ONE

One week earlier

Adam Cartwright drew a deep breath and fought to contain his irritation. At twenty-five years of age he'd long since moved past childish perceptions and expectations, and though he was of an age where he could have had his own children, there were times when he wondered if he ever would. Order was an ephemeral thing, hard to grasp and even harder to hold. He craved it like a man who was dying of thirst in the desert craved water. He needed it, for without order there could be no control and without control you had chaos.

The definition of which would be Joseph Francis Cartwright.

The black-haired man let his exasperation out in a sigh. He'd actually begged – begged, mind you – his middle brother to come to town with Joe this afternoon instead of him. In fact, he'd offered to do Hoss' chores for a week if he would. A package had come in on the stage for him a few days back and he had a stack of new books at home to peruse. All he'd wanted to do was stay there and read them. But no, Pa decided they needed new tools to take to the mining camp when they went on Monday and so, here he was, at the mercantile instead.

"The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, gang aft a-gley," he muttered.

Sometimes he wondered which he was.

It seemed to him that there was a major conspiracy afoot to keep him from reading those books. Pa was elbow-deep in paperwork, which he said would take all day. The older man had growled like a grizzly when he suggested he save some of it for later and go into town with Little Joe and enjoy himself. Hop Sing was busy cooking in order to supply them with several days food for the trip he and his brothers would be taking, and his middle brother swore with his hand on the Bible that Pa'd ordered him to ride up to the timber camp today to check on the progress in felling trees for the job at the Manning ranch. Joshua Manning was a friend of theirs from the early days. He'd come through a recent bout of the flu, but had been left debilitated. Josh's eldest son was away at school and his other son was only half Joe's age. In between there were a bevy of bright-eyed blonde beauties who were, for the most part, useless.

Adam scowled. That was unkind.

It was unfortunately also true.

Turning to the right, Adam cast his eyes toward the supply wagon anchored in the street outside the mercantile. There, framed by the great glass window with its painted words proudly proclaiming that the store carried the finest European wares, was his little brother. He'd left Joe in the wagon hoping to avoid trouble. At first he thought he'd succeeded. The first time he'd looked out, Joe had been lazing on the wagon seat, his arms locked behind his head and his black hat tipped forward over his eyes. After handing the store's proprietor his list, he'd looked again to find Joe chatting with a pretty young filly. She was vaguely familiar from church and seemed to pose no immediate threat.

Then again, this was Joseph Francis Cartwright he was talking about.

The third time – and it was always the charm, wasn't it? – he'd glanced out the window to find Joe standing upright in the wagon, his fists planted firmly on his tapered hips and his jaw thrust forward. It was what he thought of as the boy's banty rooster stance and it meant trouble. Little Joe was facing down an older boy who, with his boots still firmly anchored on Eagle Station's dusty street, was nearly as tall as Joe in the wagon. He easily outweighed Joe by fifty pounds. Adam wracked his brain for a name. He knew the kid, but hadn't seen him around for a while. Bruno? Brad?

No, Butch. It was Butch McTavish.

Adam ran a hand over his eyes.

Of course, it was.

"You gonna rescue that little brother of yours?" John Peck, the store owner asked. "Butch's a mean one. I hear tell he near killed a boy a few years back. Served near a year in some kind of school for wayward boys from what I hear. Today's his first day back in Eagle Station."

The black-haired man pursed his lips. He happened to know that Butch had been at the institution for about six weeks and that his uncle was the one who ran the school. The other boy in question had been badly bruised, but come nowhere near being killed.

So, what to do?

His pa and Hoss would have rushed out and intervened, angering and shaming Joe in order to prevent any...damage. He, on the other hand, thought the kid needed to toughen up. Little Joe was slight now and gave every indication of being slight when full grown. He and Hoss had talked about it and agreed and he'd been showing Joe a few tricks lately to use his small size to his advantage. Adam gnawed his lip as he watched the boys trade verbal spars. Joe was going to have to learn to defend himself against brutes and bullies and big men if he wanted to prevent being taken advantage of like what happened last year with...

