"Mr. Cartwright, someone's here who wants to speak with you. Says it's important. I can't get her to leave."
Ben Cartwright looked up over his desk to see Sam, one of his hired hands, in the doorway of his office. He sighed. It was a day of accounts, numbers, and books—not the ideal time to have an interview with some mysterious "her" who would not leave. "Anyone I know? This isn't really the best time . . ."
The hand shook his head. "She must be new in town. Gotta say, from her looks, I'd know if I'd seen her before." This remark was accompanied by an anything-but-subtle wink. "Seems pretty determined to have a word with you, sir."
Ben relented, if for no other reason than to get the dusty, insolent boy out of his inner sanctum. "Fine, send her in," he said brusquely.
The next voice he heard was altogether different from the boy's. Something foreign to that house—a feminine voice, delicate and peculiarly husky yet clear in tone. The woman it belonged to was also something not met every day. She was tall, but so slender of build it only added to her fragility. Her hair was bright blonde to the point of gold, like the warm wheat that grew in the farmhouses surrounding the countryside. So far the girl was the typical cool ice maiden type—until one reached her eyes. They were brown and unexpectedly warm and almost childlike in their wideness. Sam was quite right. She was not something easily forgotten.
Ben's visage softened when he met those eyes. "Can I help you, my dear?" he asked, unconsciously slipping into his fatherly tone.
She nodded vigorously; her eyes grew even wider. "Yes, I think you can—that is, if you will. You see, I'm looking for a job. It is quite important I find one."
Ben shook his head not without sympathy. "I'm sorry. I don't think there's anything I can do for you. This just isn't a place for a young lady like you to be working at."
She bit her lip and the brown eyes fell for a moment. "But you see, sir, I've nowhere else to go. I have tried every decent—and not so decent—place in town, and nobody can hire me. Finally I heard that your cook was gone on a trip for a month or so, and I thought I would come to see if I could step in, just temporarily." Her eyes pled with Ben's, and their effect was not lost on him. "Please, I—I need this job."
Ben was thoughtful for a moment. They could scrape along well enough without anyone's stepping in for Hop Sing while he was away, but who could deny those eyes? She would do well enough, on one condition. "My answer is yes," he replied deliberately. "But I have one caveat for you."
She knew things; Latin held no mystery for her. Ben read her well in believing her to be both schooled and from a good background.
"And what would that be, sir?"
Ben cleared his throat. This one rule must be made abundantly clear. "I have three sons."
"So I heard, sir." She was puzzled now; where was he taking this?
"I care about them a great deal; in fact, they mean more to me than anything on this earth. So naturally I would hate to see them have a falling out."
She only nodded, still unsure of what he was trying to say.
"The one thing that seems to truly come between is, well"—Ben paused, dropping his eyes—"a beautiful woman."
The girl smiled. Ah, what those eyes did when she smiled! This could be harder than he had thought. "I want you to agree not to become—shall we say—romantically involved with any of them. I foresee them falling for your various charms and vying against each other. It would only lead to trouble." He held up his hand. "Nothing against you, my dear, you seem quite enchanting. But I know my boys well, and I know what they can handle. And you are definitely not something they are capable of handling."
"I understand, Mr. Cartwright. And I agree. Is that your only term? It seems an easy one."
"Well, you haven't met the boys yet," said Ben wryly. "If you can keep to that and serve some decent meals, your services will be quite satisfactory."
She smiled again. Such an open yet alluring smile it was . . . it almost made Ben wish he were a young man again. But he really only had room in his head to worry about his own young men and the effect a girl like this would have on them.
"Thank you, Mr. Cartwright," she said warmly. "I promise that I will try my very best to serve well here, and I bless you for the opportunity."
"She is well-mannered to boot," Ben thought. "Probably from a nice family." But there was one thing more that needed to be settled—
"What's your name, Miss—"
"Judith. Judith Greene. But call me Judy. It's what I'm used to, and I'd like it."
"All right. Welcome to the Ponderosa, Judy."
It was an unusual sight that met the eyes of Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe when they stepped into the dining room for dinner that night. Instead of their father or some hired hand none too skillfully maneuvering food to the table, here was a bright-haired, slender thing with eyes like nobody's business tripping daintily to and from the kitchen and dining room. The very room seemed to have a sparkle unlike its usual wont. It was as if a spell had been cast over the house.
"Who—" began Hoss, but of course Little Joe was already two steps ahead of him.
