Chapter Three

oooooooooo

"Hey there, little brother, rise and shine."

Joe opened his eyes only to have raindrops fall from his lashes and slide down his cheeks. He groaned. Rise and drown was more like it.

"Right," he snarled as he sat up in the bed of the wagon and fought to get his twisted rain slicker back into place. They'd taken turns sleeping and he'd just happened to draw the straw for doing it during a downpour. The bed of the wagon and his horse, who was tethered to the back board, were just as soaked as he was.

As he sat there, struggling with the slicker, Hoss turned in the seat and reached out to take hold of his chin. Stunned, Joe did nothing to break away as his brother turned his head from side to side and looked behind his ears like he was making sure he'd washed.

Coming awake, he jerked his head away. "What the heck do you think you're doing?" he demanded.

"Just checkin' to see if you'd growed any gills." Hoss shook his head and sent water flying from the rim of his ten gallon hat before turning back to the road. "Sure looks like you're gonna need them today."

Joe turned his face toward the sky. It was a sullen gray and, while it wasn't raining now, there was no sign the storm was going away any time soon. Clambering up onto the wagon seat, he sat beside his brother as they started to move again.

"What's it got to rain for?" he groused as he plucked his soaked pants off his soaked legs.

"Cain't be no flowers without rain, little brother. Wouldn't be no trees neither, nor nothin' to eat. Fact is, the world would be a right sorry place without rain." His giant of a brother turned and grinned at him. "Into every life a little rain's gotta fall."

Joe stared at him a moment. "Hoss, can I tell you something?"

"You got a secret?" his brother asked.

He sniffed and then blew a sodden curl from his nose. "No."

"Then what 'a you want to tell me?"

"Shut up."

For a moment Hoss did nothing – then he exploded with laughter.

As the day passed Joe's mood improved and soon the two of them were talking and laughing in spite of the rain, which returned not with a gale force as feared, but in a miserable constant drizzle. At one point he shimmied out of his slicker and put his green jacket back on. It was no use. Between the water dripping off his hat and the soaked wooden seat he occupied, he was wet through. At least the jacket was dry – momentarily. Hoss didn't seem to mind the rain. He was whistling and appeared not to have a care in the world.

Joe smiled to himself. Maybe it was middle brother who'd grown gills.

They were a few miles down the road from Carrie's cabin, near a place where the road took a sudden turn and ran close to the edge of a ravine, when they came across a woman whose wagon was stuck in the mud. The ramshackle vehicle was blocking the path so, even if they'd wanted to, they couldn't have gone past her.

Of course, being gentlemen, they wouldn't have wanted to.

As Hoss pulled the wagon to a halt, Joe jumped off and headed for the woman who was knee-deep in mud, ignoring his brother's protests that he wait. Childish as it was, he turned back and flashed Hoss a smile – and then rammed his fingers in his ears and stuck out his tongue.

'See, Adam,' he thought as he turned back. 'I'm all grown up.'

When he was a few feet away Joe called out to the woman. She didn't respond. She wasn't very big. About five foot or so. Her pale blonde hair dangled down the back of a calico blouse that had seen better days. When he called again and she still didn't answer, he decided she was so focused on what she was doing that she hadn't heard him.

He realized differently when he laid his hand on her shoulder and she turned around and decked him.

Hoss was climbing out of the wagon. As he landed butt-first in the mud, his brother stopped and leaned on its side and let out the loudest, longest belly laugh he'd ever heard. Blinking away mud, Joe rose to his feet and took another step toward the woman. She was pretty all right. She had a delicate heart-shaped face, wide brown eyes, and a pert little mouth. She was also looking down the sight of a rifle that was aimed at his heart. As Hoss moved, the rifle shifted toward him, halting middle brother about thirty feet away. A second later he heard a sharp intact of breath. Hoss started to say something.

That was when it happened.

There was a rushing sound and it seemed like the whole world came down on top of him. The side of the hill let loose, bringing with it a flood of water, stones, and bracken. He reached out for the woman. She was falling away from him. The rifle went off and he felt a searing pain in his head.

And then, he was buried alive.

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Joe woke gasping for air.

He'd been back in the mud, trying to claw his way free. It had filled his eyes, his mouth and nose. He'd known he was dead. There was nothing that could stop the primeval power of a river of water set loose.

Nothing but his brother.

Tears ran down Joe's cheeks in imitation of that river. Sobs wracked his battered form, sending ripples of pain along his left side. They were nothing compared to the pain – the guilt and grief – he'd carried with him this last year. For a time his love of Alice had driven the darkness away, but with her death it had returned, bringing with it its own darker waters. He couldn't understand why his brother had done what he had done. That's what he told himself. But he did.

Hoss had simply been – Hoss.

Sucking in tears and steeling himself for agony, Joe dragged his weary body up and into a seated position so he could look around the small cabin he lay in. His eyesight still wasn't what it should be, but it had cleared enough for him to see fairly well. The house was sturdy and fairly clean. Its condition reminded him of his childhood bedroom when Hop Sing took a holiday. Everything was straightened but untidy. There were well-ordered dishes piled in the dry sink and sort-of folded clothes hanging over chair backs. A light coating of dust showed on the sparse furniture that filled the cabin. He remembered Rick saying his mother was away.

