just little things. Missin' tools. A window broke out." Carrie paused. "Though it seems as of late it's gotten worse."

"What do you mean?" he asked as he dropped the blanket and crossed back over to her.

"Well, like the fire. In the beginnin' it was just little botherin' things. That fire happened when I was sleepin'. If'n I hadn't 'a smelled smoke, I'd 'a died!"

Joe sat heavily in the chair. He supposed he shouldn't be surprised. A man like Milburn wasn't the kind to give up easily. Glancing around, he asked, "Where's my gun, Carrie?" He'd noticed he didn't have it on when he woke.

She stood, went to a cupboard, and returned with it. "It was lyin' on the ground beside you..."

"When you found me?"

Carrie nodded. "I didn't figure you needed it whiles you was in bed."

Joe took the pearl-handled pistol and anchored it in the holder tied down to his thigh. "Need has nothing to do with it," he said. "I'm just trying to be prepared."

The older woman looked horrified. "Now you ain't gonna go and shoot no little boys. Are you, Joe?"

He walked over to her and planted a kiss on the top of her head. "Carrie, I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer." He glanced at the burned wall, once again hidden behind the blanket. "I'm going to take a look around outside and then go to work on that well."

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"What's little brother thinkin'!" Hoss Cartwright complained as he picked up the last bit of firewood he had taken an ax to and threw it on the growing pile. "Winter ain't two weeks away and he takes hisself off on a lark to look at some dag-blamed trees!" The big man picked up another piece of wood and put it on the stump he was using as a splitting bench. He brought the ax down again, striking it so hard the pieces flew both directions – one of them almost hitting his pa.

"Whoa!" the white-haired man said, dancing back.

Hoss took his hat off and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. In spite of the cold temperatures, he was sweating. "Sorry 'bout that, Pa."

The older man crossed over to where he was working. He nodded, indicating the wood. "You weren't imagining that was your little brother's head you were splitting, now were you?"

"Gosh darn it, Pa! I love little Joe as much as a body could, but he's just plain vexin' most of the time. What's he doing going up there near Crescent now?"

His father looked to the Northeast. "I think Joe just needed some time away."

"Away from his dagburn chores!" Hoss bent and retrieved one half of the piece of firewood he had almost wounded his father with. The big man indicated the sky with a nod. It was steel gray and a whole army of clouds were moving in. "Take a look at that, Pa," he said. "If we don't have snow tomorrow – and a lot of it – I'll eat my hat!"

The older man's expression surprised him. It was a mixture of exasperation and downright worry.

"What's wrong, Pa?"

His father turned to meet his stare. " I'm just concerned about Joseph."

"Oh, heck, Pa," Hoss began as he anchored the piece of wood on the stump and sized it up with an eye to the ax, "Joe'll just turn back if it looks like trouble. Those dang trees ain't that important!" He swung the ax, this time directing the split away from his father and then looked again at the older man. The worried expression hadn't changed, only deepened.

Hoss put the ax down and crossed to where his father stood. "Pa, what ain't you tellin' me?"

The older man pursed his lips. "It looks like I'm going to have to break a promise I made to your brother."

"What promise is that?" the big man asked as he wiped the last of the sweat from his brow with a pocket handkerchief.

"Your brother went to help Carrie Pickett get ready for winter."

For a moment he was confused. Why would Joe ask Pa to lie about a thing like that? Then he remembered the last time his little brother was headed up to see Miss Carrie, he'd had about a week's worth of fun teasing him about being in love with the old gal.

"Joe didn't want you to tell me 'cause of me ribbin' him the last time, did he?"

His father shrugged. "One wouldn't think they would have to worry about that kind of thing with two grown men, now would they?"

Hoss blew out a breath. "Sorry, Pa. Sometimes I just forget Joe wears his heart at the end of that daggone green coat sleeve. You'd think I'd a know'd better by now."

Tight-lipped, his father replied. "One would think."

"So how come you decided to tell me now?"

The older man indicated the sky to the north. "We'll give it until tomorrow, but I think – if it becomes clear that snow is coming – I'm going to ride after your brother."

"Let me do it, Pa. You'll be needed here what with all we got goin' on gettin' ready for winter. The wood and the chores I gotta do can wait. Joe and me can catch 'em up when he gets home." He didn't mention, of course, the fact that it was a sight smarter for a younger man like him to get caught out in a snowstorm if one was to come.