Adam took in a sudden breath as the memory of what had occurred punched him in the gut.

What was he thinking?

Concerned hazel eyes flicked from Butch to Joe. Joe's nostrils were flared and that jaw jutted forward now like a rocky bluff. His brother's fingers were clenched into tight fists and all one hundred and five pounds of him had gone rigid. To the casual observer Ben Cartwright's youngest son would have looked like he was rip-roaring and ready for a fight.

He knew better.

Joe was scared.

"Don't you care what happens to your brother?" John asked quietly.

Oh, he cared. He cared very much. As he watched Butch beckon Joe out of the wagon, time slowed. Each breath was an hour of time to curse himself.

Nine months back Joe had been kidnapped and abused by a brute of a man named Wade Bosh.

Bosh's abuse had left his brother terrified. For months Joe had been afraid to leave the Ponderosa.

Every time one of the hands came around who was near or as big as Hoss, Joe would flee.

This was his ornery, in-your-face, determined and fearless little brother.

Or it had been.

Adam looked again. Joe must have made his mind up that this was the time he wouldn't back down. Maybe he thought he could take Butch, since he too was a boy. Maybe Joe was just too embarrassed in front of the filly to back down – or maybe it was the circle of his school friends, including several very pretty girls, who had gathered to watch.

Whatever it was, Joe was getting out of the wagon.

Adam's hand was on the door now, pushing it open. Was it worth the kid taking a licking, he wondered, to show him that he could fight back and win – that he didn't have to be afraid anymore? After all, Butch was a boy – a big boy, mind you – but a boy. Would it help restore some of Joe's lost confidence if he let his brother wallop him?

On the other hand, would Pa let him come home if he did?

Joe and Butch were squaring off. Adam scowled with uncertainty as he watched the boys begin the familiar dance preparatory to throwing punches.

No. He just couldn't do it to him. He just couldn't embarrass Joe. At thirteen his brother was fighting hard to be a man, and lately, he'd been doing a good job of it. They'd been up to the timber camp a number of times since Mr. Manning fell ill and each time Joe had been cooperative and really helpful in getting the work done.

Was the way to repay him by shaming him in front of his schoolmates?

John Peck had followed him onto the porch. As the store owner spoke again, Adam waved him off and walked to the edge. Joe was still physically under par from his ordeal with Bosh. His muscle tone was not what it had been and his eyes were weak. Still, he had good form and looked like he could go a round or two with Butch without being...maimed. Leaning against one of the porch columns, Adam watched and waited. It only took a second for Joe to spot him. His brother looked alternately guilty, frightened, puzzled, and then, pleased.

You go get him, boy! Adam projected. Remember what I've taught you about taking on a man bigger than you.

A second later the fight began in earnest. Joe did well at the beginning, ducking and deliberately baiting Butch into throwing useless punches, which he easily ducked in order to tire him out. The maneuver, unfortunately, also served to make the bully furious, which could go either way – Butch would be so angry he'd do something stupid and open himself up to attack, or he'd be so enraged he'd take Joe's head off.

Since this debacle was of his making, he was banking on the first.

The crowd, of course, was going wild. Joe's male friends – he could see both Seth and Mitch – were rooting loudly for him. Tory Jennings was there too, Joe's sometime girlfriend. She was the filly from church he'd been trying to place. Tory was yelling for Joe to win.

At that moment Adam knew he was vindicated. Even if his brother ended up in the hospital and his father disowned him, Joe's girl knew he was a man.

Adam's eyes returned to the crowd. There were a half dozen boys rooting for Butch as well, several of which had been known to bully Joe before. They'd all been drummed out of school and had matured as only a boy could when placed too soon amidst the rough and tumble men who worked a ranch. The black-haired man watched them closely.

