A/N: Thanks so much to everyone reading! I hope you enjoy ... :-)

"Nothing, Pa."

It was what Roy had been expecting—not hopin' for, naturally, but he'd always had a good feel for this kind of thing and right know he knew way down deep that all the searchin' in the world wasn't gettin' them any closer to that missin' boy. Roy sighed. It seemed like the time for that little talk he'd been dreading was just about here. It had been four days since they'd started out from Cartwright's Ponderosa, and it was time ta change the way they were goin' about this.

Problem was, Ben Cartwright wasn't gonna like it. Not one bit.

Ben paced away from the edge, plowing over a couple of scrubby bushes as his son dragged himself out of this latest ravine. Good man though his neighbor was, Roy had discovered right quick that Cartwright's fear and grief made him gruff to the point of rudeness. He eyed Adam for any sign of resentment at his pa's brusque dismissal, but as usual the younger Cartwright gave very little away. Roy shook his head. That boy … the honest truth was, Roy just wasn't sure what to think of that boy. He'd never seen such a poker face on someone so young. Heck, he'd rarely seen professional gamblers with a poker face like that. There was an uncommon lot goin' on inside that head, weren't no doubt about it, but danged if Roy knew what. It was downright uncomfortable sometimes … but Roy had experience with all sorts of men, and he weren't gonna let no teenager get under his skin. One thing he did know—he liked people and he liked a challenge, and he intended to have Adam Cartwright figured out by the time they found that boy's brother.

Course, that wasn't really the point.

Hoss Cartwright was the point, and now Roy was back to bravin' Ben Cartwright's wrath with his next suggestion. Didn't matter none, he supposed—it was what needed to be done.

Better to let things settle down a bit first, though. Roy stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked slowly, gazing down across the harsh landscape while his neighbor paced. These had been rough days, and he didn't know how he'd be holdin' together in that man's boots.

The wagon tracks had been good for several miles out past the Coffee place, and the they'd followed hard into the afternoon that first day. Even for a while after the deep ruts faded the sign had been easy enough to pick up—no trouble guessing which way the prospector had headed with young Hoss in reluctant tow. By early evening, though, the grazin' land had changed ta rock, and the scouring wind and rock falls and deep gullies made trackin' almost impossible. They'd finally been forced to admit that from that point on, it was all a guessin' game.

Hadn't done anything for Cartwright's temper.

These last days had been nothin' but a game of hide and seek, and them the undisputed losers. There was just too much ground to cover—too many hills and ravines, too many nooks and crannies. Too much land that all looked the same, so that you didn't rightly know if this was the same patch of scrub you'd already searched this morning or if it was a new one that just looked mighty similar. They'd done found three beat-up old wagons tied off near steeper drop-offs, and followed the sound of water into at least five different claims. They'd been shot at and threatened twice, and even after they'd explained their purpose, only bald threats had gotten them into that last one. No, prospectors they hadn't been short of … but not the right prospector. Least, not that they'd been able to tell. They'd turned those camps pretty well inside out, though—even Cartwright had been forced to admit that none of them held any trace of his boy.

Now they were back ta searchin' blind … and they could be doin' that for weeks in these hills. Yep. It was time ta change things up.

Roy took a deep breath and swung around. "Ben, let's talk."

Cartwright looked around, and Roy saw something like regret flicker in the man's eyes. Then Ben advanced on him, holding out one hand. "I know you've got to get back to your own place, Roy. You've already given us more time than I expected, and we appreciate everything you've done for us."

Roy stared at the outstretched hand, then smiled faintly and shook his head. "Now, I said I would help you find your boy, and I aim to do it." Ben let his hand drop, a puzzled frown drawing his dark brows together. "To that end, though … I think we need a different plan."

"Oh?"

The question was wary, and Cartwright squared around as he spoke. Gearin' up for a fight, he was—and Roy was pretty sure the man didn't even realize it. Didn't make the situation any less touchy. He glanced toward the younger Cartwright, hoping to get a feel for whether he'd be up against one or two here, but Adam just studied them calmly from his stance against a nearby boulder.

Right. He shoulda' known better.

Best to hit this head on, he supposed. "Ben, we're not doin' any good out here. You know it too, if you stop and give it some thought. What I think we need to do is head for Eagle Station."

Ben's jaw tightened. "I'm not leaving my boy."

"Now, that ain't what I meant." Roy shook his head, annoyed. "Sure ain't what I said."

"Roy, you might not have noticed, but Eagle Station is a day's ride in the wrong direction."

He ignored the sarcasm—the man was suffering. "Well, not if it gets us what we need."

"What we need is my son, and it's not going to get us that."

Roy raised calming hands. He didn't want his neighbor riled up … but he also had no intention of backing down on this. "Neither is this, is it?" He plowed on before Cartwright could answer that. "Look, your prospector went this way, sure, but he came from back that direction, and the most likely place for him ta be comin' from is the trading post."

"So?"

