As I posted before Chapter 1, regretfully, I will delete all guest reviews, positive and negative, but thank you for reading.

Two

Adam stood on the Eklund porch, his heart thudding; he suddenly felt ridiculous. The situation was absurd. How could he possibly think that he could just waltz in and leave with Sigrid's promise to be his wife? The whole situation was farcical.

He remembered all the romantic poetry he had read as a youth that fed the idea of one day meeting a woman and being transported to raptures of desire and love. But as Adam had aged and experienced life, those ideals faded and he realized that love is a much-valued commodity and doesn't grace everyone. But thankfully, there were other activities that that were good simulacrums of love and satisfied as much, if not more.

As Adam stood trying to decide whether or not to stay or turn tail and leave, an icy breeze lifted the dark curls at his nape. Were he superstitious, Adam considered, he would take it a bad sign-icy fingers caressing him-and his mind went to Mrs. Eklund so long ago. He shivered slightly and before his courage left him completely, he rapped on the front door and waited.

"Well, Adam Cartwright. And for why are you at my door after dark?" Alvar Eklund held the door with one hand and his burlwood pipe with the other. He glanced at Adam's clothes, noting that he was wearing his Sunday best. And it was Tuesday night. Was Adam a suitor for his daughter's hand? Alvar Eklund was puzzled by the presence of the man at his door; he did not like visitors, especially Adam.

"May I come in, Mr. Eklund? I have business." Adam had forgotten how physically intimidating Alvar Eklund was. Although he was now in his late fifties, Alvar was still a big, powerful man with a barrel-chest who worked full days in his smithy. He was also the town farrier. Behind his shop at the edge of town, set back much further from the street, Alvar had built the house so the noise from the hammering and the heat from the forge wouldn't disturb the peace of his bride who had also journeyed with him from Sweden. Mrs. Alvar had been of delicate constitution, kind and gentle, but often needed "doses" of certain elixirs to calm her nerves. Alvar seemed contemptuous of his wife's weakness, especially when he had to spend money on it. Once, when Adam was just a boy waiting on his father in the smithy, Alvar gave Adam two-bits and sent him to the general store for a brown glass bottle of "Ladies Vitality Tonic" and made it clear that the remaining nickel was to be returned to him. Mrs. Eklund was, in Ben's words after Adam asked him to explain on their ride home, "easily distressed" by things most married women take in stride; she was considered "hysterical" by nature. Adam was puzzled because his father refused to discuss further the matters of women and their apparent vagaries of mood. But the first time Adam saw Mrs. Eklund with her white-blonde hair and pale, smooth skin, he was smitten and had a schoolboy delight in seeing her.

During the early years of establishing himself and his ranch, Ben Cartwright, leaving the baby Hoss with a neighbor, Mrs. Shaughnessy, helped Alvar in the smithy a few days a week, pounding out hot iron for horse shoes. Ben had a working knowledge of ironwork, but there was much he didn't know such as how to temper iron, how to fix a broken pump or repair a plowshare or create simple tools such as a hoof pick; Alvar's instructions served Ben well. And in building and maintaining the Ponderosa, Ben recognized how invaluable that knowledge was, not to mention the $2.00 a day he was paid for withstanding the furnace blasts.

For a nickel a day, Adam worked the bellows. The smithy was hot despite being open and Adam hated the work but soon he was learning to make nails and how to solder but not without excruciating accidental burns and their resulting scars. But the first day, the scorching heat and his aching muscles caused Adam to want to quit, but the discomfort seemed to recede when Mrs. Eklund brought a pitcher of cool buttermilk and bread and cheese to him and his father for their lunch while Alvar sluiced his arms and face, cleaning up to eat inside at the kitchen table.

Mrs. Eklund had included some cookies for Adam-and she smiled at the boy and he beamed in gratitude- not just for the food but for the recognition; he missed having a woman about. It went so for a few days until Alvar spoke sharply to his wife in their native language; she dropped her eyes and hurried back to the house. Adam was both embarrassed and confused. He knew a few Swedish words, those Inger had taught him, and had heard what he thought was something about them being "hired" and the word "bread." But what Adam noticed the most was his father's stiff face as he listened to the harsh conversation. And the tightness about his mouth. And from then on, Ben brought their lunch, usually cold biscuit and slices of fried pork belly, and drank the water from the smithy pump. And the edge of friendliness was gone. But all Adam could get from his father was they were hired hands and as such, they were to take orders and do their work well.

Alvar Eklund held his place at the open door, not inviting Adam inside. "Business? What business could you have this time of night? I won't shoe a horse at this hour and if it's anything else, I do my business with your father." Eklund didn't care for Adam Cartwright despite the fact that he had never done anything to earn his dislike. But Adam had a reputation for being clever and Eklund felt he himself wasn't. Honest and hard-working, but not clever. Adam put him on edge, had done so since he was young boy and sweat in the smithy alongside his father. The boy noticed things and so did the man he became.