So long as the fight remained honest and Joe wasn't hurt badly, he was determined not to interfere.

A second later there was a loud exclamation of surprise and Butch dropped to his knees. Joe's knuckles were bleeding, but he'd managed to catch the bigger boy with an uppercut to the jaw that took him down. Butch fell amidst a chorus of cheers and boos. The bully landed on his hands and knees, gasping. Adam grinned. Joe was standing over him; his battered hands still raised and fists clenched as if ready to take on any newcomers.

A triumphant smile curled the end of his little brother's split lip.

Then, it happened – too swift for him to react. One of Butch's friends came up behind Joe and pinned his arms to his sides. As Joe wriggled to escape, another smacked him on the side of his head, putting him off-kilter. Seth and Mitch were on the move, but more of the bullies buddies moved in, ringing Joe, preventing them from reaching him. Adam stepped off the porch. As he did, he caught Joe's eye.

And realized he had made a big mistake.

Like a roaring bull, Butch reared up off of the dusty street and charged, driving his head hard into Joe's left side right where the ribs met his abdomen. The air that left his brother's lungs was audible. Joe went down and Butch went down on top of him, driving his brother's slight form into the hard earth and then pummeling him with his fists.

Adam was on the move but the crowd, which by now included adults, was too thick for him to part. He hesitated only a moment and then he pulled his pistol from its holster and fired once, high into the air.

The street fell silent.

The shot, of course, brought Deputy Roy Coffee out of his office and sent him hustling across the street to break up the fight.

"Ain't you boys got nothin' better to do than pound each other like a side of beef!" the lawman shouted, his voice stern. "I oughta throw the whole lot of you in jail for disturbin' the peace!" Reaching down, Roy grabbed Butch by the collar and hauled him back. A horrified look crossed his face when he looked at Butch's victim. "One more year on you, boy, and I'll be havin' you up on attempted murder charges for what you done!" he told Joe's attacker.

Adam swallowed hard, stunned by Roy's words.

He had yet to get a good look at Joe.

This time the crowd parted as he moved. The only ones left were Joe's friends and several of his friends' parents – including Tory's mother and father – so it wasn't difficult to make his way to his brother's side. When he got there, Adam fell to his knees and reached out toward the battered form.

With a glance at Roy, who shook his head, he breathed, "Good Lord..."

Joe's lower lip, the skin over his left cheek, and the ridge above his left eyebrow were all split and bleeding. His jaw was turning black and blue. His knuckles were scraped nearly to the bone and both knees were bleeding, the fabric of his light gray pants having split when he fell. But that wasn't the worst thing. The buttons of his brother's white shirt had been popped. The bloodied fabric lay open revealing his chest and the heavy bruising that was spreading like a cancer over his brother's abdomen as he watched.

Adam choked. "Joe..."

His little brother was half-conscious, but there was enough life and spark left in him for his battered lips to curl into a weary smile. Feebly his brother's fingers clasped his red shirt.

"Thanks...Adam..." Joe wheezed just before he coughed.

"Thanks? For what?"

Joe grimaced, then the smile returned. "For...letting me be a...man..."

That life and spark? Well, they went out of him then. Joe lapsed into unconsciousness and lay in a crumpled heap on the ground.

Roy Coffee had turned Butch and the other boys over to Sheriff Olin, who was herding them toward the jail. As he stared at Joe's slight form, the deputy said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You'd best be gettin' Little Joe to the Doc's, Adam. You hear?" He turned to glance at the crowd. "From what I been told by Tory and her folks, Butch started this here fight. Little Joe ain't got nothin' to worry about."

Adam slipped his arms under his brother's slight form and lifted him up.

No. Joe didn't have anything to worry about.

But he did.

