SIX
Something had been gnawing at Rosey from the moment she sat down in the dining room and really looked at the man with the kinky gray hair sitting opposite her. She'd seen him outside before, of course, but out there – between the hat and the diminishing light – his features had been masked. Now, she could see him clearly and she was sure of one thing. She knew him.
Somehow, she knew him.
It seemed to her that when she had, his hair had been dark blond instead of gray. Obviously, he would have been much younger. In her mind's eye, he was thinner too. The pale narrowed eyes and lips pulled in a taut line were the same. What she didn't remember was the scar running from the tip of his left eyebrow down almost to the bottom of his lips. That was different. Then again, that did nothing to exclude him from the possibility of being whoever she thought he was.
The rest of it went a long way toward explaining why she'd thought she might have seen Finch Webb's younger brother, Monty, before as well. Though there were obvious differences – shape of face, body build – the two looked enough alike to mark them as brothers. Greg was another matter. He was as dark as they were light, with an entirely different shape and face. A different mother, too, she supposed.
At the moment Greg and Finch were at a stand-off. Neither one had moved.
"Is that any way to greet your brother?" the older man asked, his tone slightly menacing.
Greg hadn't quite found his voice again. He cleared his throat, seeking it, and then replied. "Sorry, Finch, you startled me."
The gray-haired man stepped closer and took hold of the boy's arm at the elbow. His lips curled in a half-smile as he said, "Now, little brother, you didn't think I'd let you get away from me, did you?"
You didn't think I'd let you get away from me. Did you?
Rosey gasped, and then hid the cry behind a cough. When all the men in the room looked at her, she forced a smile. "Sorry. I've been fighting a bit of a cold."
She saw Ben go on the alert. He knew she didn't lie, just as surely as he knew she was lying now. The rancher seemed to consider his best action for a moment before addressing Greg.
"Why don't you join us, Greg? We were sharing some brandy."
Greg's eyes were fixed on Finch's as if he had no thoughts of his own, but had to wait on his brother to supply them.
The older man's grip loosened as he circled the boy's shoulder with his arm. "Greg and me, we got a lot to catch up on. You got a bunk here, boy?"
Rosey watched the young man's reaction. It was plain he didn't want to go with him.
If Finch Webb was who she thought he was, she understood completely! Feeling guilty, she prayed Greg would accept his brother's invitation. She needed to talk to Ben alone – to let him know what she thought she knew.
"Yeah, I got a bunk. Right next door," Greg sighed.
Finch's grip tightened on the boy's shoulders. "Well, then, let's you and me go and have a good long talk." As he herded Greg toward the door, the gray-haired man turned back. "Thank you for the dinner and libation, Mister Cartwright."
Ben was still frowning. "Come back again," he said half-heartedly.
The man smiled – a broad, generous smile – expect that it wasn't generous, it was miserly.
And all about him.
"Oh, I will, Mister Cartwright, I will, and real soon." Finch glanced at the boy he had pinioned to his side. "And thanks for looking out for my little brother here. Who knows what kind of trouble he could have got himself into without you kind folks around?"
Rosey felt a new lease on life when the door closed behind them. She reached out with a hand to catch the back of the settee to steady herself.
Ben was at her side in an instant to keep her from falling.
"Rosey. For Heaven's sake! What is it?"
Words failed her. Her inner eye was trained on a horror she couldn't express. She could see the tall lanky man with the curly blond hair still, his legs spread wide, straddling her supine form where she lay on the floor of the saloon, her lip bleeding; breathing hard. She'd never known his real name. He went by Strong Arm Sten and had been the bouncer at the palace where she'd sold herself. Sten was one of the reasons she'd run from the life she had known. He'd made it clear that he would have her or else. She had laughed it off – not taken him seriously.
The result of which had been a dead husband and son.
Ben moved her to the settee and then sat beside her. His hands were the hands of a working man, slightly rough and powerful. She fell into their strength as he circled her with one arm and cupped her cheek with his hand.