"Let me take that for you," urged Joe, smoothly transitioning a platter from Judy's hands to his. "And you are?"
"I'm Judy," accompanying the introduction with a smile. "And you must be Little Joe."
"I see my reputation precedes me," said Joe triumphantly.
"Not exactly. Your father has just told me a great deal about all of you." Her eyes danced as they met his, in spite of the promise.
"That hardly seems fair," he protested, setting down the tray and almost in the same movement lightly putting an arm around her shoulders. "You know about me and I don't know anything about you."
She hastily stepped out from under his arm, but nevertheless felt a little thrill underneath it all. He was a charming young man, one that she might have considered and flirted with if it were not for certain promises made to worried fathers. "Not much you need to know. Your father hired me to step in for Hop Sing while he's away." She turned to the two other men with a smile.
"You must be Hoss." That individual blushed red and stammered through a greeting. Judy took his hand very gently and said some pleasantry that soothed his embarrassment. So far, so good. She could deal with this, although Little Joe was indeed quite . . . interesting.
But in Adam Judy would meet her Waterloo. Hoss stepped aside—and there he was. Judy's soft eyes met his dark ones and faltered for the first time. "Hello, Judy. You probably already know I'm Adam" was all he said, but in that marvelously suggestive voice like velvet, it was enough. And her world turned irrevocably.
At this crucial moment, the patriarch of the house walked in. Judy's gaze broke oh-so-reluctantly away from Adam's, and she stepped back, about to take the servant's role in the kitchen. But Little Joe gently took her by the arm. "Sit down with us," he urged, and for once Hoss and Adam agreed. Hoss merely bobbed his head congenially. "Yes, come sit," added Adam, and his was the hardest to resist of all.
"I suppose it's up to your father," poor Judy murmured. She was still a little bewildered by meeting all these new people—wasn't she?
Ben, when asked, waved a matter-of-fact hand towards an empty chair. "Of course, Judy—sit with us. We're not quite so civilized out west that we would ask our cook to eat alone in the kitchen. You've fixed a lovely spread here. Let's all enjoy."
They enjoyed more than the meal. Judy was quick-witted and well-read, holding her own in the conversation. She opened up more and more as the weeks wore on, and soon no household gathering seemed complete without her. But even as they grew to know her ways, there still was something about her that went unexplained. The air of sadness she wore on occasion; that unconscious melancholy that came and went in her eyes. The Cartwright men did not ask, not wishing to pry. But they wondered.
The days were more pleasant with Judy there. A rapport grew rapidly between her and Little Joe. They shared a palpable energy and an enthused love of fun, among other characteristics. But where Joe was impulsive to the point of heedlessness, Judy was careful. She put her hand a bit more steadily to life's wheel, deliberately choosing her path and sticking to it dauntlessly. Love of family was another trait they both bore; indeed, Judy soon grew to regard the Cartwrights to be as much her own as they were Joe's. Had she only been here a month?
Ben saw her as a daughter, Hoss as a sister. Each adored her in his own fashion. But then there was Adam. Judy didn't know what he saw her as—or if he saw her at all. Adam was still a stranger to her, a mystery she itched to unravel. The one thing they had connected on was a mutual love of books. Judy had not met a man who could match her knowledge of authors and classics until Adam. But one can only talk of Dickens and Austen for so long. Judy needed more. But he was holding back. Even as the camaraderie between she and Joe grew, Adam seemed to become colder. She often wondered wistfully if he liked her being in the house at all.
Adam might have been her one weakness, but ultimately Judy was made of stern stuff. After the first little betrayal, she treated him as she treated the other Cartwright men—gently, but without seeming to prefer one over another.
Strong as Judy was in many ways, she could and did crumble. The Cartwrights witnessed it one night and never saw her quite in the same way again. But the evening served only to make them more protective of her, especially Joe.
It was an ordinary night. Dinner had been served, eaten, and enjoyed. The empty plates bore witness to Judy's cooking. After a long, hard day, the men were relaxing. And Judy—Judy! She had never before been so sparkling, so open. Each man admired her in his own way. Even Adam couldn't take his eyes off her. She was sitting next to Little Joe, a spot that had somehow become her usual place. Adam was not quite as immune to this fact as he told himself he was. Joe, genuinely curious while meaning no harm, asked Judy a few questions innocent enough. "So, Judy, you've never told us in all this time—what about your family? Where are you from and why did you come here?"