From the look of things he wondered just how long she'd been away.

Joe sat for a moment, ruminating on how he'd gotten himself into this latest predicament, and then with a snort decided – what the Hell! – he'd see if he could stand. He could tell by the state of his long johns, which had been soaked and grown stiff, that his fever had broken overnight. He was feeling better. In fact, he was hungry. Since his young host was nowhere to be found, he figured he would see if he could make it to the stove and at least get some coffee. The inviting scent filled the room, calling him like a siren singing for a sailor. As he pushed himself up with his good hand and began the laborious task of swinging his splinted leg over the side of the bed, Joe snorted.

He could just hear Doc Martin now.

Rick had done a good job on his leg. The splints were sturdy. The boards looked like slats from a corn crib. The youth had bound them with strips of cloth that were knotted nice and tight. As he sat there, breathing hard, Joe assessed his other injuries. His head was ringing like he'd just finished a lecture from Hop Sing. His eyesight was still fuzzy. Every time he moved his ribs screamed out in protest. His left arm was held in a sling against his chest, so he guessed he must have sprained it, and his leg was painfully broken. Just another normal day for Joe Cartwright. Doc Martin called him a 'walking miracle'.

More like a walking mess.

Taking hold of the bedpost with his good hand, Joe levered himself onto his feet and then stood there waiting for the fireworks to end. He needed some kind of crutch and – luckily – found one in a broom that was leaned up against the bed, along with a pail. Wrinkling his nose, he guessed the use it had been put to.

He'd have to apologize to Rich for puking all over his floor.

Propping the broom-head in his armpit, Joe started his slow walk across the cabin. Doc Martin would have cursed his cussedness. Pa'd be out of his head with worry. Hop Sing would be hoppin' mad and Hoss...

God, Hoss.

His thoughts made him misstep and Joe felt himself heading for the floor. A pair of strong arms caught him before he could hit it. He must have missed Rick opening the door.

"Joe! What do you think you're doin'?" his rescuer demanded.

'Bein' Joe Cartwright, what else?' he thought, but he said, "That coffee sure smells good."

"Land of Goshen!" the youth exclaimed. "You take more lookin' after than my ma."

As Rick lowered him into a chair at the table, Joe asked, winded, "Is that a...good or a...bad thing?"

The young man had gone to the stove and returned with a steaming blue spatterware cup that he placed before him. Rick stood looking at him as he reached out with a trembling hand to take hold of it.

"You shouldn't be out of bed," he said.

"You sound like my pa," Joe snorted. He took a sip and released the warmth. He was chilled, which meant his temperature was probably rising again.

Nothing like taking a stroll on a broken leg to bring it back.

Rick's large hand landed on his forehead. He was obviously thinking the same thing. "You always this stubborn?" he asked.

Joe sat the cup down. The warmth was great, but the dark liquid was turning his stomach. "My pa says since I drew my first breath," he replied.

"Ma says I'm stubborn too. Says I get it from my pa." Rick paused and then, for the first time, he laughed. "I think I get it from her."

As casually as he could, Joe asked, "When is your ma due back?"

There was another pause – this one a little too long. "Not for a week or so. You'll probably be gone 'fore she comes home." The youth turned and walked back to the stove. "You want I should fix you something to eat?"

Joe pivoted slightly in his chair and, from his vantage point at the table, studied the young man. He was tall. Near six foot or over. He reminded him of Hoss in that he was built big and strong as an ox, but gentle at the same time. Rick's hair was light in tone and reddish. From what he'd seen, he thought he had gray eyes – sort of a light, pale smoky blue like a wolf's. But then he hadn't really 'seen' him all that well yet. His vision was still messed up.

"No thanks," he answered. "Maybe later. My stomach's kind of off." Joe paused and then asked, "How old are you – if you don't mind my asking?"

Rick's shoulders stiffened. "Sixteen," he said. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason. I guess I was wonderin' about your ma leaving you alone so long, what with winter coming."

"She'll be back before then. She always goes into the settlement this time of year to get supplies." Rick turned toward him and he heard the first anger in the young man's tone. "I can look out for myself. Better than you can!"

Joe held up his good hand. "Sorry, I didn't mean to rile you." He hesitated and then laughed. "Good Lord! I sound like my brother Adam."

"You got brothers?" Rick asked, the longing clear in his voice.

"One living and one...dead," he replied, his voice cracking.

The young man looked uncomfortable. "Sorry."

Sorry his brother was dead or sorry he asked, Joe wondered?

"It's okay. If I don't talk about them, then it's like they never lived."

"You said only one was dead."

Joe winced. "My older brother left home years ago. We hear from him now and then. I guess, in a way, it's like he's dead too."

"My pa's dead. Or at least Ma told me he is."

With his wounded eyes, Joe studied the youth as best he could. Rick had come back to the table with his own cup of coffee and sat down. There was a roundness to his face and a sense of innocence about him. He couldn't make out any sign of a beard. If it hadn't been for Hoss, he might have believed him when he said he was sixteen. Pa told him Hoss was six feet tall and near two hundred pounds by the time he was twelve.