"My business is with your daughter, Mr. Eklund." Despite the misgivings he had about the situation, Adam decided that since he was there, he would go through with the proposal. "May I speak with her?"

"Why? Have you courting on your mind? If so, let me set you straight…" Alvar blocked his front door with his broad shoulders and thick body.

"Who's at the door, father?" a woman's voice demanded. It wasn't meek or coy and had an edge of impatience.

"It's no one. Just Adam Cartwright," Alvar said, looking back over his shoulder to answer. He turned back to face Adam. "Goodnight, Adam. Give my father your best." Alvar started to close the door but Sigrid came up behind him; Adam could only see the skirt of her gray dress as she moved. She was slight as her mother had been and was blocked from his view by her father's body.

"Invite Mr. Cartwright in, Father. I'll make fresh coffee. It's a cold night to keep someone standing outside."

Alvar scowled. "Come in, Adam." His voice dropped - "But you are not welcome in my home."

Adam held his tongue, refrained from a sarcastic reply. "Thank you, Mr. Eklund." He stepped inside, taking off his hat while Alvar closed the door. Adam glanced around the overstuffed parlor. It held too much ornate furniture, was too warm and seemed as suffocating as being pressed against a large woman's ponderous bosom. But then, Adam considered, perhaps he was just used to the spaciousness of the ranch house and the clean, masculine furniture. Marie, Joe's mother, had tried to add feminine touches to the rooms - sheer lace curtains between the drapes and the windows, antimacassars, doilies on the mantle and tabletops, an Aubusson rug to replace the woven Indian one; none of them dared step on the ornate, carved wool flowers except in their socks. But after Marie's untimely death, the doilies and antimacassars slowly disappeared, the lace curtains were removed to be washed and were never replaced, and the Aubusson ended up on Ben Cartwright's bedroom floor.

Alvar sat down in what appeared to be his favorite chair; it was well-worn – almost shabby, the edging frayed in spots. He continued to smoke his pipe while gazing at the opposite wall, not offering Adam a seat, not even looking at him. Adam stood a few seconds longer - then sat on the sofa. He placed his hat beside him; Sigrid wouldn't sit there, he was certain. And as he waited, Adam became more uncomfortable, sweat breaking out on his upper lip and forehead. He was sure that under his jacket, there were dark half-moons of dampness under his arms. Seeing Alvar always reminded Adam of the hanging that occurred on the anniversary of his own birth. And the connection with Sigrid.

It had been his sixteenth birthday and Ben was taking Adam to choose a new guitar. Up to then, Adam had learned the basic chords on an old, well-used guitar a retiring ranch hand had given him years earlier.

"My rheumatism is so bad now that, well, these old fingers just can't work like they used to. I thought since you like to hear me play, you might like this old guitar of mine. Besides, I don't want to carry it all the way to Illinois to my daughter's place."

That morning of his birthday, his brothers had given him a book of poems. "Joe and me done extra chores to pay for this so's you got to read some of them things aloud to us." Hop Sing, their cook, was making him a vanilla layer cake with boiled sugar icing and his father announced he would take Adam into town to order a guitar, a new guitar, from the catalogue at the general store. And Adam knew exactly which one he wanted as he always glanced through the catalogue on their monthly visits, lingering over the pages that held drawings, descriptions and prices of guitars, fiddles, banjoes, and French harps. But this day, as they entered the town, the smithy was silent and Alvar Eklund was practically dragging a badly-beaten, dark-haired man down the street, a loud and encouraging mass of men moving with them. Ben stopped the buckboard.

"What's going on, Pa?" Adam had never seen a loud, unruly group of men; they were truly frightening. Then Adam saw that one of the other men held a coiled rope, waving it above his head. Ben also saw it.

"Wait here, Adam." Ben tied off the reins and set the foot brake.

Adam grabbed his father's arm. "I'm not waiting here. If you're going to find out what's going on, I'm going too." Ben looked evenly at Adam. At sixteen, he was a man. Ben conceded. Adam jumped down from the seat and he and his father hurried to the shouting mob which stood in a circle surrounding Alvar and the dark-haired man. Someone had tossed the rope over a high, thick branch of the old oak standing in front of the general store. Townspeople and merchants along with children and barking dogs excited by all the activity, had gathered on the boardwalk to stare. Hangings were a rarity; usually, when a crime was committed, the perpetrator was shot dead—why waste time tying a rope? But those times, it was often difficult to determine who really was the guilty party with one of those involved, dead.