Of course, he knew he wasn't foolin' his pa about that.

He watched the older man debate with himself. Finally, his pa nodded. "All right. You'll go." The white-haired man looked up again at the sky.

"Let's just hope we're wrong."

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It was later that night after midnight that Ben Cartwright heard the sound of wheels rolling across the yard out front of the house. He'd kept himself awake worrying about Joe being caught out in a storm and had come down for a shot of brandy and a moment or two of reading his favorite book by the fire, hoping both would help him to sleep. The fire was blazing, of course, since the weather outside was cold and inclement. Whoever had pulled in might have seen the light it cast through the windows and assumed someone was up.

Which, luck would have it, he was.

Catching his heavy coat from the peg on the wall, Ben tossed it over his robe and opened the front door. The wind that struck him was strong and blowing in from the northeast. It was misting, and what moisture was driven against his exposed skin stung as it struck. He glanced again in the direction Joe had gone and then went out to see what the impending storm had blown in.

A citified looking man of middle years wearing a coat more suitable for fall than winter was climbing out of the carriage. He was talking to someone who was still inside. As Ben approached he saw him release a feminine hand, so the other passenger was a woman.

Ben waited until the man had found his footing and then asked, "Can I help you?"

The man turned toward him. His face was pale. "I'm sorry to bother you so late at night, friend, but we just had a scare and Mrs. Landes is overcome. If you don't mind, I would like to get her out of the cold and in somewhere safe where she can rest for a while."

"Certainly," he replied. "Do you need help?"

"No. She can lean on me and make it." He turned back to the carriage. "Did you hear me, Nonie? You can walk, can't you?"

Ben heard a muffled assent. The woman's hand appeared again, reaching out of the carriage. From the look of it, with its tidy white glove and lace-edged sleeve, the lovely young woman who followed came as no surprise. Her skin was as pale as that of the man who waited for her, but by nature. Her hair was the color of Buckwheat honey, golden and deep as amber. She wore it up, though at the moment several loose curls cascaded in front of her face. As the warm woolen shawl someone had tossed over her shoulders fell away , the white-haired man saw that she was attired as a woman of some wealth in a bustle-back dress cut of a fine changeable silk.

Definitely from the city, he mused quietly to himself.

The young woman's feet touched ground and she wobbled. As he started forward, she looked up and favored him with a small tight smile. "I'm quite all right. Neville fusses too much."

"I believe that's called 'caring' in some people's vocabulary," Neville said quietly.

The woman glanced at him and then disentangled her hand from his. "I can walk by myself. If it is all right, I will go into the house and sit down, Mister...?"

"Cartwright. Ben Cartwright."

"Mister...Cartwright," she said with a nod. "I promise you we won't bother you for long. We'll only stay long enough to warm ourselves."

"It's no trouble, Mrs. Landes. You're welcome to stay as long as you need. We have a large home with plenty of extra rooms. Please feel free to remain overnight."

Her look was wary. It was the look of a woman who took nothing at face value, but sought a deeper, more sinister motive underneath. She must have been hurt deeply sometime in her short life. Nonie Landes looked to be twenty-seven or eight at most.

"That is most kind of you, Mister Cartwright. But..."

"Please. Virginia City is at least five hours away by carriage." He glanced up. "You wouldn't want to be caught out in a storm."

"We're not headed for Virginia City, Mister Cartwright," the man named Neville said. "We're –"

"Neville," the pretty blonde interrupted, her tone curt. "There's no need to boor Mister Cartwright with our business."

The man shut his mouth and looked at his feet.

Ben looked from one to the other. He'd thought at first that, in spite of the way she addressed the older man, Neville and Mrs. Landes were related somehow. Now he wasn't so sure. Their relationship was more that of a servant and his mistress than kin.

"Well?" he asked at last.

The woman hesitated, but then nodded. "Thank you, Mister Cartwright. We would be most grateful to accept your hospitality for one night. Neville, bring my bags and follow me into the house after you stable the horse."

With a slow and not too heartfelt, "Yes, ma'am," Neville headed for the back of the carriage.

Ben stared after the man a moment and then turned to Mrs. Nonie Landes. Holding out a hand, he indicated the front door.

"After you," he said.

As he followed behind the self-assured young woman, Ben Cartwright wondered just what he was letting himself in for.