The man wasn't exactly thinkin' things through right now. Well, that was only ta be expected.

"So, there's people at that station, right? A good few of 'em. Which gives us a better than even chance that Mankins or Hall or one o' the wives or some drifter who hired on for a few bucks at the ranch or somebody might remember this fella. Might even be able ta point us in the right direction."

Ben's eyes were hard, shadowed. "If they do remember him, they'll point us right back here. And we'll have lost two days for nothing."

"Ben, you don't know that." Roy shook his head. "Look. Your young'un said the man was talkin' about somebody havin' a broken leg, right?" Cartwright nodded reluctantly. "Well, could even be it was a trip in to see the doc, then—you know they've got that young fella from the East stayin' out back now, coverin' parts of the area. Maybe he'll know somethin'." For the first time, Ben Cartwright's carriage relaxed—just a touch, but it was better than nothing. Roy pressed on. "I've been doin' this kinda thing for a long time, Ben, and I wouldn't be sayin' this if I didn't think it was our best option." He raised one eyebrow. "If I didn't think it was your son's best option."

Cartwright scowled, but he was also thinking now. Thinkin', and not just reactin'. Mentally, Roy let out his breath. That, he'd learned, was half the fight right there.

Might be, he'd get outa this without gettin' punched in the face after all.

"Mr. Coffee's right, Pa."

Only fightin' one, then—and Roy had an ally ta boot. Things were lookin' up.

Ben turned his scowl on his son. "Oh you think so, do you?"

Undaunted, Adam pushed away from the rock. "I do. It makes good sense. Better than what we're doing now, anyway." The boy waved a hand at their barren surroundings. "There's no way we can cover the entire Sierra by ourselves, Pa. We could look for a year and not find him. We could miss some sign by less than three feet, and never even know it."

Ben Cartwright studied his son for a long moment, then turned away. The man stood silent, gazing across the dry, tumbled wilderness with a longing that tore at Roy's heart. It was easy enough to say that this was their best plan, to urge a return to the relative civilization of Eagle Station and whatever they might find there … but to actually break off the search, turn around and head away from that missing boy? It would tear at a father's heart. Of course it would. Roy had no children of his own—Mary'd never been able ta carry a babe to term, and it had broken them a little more with each try—but he was under no illusions. Riding out of here would be one of the hardest things Cartwright had ever done, in a life full of hardships.

"All right, then." Abruptly, Ben pivoted and stalked toward his horse. "We'll go back. We have enough daylight left to get a good start—we should reach the ranches by evening. We can check in on the women and Little Joe, you can see to your stock. We'll spend the night at home and head out for Eagle Station in the morning." He stopped, fiddling with his nearly empty saddlebags. "Roy, I …" Ben looked around and smiled—both strained and genuine. "Thank you for sticking with us. I do appreciate it, more than I can say."

"I wouldn't have it otherwise, Ben."

Cartwright nodded once, swung onto his horse, and pulled the animal around, urging the gelding back the way they had come. Roy sighed and moved toward his own mount, aware of young Adam Cartwright doing the same. They settled in, and exchanged a long glance.

"Mr. Coffee, I hope we're doing the right thing."

It was the first open admission of uncertainty he'd seen from the boy. Mostly, Adam tended to just keep his mouth shut and move on ahead as if they all knew exactly where they were goin' and what they would find when they got there. Somehow, Roy guessed now that the younger Cartwright was not one to want or appreciate false comfort.

"Roy. And …" He grinned wryly, glancing after his disappearing neighbor. "So do I."

The flicker of an answering smile touched Adam's lips. The boy nodded, then swung around and followed his father up the hill. Roy urged his own horse after them.

Paul Martin stirred the tiny fire in his woodstove and the tiny pot of soup warming on top, then fell back onto his pine needle-stuffed mattress and stretched, uttering a groan of pure relief. It had been a long week—a lot of walking, a lot of climbing, and not much in the way of food or shelter in between. But his patient, a young prospector who'd taken quite the blow to the head when some badly placed dynamite had knocked him halfway across his claim, was going to live. The lad wasn't seeing double anymore, and even knew his brother's name again. So, all in all a successful foray into the Sierra wilds.

It was a far cry from the life he'd envisioned, back when he'd entered medical school.

He chuckled, closing his eyes. No, when he'd entered school his path had been set—study hard, graduate, marry Louisa, work for her father, eventually take over his practice. It was his only chance with her, the condition that Dr. Jackson had set if he was to even consider allowing someone of Paul's distinctly lesser class to offer for his daughter. 'Louisa must have a provider! She's never wanted for anything, and I intend that she never will!'

For a young man of Paul's meager means, the high-handed decree had been a once in a lifetime opportunity. He hadn't wasted any breath protesting—on his own, he would have never been able to afford something like medical school. The tuition alone was laughably beyond his reach, and then there were books and board and all the miscellanies that would accompany a medical student throughout his college years. He had thrown himself into his new life—studied hard, earned good grades, built up a solid rapport with Dr. Jackson. He had done everything required of him.