He might just have killed his brother.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Ben Cartwright stood outside the front door of his home, looking toward the Eagle Station road. It was early evening and the warm May day had given way to a chilly night. It was nearly eight o'clock and he was growing concerned. The task he'd set Adam and Joseph earlier in the day should have taken an hour or two at most to complete. They'd had plenty of time to return. Of course, there was always the possibility that his youngest had talked his oldest into eating supper at Beth Riley's. Beth made the best pies in town and she always thought Joseph needed fattening up, so she doled it out in large portions. If it had been Hoss he'd sent into town with Joe, he would have been even more concerned. Joe might have talked his middle brother into some hair-brained scheme. As it was, with Adam at the helm, he was able to keep his worry in check.

Adam wouldn't let anything happen to his younger brother.

Ben looked back into the house, imagining the desk in his office with its mountain of paperwork that still needed scaled. He'd been diligent so far, but had made little headway. It seemed every time he turned around, he needed Adam's thoughts, skills, or knowledge to complete it. He wondered idly when he had come to rely so heavily on the boy.

Boy.

Ben sighed. Adam had never been a boy. Not really. At a little over six years old he had become responsible for his baby brother, and by the time Hoss could care for himself, there was Joseph. For the years Marie had been alive that burden was eased, but it had been during those years that his eldest son had begun to grow into his role as a man, riding at his side, taking charge of the hands – Ben glanced at the desk again – doing the paperwork, and helping to build the dream that was the Ponderosa.

Ben entered the house and closed the door behind him. It was a good thing the man Adam had grown into had broad shoulders. He needed them to bear all of the responsibilities his father laid upon them.

"Nothin', Pa?" Hoss asked.

The nineteen-year-old was seated by the fire. There was a book in his hand – not an unheard of occurrence in his middle son's life, but one that was fairly rare. It actually belonged to Joe and according to his youngest son – who was also not the most voracious of readers – it was one 'rip-snortin' tale'. The title was The Man in the Iron Mask and it had been written by one of his own favorite authors, Alexander Dumas.

The rancher shook his head in answer to his son's question. "No sign yet, but then again, since Adam is with Joe there's nothing to worry about."

Hoss snorted. "You just keep tellin' yourself that, Pa. One day you'll believe it."

"Are you implying that I still think of your oldest brother as a boy?"

"No, sir. I'm implying you ain't quite acquainted with that youngest son of yours. Little Joe sure-as-shootin' has a nose for trouble! You can't let the boy walk to the stable by himself without thinkin' somethin' might..." Hoss' voice trailed off. A look – somewhere between sick and sorry – came over his son's beefy face. "I sure am sorry, Pa. I didn't mean to bring up no bad memories."

"There's no need to apologize, Hoss," he answered quietly. "You've described the youngest Cartwright quite accurately."

His son was silent a moment. "Joe still ain't right, is he, Pa? I mean, not all the way."

Ben sat down on the settee opposite him. "Why don't you tell me."

Hoss shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I don't mean nothin' unkind, Pa. You know how much I love Little Joe. But he ain't...well, he ain't hisself. Oh, he makes a good show of it, pretendin' to be a fiery little cuss and givin' as good as he gets."

"But?"

"It's in his eyes, Pa." Hoss hesitated. "It's like he's scared all the time."

The ordeal Joseph had been through nearly a year before – being kidnapped from his home by a vengeful sailor who thought he was his long lost 'son', being drugged and tormented both mentally and physically, and then abandoned in the hold of a ship and left to die – would have been enough to break a full-grown man. As it was his youngest had survived, but there were scars – deep ones – and the saddest thing was, Joseph wouldn't talk about them. Whenever asked, 'How are you?', his answer was the same. Every one of them could mouth it before he spoke.

'I'm fine.'

Joseph was anything but fine.

They'd had family discussions, early in the morning when they knew Little Joe was asleep. The conclusion was – much to his determination to do otherwise – that he'd agreed to let Joseph range a bit farther away from the house, hence the trip to town today. Wade Bosh had taken many things away from Joseph. Adam had pointed out that his brother's belief in himself was the chief one.