The light died in Judy's eyes at these queries. "It's—it's getting awfully late." She stood up abruptly and began clearing away plates with more force than was necessary. "I'd better get to washing up."
"Judy, I'd really like to know," pressed Joe, who regretfully was born without the wisdom of knowing when enough was enough.
"And I'd really rather not talk about it," snapped Judy, in a tone none of them had heard before.
"It's not a hard question," murmured Joe.
It was then that Judy broke. "It is when your family history is what mine is, all right? Damn it, Joe! Why can't you leave well enough alone?" And then to all their amazement, the girl sat down and covered her face with her hands. Through their slender fingers, glistening tears could be seen. Ben, Adam, and Hoss hastily stood up. Joe just sat, looking at her blankly. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered.
"I'm all right," she lied, hastily getting up again. "I'll clear away the plates . . ." But Joe was guiding her away from the table. "Never mind that—I think you could use a walk outside, clear your head. I certainly could use one." The last remark was muttered and quite lost on Judy.
Hoss began getting the plates and other accoutrements belonging to the meal with a right good will; Adam helped him as well. Ben shook his head once over the pair leaving the dining room. He almost went after them—almost, but not quite. After Ben walked unwillingly upstairs to worry over the matter, Hoss wanted to talk about it.
"What do you think is wrong, Adam? Poor little thing. I've never seen her like that before."
"Obviously her family isn't as happy as ours," replied Adam shortly. "Better not to pry into these things."
"Do you think—"
"Hoss, I'd rather not discuss this. It's her business, all right? We have no part in it."
Hoss shook his head and sighed. "I just hate to see that girl unhappy. It already seems like she's part of the family."
Adam had no reply. Hoss' comment on her belonging to the family was right on the money. The girl had slipped into the heart of the Cartwrights without their ever knowing exactly how it happened. He hated to think of the ranch without her. Why did Little Joe have to go and upset her? And what in heaven's name was taking them so long? For some reason, the thought of Judy and Little Joe alone out there in the night was bothering Adam dreadfully.
"Judy, honey, please talk to me."
"Joe, I'm sorry for exploding like that. I hope you don't hate me for it."
"Hate you?" Joe laughed a little and pulled her closer. Her head was on his chest now. He had one arm securely around her, while the other's hand was occupied drying her tears. "I could never hate you, Judy. I have a hard time remembering life without you. These two months have meant more to me than I've been able to say."
"Don't, Joe."
"What?" he whispered; his face was bent very close to hers, too close. Was it her heart that was beating so wildly or was it only his under her cheek?
"Please, Joe—I—I can't. I should go." But she made no movement. For the moment, she was too weak to resist being loved. It had been so long.
"I'll be good, then. I won't tell you what I've wanted to tell you for the longest time. I can wait. Just stay." Who knows how long they sat out under the stars like that? Suffice to say it was a fleeting moment for Joe and an eternity for Adam, who was still waiting and wondering inside. In desperation, Adam offered to do the washing up, if only to know what was going on.
So when Judy finally came in, she found Adam drying the last of the dishes. They had been meticulously wiped and rinsed, and he was in the final stages of drying and putting them away. Judy came in softly and took up a plate and rag. "Thanks for this," she said quietly—distantly, Adam thought, but in truth it was only the shyness she was felt around him. "I'm sorry I ruined the evening."
"You're welcome," he said just as quietly—gruffly, she thought, but it was really just because he was still wondering about her and Joe. "And you don't need to apologize. You did nothing wrong. In fact, it will probably do Joe some good to get a scare like that once in a while."
For the first time, Judy noticed in Adam a glimmering of a sense of humor. She laughed her low, lilting laugh and he smiled. Then he dared to go further. "You and Joe are getting close, aren't you?"
She tilted her head and dried a dish thoughtfully. "Yes," she replied hesitantly. "He's wonderful, and he's been so good to me ever since I came. I guess you could say he was my first friend out here."
Adam considered that for a moment, trying to reconcile the words "wonderful" and "friend." Did he still have any hope?
"Judy," he began, hesitantly. Had Adam ever hesitated before?
"Yes?" Calmly, but her heart quickened within her.
"I just want to say that we all owe you a lot. You've done your fair share to bring this family together at a time when we had started to drift. I don't think any of us can imagine the Ponderosa without you anymore."
