For those of you that are sticklers for historical accuracy, I should mention that I cheated with two of the quotes/poems I used. Both Housman's and Henley's pieces were probably not written until ten or twenty years after this story takes place. The rest is historically viable, or at least in keeping with Bonanza lore.

Native Land

by Lissa B.

June 1999

Chapter 1

Adam Cartwright pushed the needle through the bridle he was repairing, his gaze drifting to the book lying open on a nearby tack box.

He almost never brought books to the barn - partly because it wasn't good for them, partly because he was generally pretty good at compartmentalizing the different parts of his life: ranch work in one slot, intellectual pursuits in another. But lately it was becoming more difficult to keep the lines from blurring, and this book had proved to be hard to put down. After a brief battle with himself he had been unable to resist the temptation to carry it along to the tack room and skim a paragraph or two while he repaired and polished and sorted the tack.

It was Ralph Waldo Emerson's Essays on Transcendentalism. Of course, he had read a lot about Transcendentalism while he was in college in Boston - it was impossible to live so close to Concord and not - but the poems of Walt Whitman and some new essays by Bronson Alcott had fallen into his hands and fanned the flame of his interest. Ironically, it was his life on the ranch that had given him an new appreciation of the philosophy, and he had dug out his Emerson and Thoreau for another look.

It had proved absorbing. He wasn't sure he bought it, but he was burning to talk it over with someone. And there was the rub.

He secured another stitch in the bridle and frowned. He shared the ranch with his father and two brothers and the chances of a good debate with them on the merits of Transcendentalism weren't much better than they were with the cowpokes he rode the range with. Oh, they were all smart enough, but Hoss was disinclined to read anything but the Territorial Enterprise, and Joe leaned more to dime novels. His father liked a good book occasionally and was probably familiar with this modern American philosophy, but all his efforts to try him out on the subject had been met with polite distraction.

Well, he was busy, Adam understood that, and the demands of running such a huge ranch were many, leaving little time for anything else. But sometimes Adam's need to share his love of more esoteric ideas and pursuits burned so hot and high that he didn't know where to go with it for release, leaving him restless and distracted. He was feeling that way now.

If only his mother had lived. His father often remarked that she had been as bookish as he was, with the same passion for the aesthetic, and he was willing to bet that she would have had plenty to say on the subject of Transcendentalism.

But, then, if his mother had lived, that would mean no Hoss and no Joe, and he really couldn't imagine his life without them. He glanced at the next paragraph, then let out a yelp as he drove the large, curved needle directly into his thumb. Swearing softly but fluently, he dropped the bridle and shook the pain away from his hand. And that was what happened when you were thinking about one thing when you should be concentrating on another, he lectured himself silently.

"'When I consider how my light is spent'," he grumbled aloud.

"How's that, Adam?"

Adam jumped, startled to find he wasn't alone and embarrassed to be caught talking to himself. "Hoss," he said, looking up to see his younger brother's hulking silhouette in the tack room doorway. "I didn't hear you come in. Um - nothing. Just thinking out loud."

"How what's spent?" Hoss persisted curiously.

"How..? Oh...no. It's just a quote. 'When I consider how my light is spent' - you know, from Milton's On His Blindness." And then he wanted to bite his tongue, because he could be pretty certain that Hoss did NOT know and that was exactly the kind of thing that Little Joe called his "putting on airs".

He wasn't, really - it was more like speaking a second language - something that was so much a part of you that it was hard to remember that everybody else didn't understand it, too. But he tried to remember, and wished that he had remembered this morning. The last thing he wanted was a fight - the one he was having with himself was bad enough.

He needn't have worried. Hoss accepted the answer with his usual easy calm, wrinkling his forehead thoughtfully. "Well, shoot, Adam, you can't spend light, kin ya? I mean, it ain't like money."

Adam grinned. "Not that kind of spend, Hoss. Like you spend time. Milton meant when I consider how my life is spent, or my time and talent. Light is just a metaphor. Of course, by that time, Milton was blind, so by light he was also referring to his eyesight, and how that loss had diminished his ability to use his talent, or spend his life as he had intended, so you see, it has a sort of a double…" he caught Hoss's expression and came to an abrupt halt, clearing his throat. "Well, anyway. It was just a quote."

"Huh. You don't say." Hoss watched him cut the thread and return the bridle to its peg. "That in that there book?" He gestured to the open book on the tack box.

Adam followed his gaze and colored slightly, doubly glad it was Hoss and not Joe. If Joe found out he'd been reading while he was supposed to be taking care of tack he'd never hear the end of it.

He pushed the book closed and picked up a martingale he'd finished polishing to return it to its hook. "No, that's a book by a fellow called Emerson. On Transcendentalism. It's a modern American philosophy he created, based on the teachings of Immanuel Kant."

"Transcen - what?"