Ben glanced toward the door again, seeing his oldest and youngest exit through it. It had been hard to let the boy go. God, it had been hard! Other than school and letting him occasionally travel with his brothers, he'd kept Joseph close since...well...since what happened with Wade Bosh. There was always the fear in his mind and heart that someone or something would rear up out of nowhere and take his son away from him again.

Hoss cleared his throat. He was waiting on an answer.

"You're brother will recover in time," the rancher replied, seeking to convince himself as much as his son. "Joseph needs to gain confidence. That's why I'm allowing him to go with you and Adam again."

"He was a lot of help up at the timber camp last week," Hoss said. Then he winked. "And only a little trouble."

Ben laughed. It felt good.

"Pa? You hear that?"

The rancher listened. "I sure do!"

Ben started toward the door, heartened by the sound of a wagon rolling into the yard. He opened it and stepped out, ready to greet his sons – only to find two strangers, one in the drivers' seat and the other on the ground and headed for the house. The man closest to him looked to be in his early to mid-forties, though he could have been younger. He had the look of a seasoned cowboy – grizzled and sunburned, with skin like leather and pallid gray eyes that had seen too many trails and trials. His sandy beard and mustache were liberally dashed with a pale blond tone, as were the ramrod straight eyebrows that topped them. The man in the wagon was younger – about Adam's age. He had thick wavy brown hair, the color of Joseph's but not as curly. His face and features were small – almost delicate – and his body a bit on the skinny side. If the drifter was his father, then he favored his mother.

The cowboy halted before him and tipped his hat. "Evenin'."

Ben nodded. "Good evening. Is there something I can do for you?"

The man glanced at the boy and then turned back. Sticking his hand out he said, "Name's Webb. Fremont Webb, though everyone calls me Monty." As Ben took the offered hand and shook it, Monty went on. "I'm hopin' so. We were on our way to the Manning's spread when Greg here got to feelin' poorly."

The rancher looked at the younger man again. He was a bit hunched over.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Oh, it ain't nothin' contagious. He 'et somethin' and it's gone off a bit. Boy's got a weak stomach." The cowboy turned. "Ain't that right, Greg?"

Greg scowled and rolled his eyes.

The sight tore at Ben's heart. The gesture was so like one Joe would make.

"Somethin' wrong, sir?" the man asked.

"Please, call me Ben." He shook his head. "No, I'm just a bit preoccupied."

"Sorry to disturb you then, Ben. We'll be on our way."

"No. No, please stay. You can bed down in the bunkhouse for the night. We have spare beds at the moment as a good many of the men are out in the field with the branding."

"Thank you, sir," Monty said with a tip of his hat. He'd begun to walk back to the wagon when he halted and turned around. "Ben. Would that be Ben Cartwright?" he asked.

The question was as routine as his reaction to it should have been.

The knot in his stomach told him otherwise.

"I was so worried about gettin' the boy off that wagon and into a bed, I almost forgot. I should've asked." As he spoke, Monty pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and held it out to him. "Guess I wasn't thinkin'. The man who gave me this told me yours was the first spread I'd come upon on the road. We heard tell there was work at the Mannings. That's why we were headed that way. I said I'd bring it by."

Ben took the paper and held it like it was a snake about to strike.

"Man?" he asked with a lift of his near-black brows.

"Tall fellow. Black hair. Good lookin'. He was in the saloon askin' if anyone was headin' out this way. Said he needed to get this to you quick as a lick."

"Was his name Adam?"

Monty shrugged. "Could be. I heard that name. Might of belonged to him and might not." The cowboy eyed him. "You gonna read it?"

Ben paled as he unfolded the slip of paper and recognized his eldest son's strong hand. He began to tremble as he read it.

Pa. Sorry, Pa. Made a terrible mistake. Joe hurt. My fault. Come now.

Ben lifted his eyes to the sky. The stars were out. The moon rising. Adam would have had to know the note could not reach him before dark.

Come now.

Something was terribly wrong.