His words echoed Joe's strangely. But somehow they were so much more welcome. Judy adored Joe, but she carried for him only the love of a sister and a friend. She had been able to think of no one but Adam since the first night at the Ponderosa.
"Thank you," she answered, a little stiffly. But then she looked up at him with that smile. It made Adam dizzy—with the result of the last plate he was drying meeting a sad fate on the kitchen floor. They both scrambled to the floor to pick up the pieces. Never had Judy seen the rational, remote Adam so discomfited. He muttered an apology as they stacked up the sad fragments, mentally cursing his carelessness at ruining a beautiful moment. But then his hand closed over hers as they both reached for the last piece. Thoughtfully he stroked the hand and then brought it to his lips in one of the gallant gestures that came to him so easily.
"Adam . . ." she whispered, but she didn't protest.
He did not let go of her hand; in fact, he grasped it more firmly. They both stood up slowly. His other hand found her waist and pulled her closer. Her cheeks flushed and then she went very pale. Adam's eyes locked onto hers and his intentions were clear. But as he bent toward her, she pulled back. "Judy, don't go," he pleaded, but she was already walking away. She didn't even dare turn around to look at him, lest she change her mind. "Adam, I'm sorry. Goodnight," she said.
And the oldest Cartwright boy was left standing there, incredulous. Had he read wrongly what was in her eyes? Underneath his sense of loss, it smarted on his pride. Adam Cartwright was accustomed to getting his women. And she didn't want him at all. Well, he would show her. He could be proud and cold and distant as she.
He was. Judy often thought in the days following that fateful night that she must have imagined the whole thing. If it were not for the fact that a china plate was most definitely missing from the kitchen, she would have.
How she wished that she could have acted differently. That when Adam had held her close, she had not had to pull away. But in spite of Adam's pride and Judy's new resolve to keep her promise to Ben, something remained between them that was building.
The tension came to a head one brisk fall day when Judy was supposed to go into town for some household shopping. She had been a mainstay in the Cartwright house for two months by this time. It was her first time going into town for ordinary supplies of flour, sugar, coffee, etc. The outing had been discussed at the dinner table the night before. Joe had been all for being the one to drive her. He had waxed a little too enthusiastic about it, and Ben assigned him some rather heavy ranch duties that would take his day. Adam had nonchalantly offered to do it, and Ben innocently supposing that his heart at least was not tied up in it, said yes. Joe had glowered for the rest of the evening. But here it was, a crisp, tangy sort of day like a bite of autumn fruit, and Adam was driving a wagon into town with Judy at his side.
Why exactly he had maneuvered himself into this situation, Adam could not say. But it was a day with Judy, and he was determined to make the most of it. She was quiet when they first started out, not even meeting his eyes when he greeted her. But Adam was patient and careful; he coaxed her out of her shell of protection by chatting lightly of books and the family and various goings-on. He told her local stories that amused and touched her: unimportant but fascinating tales of human interest. He even got her to talk about herself, just a little, finding out her favorite flower, childhood book, and so on. In short, Adam talked more than she had ever known him to do so before. And all this after what had happened. Judy felt a little bewildered and more than a little elated. Perhaps he had forgiven her after all. They could be—friends—couldn't they?
They really got along well that day. For once, both their barriers were down and they could relax and enjoy each other's company.
But then it all fell apart. Judy was in the general store, selecting the various goods needed. Adam, being a typical man with no especial love for shopping, was a bit bored. He found some interest in the board near the front of the store that carried local news, posters, ads, and so on. One particular notice caught his eye. He gazed at it for one incredulous moment, and then very deliberately he tore it off and stuffed it into his pocket.
Judy wondered why Adam was so quiet for the rest of the shopping expedition. He was helpful, but he said no more than was necessary. Everything exploded on the ride home. A few miles out of town, when they were on a lonely stretch where they would not be seen, he stopped the horses.
"What are you doing?" wondered Judy.
"We need to talk, Judy."
Judy sighed. "Adam, if this is about that other night, I told you—"
He grabbed her wrist in a fierce, sudden gesture. "No, Judy, it's not about the other night."
She looked down at her imprisoned wrist, perplexed. "Adam, what is it?"
He looked deep into her eyes before he asked his next question. "What are you not telling us?"
Judy's eyes grew huge with fear. "Adam," she whispered. "What do you know?"