Everything, that is, except remain in love with Louisa Jackson.

In the end, his (former) fiancée had saved him from a difficult decision by announcing her own engagement to Paul's roommate, two weeks before their graduation. He had known, of course—Louisa wasn't the type of woman to treat a man quite so harshly as all that—and the three remained close friends. It was really best for everyone.

Paul promised full repayment of his debt to Louisa's father, but Dr. Jackson refused outright. 'You'll be a smashing doctor, lad. It's an investment well worth the coin.'

In Paul's own mind, the debt was not yet settled. For the time being, though, he had allowed the matter to drop. He would pay Dr. Jackson back. It would be in his own time and way—but he would pay him. Just because he intended to serve the rural people of an unsettled land, Paul Martin did not also intend to be penniless and dependent upon the charity of others forever.

Even without the incentive of marriage to his daughter, Dr. Jackson had offered Paul a place at his practice upon graduation—making it quite clear as he did so that the proposal was in no way mandatory. With his newfound freedom and the whole world before him, however, Dr. Paul Martin knew that a lifetime of treating rich, elderly women and overindulgent gentlemen was not for him. No, he was grateful, but could not accept that generous offer. He'd been reading about the west—the prospectors and settlers who were even now making the long, hard trek to California and Oregon, and the predictions of many more in future years. His blood stirred. They would need doctors there. Cities would build up, of course, but they would need trained men to serve these first settlers, to teach in the new schools and form a new generation of frontier medical men.

He wasn't afraid of dirt or hard work, and he intended to be a part of it.

He stayed long enough to serve as best man when his (former) roommate married Louisa Jackson, then bid farewell to his sister and her family and set out with nothing but a pack on his back and his boat fare in his pocket. The trip had been … Paul shuddered now, basking in the warmth of his little fire. The trip had been enough to send him screaming back home, if he'd had any inclination, and he'd prefer to forget those months of his life as if they'd never happened. He'd arrived intact, though—if not quite hearty and hale—and had spent a few months in San Francisco sounding out prospective living situations and employment.

How he had settled for the moment here in Eagle Station, living in a lean-to and serving the few-between settlers of a rocky, rural land, was nearly as much a mystery to him as to anyone else—the tale involved another medical man, an elderly prospector, three mules and a two fifty-pound barrels of molasses, and was all but incomprehensible told beginning to end. Suffice it to say, he'd saved more than one life with that trip out here. But then … he'd stayed.

He'd stayed. Oh, Paul still didn't intend to put down any real roots here, but he'd found a need out in these hills from which he'd been unable to just walk away. He also, he was somewhat surprised to discover, found a real satisfaction in his work here. The men and women of these hills were fiercely independent, and Paul knew the value of their sparely given trust. He was proud to be the man to whom they turned in need. It was as frustrating as fulfilling much of the time—he was often called out far too late to do anything but help dig the grave and remonstrate with the surviving kin not to wait so long next time, and even when he arrived early there was no guarantee that his patients would follow his instructions. He felt, though, that he was slowly making an impression here. A difference. And if it meant trudging all over the Sierras (such as he had been for the last week) in order to reach his patients, if it meant carrying a rifle to calls and taking goods rather than coin in trade … well, for now he was content.

And he was more than content to sleep in his own bed tonight, small and prickly though it might be. His whole body ached from the past days, and his eyelids were heavy …

The soup boiled over at the same time a fist pounded on his door. Paul scrambled up, groggy and confused, and burned himself getting the soup pot off of the stovetop before he fumbled the door open. His visitor, a grizzly middle-aged man with the look of a prospector and the frayed patches at his knees to match, offered no discernible reaction to Paul's flustered arrival.

"You the doc?"

Paul shook his burned hand and nodded. "Dr. Paul Martin."

"My pa's leg is broke."

Broken leg. That was never a good thing, and especially not out here.

"You have him here?"

"Naw, he's back at the claim. Couldn't get him up out of there, not the way he is."

That was even worse. Looked like another long walk was in his near future. Paul shut away the call of his mattress and the spilled soup, blinking into the moon-washed yard.

"All right. I'll be ready at first light."

The prospector's gaze was flat and unfriendly. "Already waited most of a week. You wasn't here last time I come in."

He wanted … he wanted to go now? At night?

"It's not safe to travel these hills at night. You know that, sir. I—"

"I travel 'em just fine at night." The man jerked his bearded chin toward the sky. "Moon's out."

Well, yes, but …

"Bone's stickin' out."

His mother wouldn't have approved of the words running through Paul's head, but it seemed that he was backed into a corner—figuratively, at least, although the man was clutching a rifle and Paul got the distinct impression that his visitor wouldn't hesitate to make the metaphor literal as well. He cast a last longing glance at his bed, then turned back to his visitor.

"Let me get my bag."

Looked like he was in for another long one.