"Transcendentalism. It's a kind of a religion that emphasizes the alignment between man and nature and the nobility of the human spirit…"

Hoss looked at him blankly.

Adam sighed inwardly. "Never mind."

Hoss gave a low whistle. "You sure know a powerful lot a things, Adam. How's it feel to know so much?"

Lonely, thought Adam, surprising himself with his own thoughts, biting down before he could say it out loud. But something must have shown on his face, because Hoss's kind, mild blue eyes were fixed on him scrutinizingly.

He picked up the last bridle, which belonged to his mount, Sport, moved to his stall and began slipping it over the beautiful gelding's head.

"Everythin' okay, Adam?" asked Hoss, after a minute.

"Everything's fine, Hoss." He busily threw a saddle blanket over Sport's back, avoiding Hoss's gentle gaze, and reached for his saddle. "Except that if I don't get up above the north pasture pretty soon and look for those strays, Pa's gonna skin me." He reached for his book and handed it to Hoss. "Do me a favor and put this back in my room for me?"

Hoss didn't drop his gaze, but accepted the book and watched him tighten the cinch. "Sure thing, Adam."

Adam took Sport's reins and led him out of the barn. He was about to mount when Hoss put his hand above his on the reins, almost at Sport's bit. Adam looked at him and knew he wasn't getting out of this one so easily. He looked down at the ground, then back at his brother. "Look, Hoss, it's really nothing, okay?"

Hoss continued to hold the reins, patient and immovable.

Adam sighed again, out loud this time. "Okay, it's just that…" How could he explain to Hoss what he didn't really understand himself? "Every once in a while, I kind of wish that somebody else liked some of the things that I like, that's all. Can I have my reins, please?" He swung into the saddle, trying to ignore Hoss's face, scrunched into a frown. Damn. The last thing he'd wanted was to upset his tender hearted brother.

Hoss slowly handed him his reins, wrinkling his nose at the book in his oversized paw.

Adam picked up the reins and urged Sport forward. "See ya, Hoss."

Hoss's face suddenly brightened tentatively. "Say, Adam?"

Adam turned.

"I like yer music a right lot."

Adam smiled a half smile and reached down to give him a brotherly slap on the shoulder. "So you do. Thanks, Hoss. And thanks for taking care of the book for me." He pressed his heels into Sport, and the horse shot forward.

Hoss looked after him, his forehead still crinkled in a frown, then down at the book, flipping the pages curiously. He shook his head.

What a whole lotta itty-bitty print. And no pictures.

000

Adam finally pulled Sport up after giving him his head most of the way to the north pasture. He'd figured a gallop would do them both good, but now he eased him into a restful trot, bending him this way and that through the trees. He grinned a little to himself, remembering Hoss's face as he'd lectured him on Milton and Emerson. He really had to get himself in hand, or they'd find him giving literary symposia to Hop Sing's chickens.

He put his hand on the breast pocket of his jacket and felt the letter crinkle there, his mind shifting to his other quandary. He felt badly that he hadn't mentioned it to his father yet, but he wanted to wait until he knew his own mind a little better. He drew the letter out and skimmed it.

It was a habit that maddened his father - reading while riding - so he was careful never to do it when he was around. His father was sure that it was a practice that could only end in a nasty accident, but it never had - in fact, once it had actually saved his life, when a bushwhacker's bullet had been deflected from his heart to his leg by a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. He had survived, though the sonnets hadn't. He smiled at the memory, then frowned at the letter.

His grandfather was making a plea for him to come east. He was getting old, and he wanted to spend his remaining years with his only grandchild, his only remaining kin. He pointed out that Ben, his father, had two other sons to help him, while Abel, his grandfather, had only Adam. He spoke at length about the charms of the east; the museums, the libraries, the concerts, the theatres, the lectures. He spoke even more about his own loneliness and increasing frailty. Adam sighed, and returned the letter to his pocket. He made a good case.

Of course, his father needed him too, depended on him a great deal, but his father was still healthy and vital, and had strong support in Hoss and Joe. And then, back east, many people shared his interests. You could get all kinds of good literary debates going.

He slowed Sport to a stop and leaned over his neck, admiring the view.

But he knew it wasn't that simple for him. He often felt out of place in the west, that was true, but what he'd never told anyone was that he hadn't really felt at home in the east, either. The crowds and the noise wore on him, he missed the wide open spaces, the clean air and endless vistas, the hard physical labor, the directness of the people. He'd missed his family, the way of life. He patted Sport affectionately on the neck. "Not to mention you, boy. What would I ever do without you?"

Not for the first time, he envied his brothers, who seemed to fit in so well, be so satisfied, so sure of where they belonged. He reached down further to scratch Sport along his jaw. "How about you? You got any thoughts on Transcendentalism you'd like to share?"

Sport tossed his head and rolled a baleful brown eye at him.

"Didn't think so. Let's see to those strays."

TBC