He pulled out the paper and waved it furiously under her nose. "I found this on the notice board at the general store." Judy snatched at it and read it with despair written all over her face. "Were you just using us this whole time? The Cartwrights' ranch was the perfect hideout, wasn't it? Off in the country, where no one would find you. How long until you told us, Judy? How long until you told us you were wanted for murder?"
Judy covered her face with her hands. "If you can let me explain . . ."
"Look, that might work on Little Joe, but it sure as hell isn't working on me." He held her by the shoulders, forcing her to look him square in the face. "You have five minutes to tell me who you are and what you're doing here. We're only a few miles out from town and the sheriff isn't far away. But before that, I'd like to know. Because I was just as fooled as they were." He paused and she felt his grasp on her relax. "Because I felt something that night in the kitchen, and you did, too. Admit it, Judy. Tell the truth for once."
She smiled, in spite of her tears, in spite of the situation, in spite of the wanted notice on her lap. "Adam Cartwright, I have loved you since the first night I met you. Now that it's all over and nothing matters, I don't care if you know."
He just looked at her, disbelieving, for an interminable moment. Then it was as if they had the chance in the kitchen over again, and he was pulling her close. Their lips met and the moment was complete at last. Judy pulled away first, guiltily. "Don't," he whispered. "You weren't finished yelling at me yet," she murmured back. "Later," he breathed, and any other words were lost.
The Adam and Judy that arrived at the Ponderosa were quite different from the two that had set out. Fortunately the difference was unnoticeable to any but themselves. They were careful to play the part. Adam was absent again, and Judy chattered lightly away to Little Joe about the day.
Adam put the wanted notice in the fire and deliberately watched it burn. Of course, it was only a matter of time. But he was determined to delay as long as possible.
Judy heard a rapping on her window that night. She lit a candle and nervously went to see what it was. She had to stifle a laugh when she saw Adam through the glass. Carefully she lifted the window. "What do you want, sir?" she demanded, trying to be stern but smiling in spite of herself. "I just want to talk," he promised nobly. "That's all. Can I come in? I'm sorry I had to sneak like this."
She laughed. "I'm not," she replied archly.
"I'm glad I amuse you," said Adam. "Now come on, let me in. I told you I just want to—"
"Talk. I heard." She leaned in seductively close. "Are you sure that's all you want?"
Adam shook his head. "Judy . . ."
"Fine, come in." He did, clambering over the windowsill as gracefully as possible, which was not very gracefully. "Shhhhhhh," cautioned Judy. She climbed back onto her bed and arranged her nightgown daintily. "What did you want to talk about?" In spite of her flirtations, she looked a little alarmed when Adam sat on the bed, too. "You really just want to talk, don't you?"
Adam smiled at the concern in her voice. She really was an innocent thing. "Of course. Cartwrights are gentlemen. Under these circumstances, I don't even dare kiss you." Oh, the contradiction that is woman—she looked a little disappointed. "Judy, you'll have to be serious for this. I need to know."
"What? What do you need to know?" she asked brightly, widening her eyes.
He leaned in, and his presence was not a thing to be trifled with. "No games, Judy. If you love me, be serious. I need to know everything."
She sighed. "I'll be serious." She bent forward and placed a light kiss on his cheek. "Will you still love me after you know?"
He touched her face gently. "I think so."
Judy took a deep breath and began telling him everything.
"I come from Philadelphia. I was born Margaret Judith Childs, but everybody called me Judy. I was named for my mother, you see. Well, my family was—is—extremely wealthy. In some ways, of course, it was a very privileged life—but in others it was like a prison. Out here, working on the ranch, your family is far, far happier than mine ever was in spite of having every luxury. My life was ordered from the moment I was born. I consented meekly enough to finishing school, dancing lessons, cotillions. I did and was everything my mother wanted me to be—in public, at any rate. The stolen moments I was allowed alone were spent reading every book I could get my hands on. It was kind of my escape, my antidote to the stifling atmosphere I grew up in. Things continued that way till I was eighteen."
She paused in her narrative and looked down. Her cheeks flushed and Adam wondered. But her next words would explain. "Then I met a man." If Adam had been honest with himself, this sort of thing was what he had most dreaded about hearing Judy's history. He would almost sooner have skipped to the murder part. "His name was Paul, and he was the most wonderful person I had ever met." She smiled at the memory. Her marvelous eyes were somewhere else entirely, and Adam felt rather left out. "He was my whole world for a while . . . my first everything. We were very careful, and for a while my mother knew nothing. But when she found out . . ." Judy shivered at the memory. "I had never seen her so furious. She took great pains to keep us apart. I couldn't do anything. I was willing to wait till I was twenty-one. I wouldn't have minded being a poor man's wife, if that man was Paul." Adam winced visibly at the love that colored her voice.