He was thinkin' now that Rick wasn't much older.

"What do you remember about him?" he asked.

The boy frowned. "Nothin'. I never met him."

There was such a longing in his voice that it almost reduced him to tears. "My brother Adam never met his ma. She died when he was born." Joe hesitated because he was growing fatigued and his emotions were on edge, but he went on. He felt he owed it to Rick to tell him. "I knew my mama, but she died when I was four."

"I had my mama..." Rick stopped. "I've always had my mama. I'm sorry you didn't have yours – and lost your brother."

So, Rick's ma was dead. That's what he'd thought. The boy was living all the way out here all alone, pretending he was a man. For a moment he thought to call him on it, but then decided this wasn't the time.

Besides, he wasn't going anywhere for a while.

"Joe, you don't look so good," Rick said.

Joe leaned back in the chair. Truth was, he didn't feel so good. "I guess stubbornness will only take you so far," he admitted, his lips twisting in a wry smile.

The boy hesitated, then blurted out, "I like you Joe. I wouldn't want anythin' to happen to you."

For a second there was something – some tug on his heart – but it was at that moment that his injuries decided to make themselves known again.

The world began to spin.

Rick was at his side in a second. He took hold of him and lifted him from the chair as if he weighed no more than a sack of flour. "Here, lean on me," the boy said as they began the seemingly endless trip back to the bed. By the time they reached it, he was exhausted.

Rick lowered him to the bed and drew the covers up to his chin. Then, he reached out to touch his arm. "You're gonna be okay, Joe. I'll take good care of you."

A deep longing filled him at the boy's words – for his missing brothers, for his pa and home. Joe fought the tears, but they came anyway, streaking down his cheeks.

"I'll stay here 'til you're asleep," Rick said softly.

Knowing he was in good hands, Joe did just that.

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About two hours later Rick rose stiffly to his feet and headed for the door. With a glance at Joe where he lay, finally quiet in his bed, he walked outside and into the yard.

The light was fading and the day ending. Outside the air was crisp with that smell it had only in the autumn. A strong wind drove the rust-red leaves and brown nettles before it, dashing them against the cabin's walls before rounding them up into a sort of dance. His ma had loved this time of year. One time, when he'd asked her why since everythin' was dyin', she'd told him it wasn't dyin', it was just goin' to sleep and one day soon it would all wake up brand new. His ma believed in God. She read to him out of her Bible in that funny high-pitched voice of hers. She'd told him, just before she disappeared, that when she got to Heaven she'd be able to hear just like everybody else. She said she was lookin' forward to it. That nobody would laugh at her there.

Rick turned back to look at the cabin. He'd left the door open so he could see Joe through it. His ma had always been afraid of strangers. That's why she built her place back in a holler at the bottom of the ravine. A good many years back, when he'd been around seven, a man had come around askin' questions. Ma had walked that man right out of there with her fancy rifle pointed at his backside. They heard he gave the old lady near the lake some trouble, but it all came out right and they never saw him again.

Since Ma's disappearance he'd mostly fended for himself. Now and then he'd ride old Dumpy up to the top of the ridge and meet one of the traders who came through. He'd buy coffee and other things off of them that he couldn't find or hunt for himself. They always thought he was a lot older than he was, so they left him alone. Last winter, without Ma, he'd hunkered down and stayed inside. When spring came, he guessed his ma was probably where she wanted to be – up in Heaven dancin' and listenin' to the Heavenly music. Spring and summer were good 'cause of the animals. They knew he was all right and came right up to the cabin and ate out of his hand. He didn't miss his ma so much when the animals were around. He hadn't realized how lonely he was 'til Joe came.

He didn't know what he would do if he died.

Rick chewed his lip as he leaned against the fence at the edge of the yard. It kept in the few chickens he had and the old goat he got milk from. The only reason Joe was sleepin' was that he gave him one of those powders his ma had. He didn't know if it was smart, but Joe was thrashin' about on the bed and he got worried he was gonna hurt himself worse. It took some work, but he got the sick man to swallow the bitter liquid and then he went quiet.

Real quiet.

Rick ran a hand through his pale hair. He sure hoped he'd got all them wounds of Joe's cleaned out okay. He didn't have much practice on people, just animals. His ma said he had a way with hurting things. He wished he could have helped her when she was hurting, but there wasn't no way. One of the traders told him a little blonde woman had died the year before after bein' caught in a flash flood.

Since she never came back, he figured it was her.

Pushing off the fence, Rick steeled himself and headed back to the cabin. Joe was awful sick. His fever had been so high it had scared him. The wounded man kept callin' out for his pa and for someone called 'Hoss'. It was funny, he thought as he reached the porch. His ma used to call Dumpy that sometimes when she was combin' him.

'Good old hoss,' she'd say. 'Strong as an ox.'

He missed his ma, but he was gonna miss Joe even more when he went home.

Rick stopped in the doorway. Joe hadn't moved.

If he went home.