"Wait, wait a minute here," Ben said to Adam. He roughly pushed himself through the crowd until he reached the men and the rope. "Wait!" Ben shouted. The crowd quieted some and Alvar Eklund still held the man firmly, one hand like a vise on the back of the man's neck. Adam stood on the periphery of the mob, wishing he had a gun in case the crowd's outrage and anger turned on his father. "Now what's going on?" Ben asked. "Why are you hanging this man?"

Adam scrutinized the man to be hanged; he was a stranger, probably a passing cowboy, and one eye was swollen shut and it appeared his jaw was broken as he couldn't form words; odd sounds burbled from his mouth. He was having difficulty breathing as well and Adam supposed his ribs were broken by Alvar's fists that could hit as hard as a mule kicks. Adam also observed the stranger's dungaree fly was only partially buttoned up, as if he had been interrupted while taking a piss.

"This is no business of yours, Ben Cartwright," Alvar said, his face red with fury, sweat glistening on his bare arms; he still wore his leather apron which had smears of blood on it.

"Alvar-all of you. If this man has done something wrong…"

Alvar released the man who crumpled to the dirt. "You can stand and say 'if'? Who are you to ask? Who are you to question? You go to my house, Ben Cartwright." Alvar's voice began to quaver with emotion. "You look at my wife. You see Annika in her torn clothes and shaking and screaming after what this dog did to her… It's unspeakable."

"Alvar, you've almost beaten him to death, taken out your fury on him. Let's ask the sheriff of Carson City to…"

Owen Castor stepped forward. "We take care of our own, Ben. We live here in town – not you. We solve our own problems and if a man does wrong to one, he does wrong to all of us! Right now, my Cassie and some of the other womenfolk are trying to help calm Mrs. Eklund. Listen and you can still hear her screaming! When we get a sheriff, then he can handle our other matters but something like this, a man who rapes a helpless woman…"

Adam couldn't breathe. Lovely, gentle, fragile Mrs. Eklund had been assaulted by this despicable, filthy, stinking cowboy. He should hang. He should. But the mob was terrifying. What if the man was innocent? Adam thought. What if? But Adam was sure he wasn't. And yet there was always the possibility.

"We can't be like animals," Ben continued desperately. "There's a process…"

"Get out of my way, Benjamin! Get out!" Alvar swung his arm and violently pushed Ben Cartwright aside and the crowd closed in. Screeching came from the doomed man and Ben was shoved outward until he stood by Adam in the street.

"Let's go, Adam. Let's go home."

"Pa…" Adam looked back at the crowd. A cheer rose from them as Adam saw the man being raised above them; some men were pulling on the other end of the rope, moving further and further away so the man was jerked higher and higher. It wasn't a proper noose, just a slip knot that pulled tight from the man's weight and he was choking to death; his neck hadn't been mercifully snapped nor had his hands been tied. He clawed at the noose, trying desperately to free himself, his legs flailing wildly as he spun in the air.

"Adam! Let's go! Get back in the wagon!" Ben pushed Adam toward the wagon as Adam couldn't look away. "Let's go." Ben climbed up and took the reins.

Adam finally turned his eyes from the scene. He climbed back up to his place beside his father and Ben turned the wagon about. "Don't look back, Adam. It's an ugly sight – men behaving like rabid dogs! That's the bigger horror."

But Adam did look back and finally, the man's hands stopped their clutching and his legs ended their movement except for a few spasmodic kicks. And then he just swung.

The incident broke Mrs. Eklund's mind; she never uttered another coherent sentence. And nine months later, a dark-haired daughter was born to the Eklunds. A wet nurse was needed as Mrs. Eklund was beyond caring for even herself. She wandered about the town, her skirt hems dragging in the mud and dirt, her white-blonde hair unkempt, her hands soiled. Finally, Alvar had to tie a rope about her waist and tether her to a tree in their front yard so he could work uninterrupted in his smithy and would no longer have to search for his mad wife as she roamed about, becoming the object of children's ridicule who called her "the mad madam of Sweden" and threw pebbles at her. But Mrs. Eklund would only absently smile and jabber, spit gathering at the corners of her mouth. Then one day, when Sigrid was about three, Alvar found his wife had managed to wrap the rope twice about her neck and apparently throttled herself. Whether by accident or not, who knew?

Now, sitting in Mrs. Eklund's parlor, looking about the room, Adam wondered if it wasn't painful for Mr. Eklund to live in this house he had once shared with his wife and in which he watched her go raving mad. But suddenly his attention was diverted. Sigrid Eklund walked into the room holding a tray with a porcelain coffee set and a plate of cookies.

For the first time, Adam really looked at Sigrid, remembering all the while that she was conceived 23 years ago-on his sixteenth birthday. And he wondered if she knew.