"But he wanted more for himself and for me. He heard about opportunities out West." She swallowed, and her tone became sad. "I said goodbye to him last January, and that was the last time I ever saw him. Once he was, in my mother's eyes, out of the picture, she seized the opportunity. Mother began arranging meetings between me and what she called a 'suitable young man.' I knew what she was up to, but there was nothing I could do about it. It was a terrible night when I told her I could never marry him. The only one who sided with me was my brother David. He was closest to my age and the sole other person who understood my discontent with the life we led. That evening ended with my parents threatening to disown both of us if I did not marry the man they had chosen for me."
Judy rested her chin on her hand thoughtfully. "I don't know what came over David and me that night, but we stood up to them. We walked out of the house that night and didn't go back. We were so excited to be free—and so absolutely unsure of what we should do next. The only thing on my mind was finding Paul. David and I decided we would try our chances in the West. It was crazy of course. We had no idea what we were doing. It took all of our money to bring us out here. David got a job and worked hard at it. But," she continued, her voice breaking at parts, "at the end of the month . . . his employer didn't want to pay him. I guess he thought we were just a couple of kids and wouldn't do anything about it. Hell, we were a couple of kids. But David had a hot temper and he got awfully mad. He—he pulled out a gun. He wasn't going to do anything with it, but—the other man—he . . ."
At this point in the story, Judy could not speak through her sobs. Adam pulled her close. "Judy, Judy, I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm so, so sorry."
She pulled back and brushed away tears. "It was over, just like that. My beloved brother, gone in a heartbeat. I didn't know what to do. And then, the man—he was drunk—he tried to . . . he wanted me." Judy shuddered at the memory. "I was so scared. He was stronger than me, and we were alone. Through grace or luck, I found David's gun quickly enough. He had me backed into a corner. God only knows how I pulled the trigger. And then there he was, on the floor, bleeding. I guess he died in that moment. I didn't stay to check. The hardest thing was leaving my brother. I'll never be able to forget having to run away like that, without even getting to say a last goodbye." Adam was holding her again. She was so slight in his arms, and with her hair soft around her shoulders she was almost childlike in the moonlight. What horrors she had faced. No wonder she had never spoken of them before.
"You're safe now. You'll always have a home here with us," he promised.
She nestled her head on his shoulder and he thought he could detect a smile in her voice. "You don't know how happy being here has made me. I never thought I could be happy again after everything that happened. But your family—they made me feel safe. I never got to feel at home before."
In that moment, Adam swore that no pain would ever come to her again. But there was still one more thing he needed to know. "Judy, can I ask you something?"
"Yes, anything."
"Did you ever—find Paul?"
The pause that followed this question seemed very long to Adam. "No," she said at last. "We looked for weeks—the West is a great deal bigger when you're actually here than when you're back in Philadelphia planning things out—but we never found him."
Adam put a hand to her face, gently tracing from her brow down and finally cupping her cheek in his hand. "I'm sorry, Judy." She bit her lip. "I don't like to think on it."
"I should go." He stood up and walked unwillingly back to the window. She followed him and very gently took both his hands in hers. "Adam, do you think you could leave off being a gentleman long enough to kiss me goodnight?" she asked. Softly he wiped the remaining tears from her cheeks and fulfilled her request. "Goodnight, Judy."
Judy slept uneasily that night. Once the rush of learning that Adam loved her and the trial of relating her history were over, she was again remembering her promise to Ben. She flushed guiltily at the thought of facing him in the morning.
So when Judy woke up the next day and had to face the accusing sunlight, it was with a new resolve. Either she would find a way to tell Ben the truth, or she would leave the Ponderosa. She couldn't live with herself anymore, things standing as they did. A pale, determined Judy served breakfast to the Cartwright men. She was quiet, almost distant. All of them wondered—except Adam, who chalked it up to the night before. But even he didn't realize the full extent of the turmoil inside her.
It was Joe, after all, who was the one to bring everything to a head. Perhaps it was because Judy had been a little distant the past couple of days. Perhaps it was because it was determined by fate. Or perhaps he was a bit bored and in need of diversion. In any case, he chose that autumn afternoon to declare what he thought was love for Judy.
She had finished clearing up the lunch things and had tried to sit and read a book. But for the first time in her life, books held no interest for her. So she was simply sitting in a chair in the living room, dreaming and contemplating, when Joe found her. They were all alone for the first time in a while. Judy got a dreadful sinking feeling and a horrible flutter in her chest when she saw his face. She tried to combat the situation, standing up abruptly, a move that backfired when it gave Joe ample room to grasp both her hands.
"Joe, what are you doing?"
"Judy, do you remember that night under the stars?"
"Of course, Joe."
He brightened. "Well, I'm going to finish what I started saying then."
"Joe, please don't," she begged. "I can't—"
"Judy, for the love of heaven, please hear me out." She protested no more; what could she do? "I love you, Judy. I've been crazy about you since—well, pretty near since you first arrived at the Ponderosa. You know that."
"Oh, Joe," she sighed. He was so sweet. And it was such a waste. "I'm sorry, Joe. I can't—love you. Not like that. I love you in every other way—but not that way, Joe."
His eyes! Never had she wanted to see such heartbreak in them. But the double indemnity of her promise to Ben and her passionate admission to Adam kept her from giving in. "Joe, please don't . . . if you knew me, Joe. I'm not—not good for you, dear. You have to understand." He opened his mouth to reply.
At this unluckiest of junctures, Adam chose to make an appearance. Judy realized guiltily that her hands were still tightly clutched in Joe's, and they were standing dreadfully close. Adam said nothing, but the fury in his eyes was worse than words. Judy had never seen them so black. There was a terrible moment's pause.
Joe stepped back but looked Adam full in the face. Their eyes met as if they were strangers and not brothers. In that moment, Judy wished that she had never come to the Ponderosa, if it was only to make trouble like this. She found her voice at last, but when it came out it sounded strange to her ears, trembly and too forced. "Adam, could you—give us a moment?" They were not the words she had intended to say at all. But once they were out she knew they were necessary.
His eyes grew blacker, if possible. "Of course," he said easily enough. But he gave Joe one scathing look before he walked out the door.
"What was with him?" wondered Joe. Judy would have laughed had the situation not been so dire. The things that went on under Little Joe's nose without his noticing!
"You're wonderful, Joe, and I'm sorry I can't be everything for you." Gently she embraced him, pulling him close for a moment and brushing a light kiss on his cheek. "Forgive me, Joe," she whispered. He was stunned. Joseph Francis Cartwright was not used to being turned down by the damsels he fancied any more than Adam was. But he was still the sweet Joe who had made her laugh and made her feel like part of the family. So he held her for that moment and then let her go without any harsh words or complaints.
Judy kissed him once more—he didn't know it, but it was a goodbye—and then she walked outside. She knew Adam would be there, waiting on the porch.
He was. She swallowed the cold fear that seemed to be choking her and walked up to him. He raised his eyebrows and gave her the stern look she already knew too well. "Judy, what was going on in there?" he asked. The question was even in tone, but terrible things swelled underneath.
"Adam, don't ask me that," she pleaded. "Can't we just forget about it? I promise you that it changes nothing between you and me." If anything, she would like to at least keep Joe's declaration sacred.
"No," he returned, shortly. Judy sighed and took a step closer to him. He flinched away from her with a coldness that felt like a slap. It was hard, but she had to have one last moment. Bravely she closed the distance between them. She was about to use every last female wile she had. One soft hand found his face; the other moved to his chest. "Adam, please don't be angry. I couldn't help anything Little Joe was saying. And you know how I feel about you." She punctuated the last sentence with a kiss. "Forgive me, please?"
He closed his eyes for a heavy moment and rubbed his temples. Then he looked down at her and smiled. "Damn, Judy—but you do get around a man."
She smiled back lightly, archly—but her heart was breaking under it. "Kiss me, Adam, like you did when it was just us out on the prairie."
When he had gone, Judy quietly walked up to the little room she had grown fond of, packed a light satchel of the few things she had, and wrote a note which she left on Ben's desk. She then went out to the barn and found her favorite horse. It was time to leave. She couldn't tear this family she loved so much apart anymore.
Ben had not intended to go into his office that day. But through some stroke of destiny, he walked in to look over some papers in question and stumbled across Judy's note. It bore no heading, just a few simple words. I'm sorry, it ran, I had to leave. Please understand. I can never thank you enough for my time here. I can only hope that God will bless each of you. Much love, Judy. P.S. I will leave the horse at the stables in town. Thank you for everything.
Ben scanned the note swiftly. When it had registered, he bolted for the front door. As quickly as he could, he tracked down his three sons and sat them down to hear the news. They were incredulous. Adam and Joe looked a little guilty after their surprise. Each thought he was to blame. Lucky Hoss of the clear conscience only mourned for the loss. "What could have made that little girl want to leave?" he wondered sadly. "And are we supposed to do without her?"
Adam and Joe looked at each other blankly. What were they supposed to do without her? Adam owned up first. "I should take the fall for this," he confessed. "She and I were—we—I loved her. We should have told you. But I don't understand why she would leave like this—" His words had just registered with Joe. "You what?" he exploded. "Is that why—because of you—hell!"
"Joe, there's no need for that," remonstrated Ben. But Joe had already jumped to his feet. For a moment, Ben wondered if he was going to punch Adam.
But Joe had a more constructive plan in mind. "I'm going after her," he said determinedly. "She can't have gotten far." Adam protested. "If anyone's going after her, it should be me." Joe objected, Adam stood up, too, and Ben saw that this might come to blows if he didn't put a stop to it.
"Be quiet, both of you!" he thundered in his most terrifying voice. "I will go after her." He strode to the door and neither of them dared to say a word. He turned around for a parting shot. "Both of you had better behave while I'm gone. Hoss, keep an eye on them."
"Yes, sir!" said Hoss willingly. He didn't really know what was going on, but if it resulted in his being in charge for once, he was all for it.
Ben rode to town as quickly as possible. If she was already gone, he might not be able to forgive himself. He spent the time thinking about what could have made her leave. Unwelcome love from Joe or Adam? Or was it the promise she had made him? Ben was quickly realizing that he no longer wanted to hold Judy to that. If she was willing to put up with one of his boys, by golly, she could. He would no longer stand in her way.
When he arrived in town, he rode to the place where the stagecoach always stopped, praying to find her there. Ben caught his breath when he saw a familiar bright head waiting patiently on the bench where would-be passengers waited. He tied his horse at the nearest post and walked towards her. Now that he had actually found Judy, he felt some trepidation. Like any other man, Ben had a horror of "scenes." He hoped to goodness the girl would simply come home and no more need be said about it.
He sat down on the bench next to her. Judy started guiltily. "Ben—what are you doing here?"
"I've come to bring you home, of course," he answered matter-of-factly.
She shook her head. "If you knew me better, you wouldn't want me at the Ponderosa anymore. It's best I go."
"I know more than you think I do."
Judy turned to him, startled. "Then you know about Adam?"
He nodded.
"And about Joe?"
This he didn't take so easily. "Joe? What did you—" Then he stopped. "Never mind any of it. Judy, we need you. Take any of my boys—or all of them. But just come home." She smiled rapturously and laughed. "Dear, dear, Ben, do you really mean it?"
He only held out his arms, a father's smile on his face. Judy embraced him joyfully. "You don't know how hard it was for me to leave," she said. "I was already missing all of you terribly, and I hadn't even gotten on the coach yet."
It was a triumphant Ben Cartwright that escorted Judy back into the Ponderosa living room. His sons all sprang to their feet. Hoss was overjoyed; Adam and Joe were, also, but a little sheepishness crept into their expressions to overshadow it. They both approached her tentatively. Judy looked from one to the other and had to laugh.
"It's really not funny," reproached Joe. "No, it's not," agreed Adam.
"You know I adore both of you," she said. "But there's only one of me. I'm sorry I have to choose."
"Is it me?" they both asked at once.
She sighed and turned to Joe. Adam felt a knife go through his heart. Gently Judy rested her hands on Joe's strong shoulders for a second. "Joe, I'm sorry, really. And I'll always be here for you. I just can't love you that way. I think you'll see in time that this is right." He nodded resignedly. "All right. Go ahead and be with Adam. He's nuts about you, you know." Judy laughed. "Oh, I know." Joe hugged her with affection that was almost brotherly. He was getting there.
She may have laughed just a moment before, but when Judy turned to Adam, she was unsure. That is, until she saw the love in his eyes and he pulled her close. "Adam, I was going to miss you most of all," she whispered. "What are you talking about it?" he said gently. "Don't you know I was going to search to the ends of the earth to find you?"
Judy smiled. She was home at last.