"Rosey? What is it? Can you tell me?"
Could she?
Should she?
She wasn't entirely sure this man was Sten and yet, who else could it be? She knew those cool, calculating gray eyes, that line of a mouth, and the tilt of that steel-wool head. Sten had wanted her when she'd worked the upper boxes, but it hadn't been allowed. When she chose to leave because of Pat, the bouncer had come to her, sure she would choose him over a city doctor – certain she was as infatuated with him as he was with her. He went too far and ended up in prison before taking his revenge and then, simply disappeared. How had he found her?
Why had he found her?
"Rosey!" Ben's sharp tone brought her back to the present.
She blew out her fear in a puff of air. "I can't be sure, Ben, but I think I know that man."
"You can't be sure?" he asked.
It had been so many years.
She squared her shoulders and turned toward him. "He's changed. Like you, like...me. But if I am right, Ben, then you, your sons, and everyone in this house is in danger!?"
Her voice had taken on a slightly hysterical tone. It brought Hoss to their side. "Somethin' wrong, Pa?"
Ben looked up at his son. "There may be. Rosey thinks the Webbs have not been entirely honest with us. She believes she knows the oldest one."
Hoss' eyes flicked to her. "From before, Miss Rosey? If you pardon my bringin' up somethin' what ain't my business in the least."
She nodded. "Yes, from...before. I think he's... I believe..." She straightened up and drew in a deep breath. "I believe he's the man who murdered my husband and son."
Ben's grip on her tightened. "Did he recognize you? Rosey, do you think he did?"
"I'm sure he did," she answered, her voice a pale whisper of what it should have been. "If I knew him, he had to know me."
"How do you s'pose Greg's mixed up in all of this, Pa?" his son asked. "He seems like such a nice feller. Monty too."
Rosey noted the wheels turning in Ben's agile brain, weighing the risk to her against the risk to his family. "Why don't you go out, son, and see if you can find the pair of them," he said. "Make up some excuse about checking on tomorrow's work schedule. See how Greg's doing."
The big man nodded. "Sure, Pa. Back in two ticks."
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Ben Cartwright studied the trembling woman before him. Rosey's lightly tanned skin had gone pale as bone against the deep crimson background of her dress and she was shaking like a leaf in a winter wind. He tore his eyes from her to glance at the door through which Hoss had gone, wishing for all the world that he had his other two strong sons at his side instead of one hurting upstairs and the other hurting at the mining camp. Most of the men were out with the herd. He'd left only a skeleton crew at the house. There had been no threat. No danger. Or so he thought.
How could he have been such a fool? There was always danger in the West.
Taking Rosey by the hand, he pulled her to her feet. "We need to get you to a place of safety, you and Ming-hua. Go upstairs and pack a few things while I tell Hop Sing to ready the wagon. He can drive you into town."
He started to release her, but her fingers wouldn't let go. "Ben, I am so sorry to have brought this trouble to your house."
Rosey's face was turned so the firelight struck it, erasing the years, and though her look was troubled, it was also, well, noble in a way. With a smile, he reached out and cupped her chin in his hand and then bent down to plant a chaste kiss on her forehead.
"All you have brought to this house is a gentleness that has been missing for a long time," he said as he straightened up. "It's pretty obvious Finch's intentions where his young brother is concerned are not on the up and up. Even if you hadn't been here, there'd be trouble."
"But he's following me!"
"Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't. Perhaps he was following Greg and Monty and knew nothing about your presence." Ben touched the soft stuff of her hair. "Don't borrow trouble, Rosey. You know what the Good Book says. Let the days worries be sufficient for the day."
Her hand covered his and, for a moment, she leaned her head against his chest. With her that close, he caught a hint of rose water, as well as vanilla. Like petals plucked, the last eight years fell away and he was standing here again, in the home he had made for the mother of his last son, holding her...cherishing her. Cherishing Marie.
Cherishing Rosey.
Ben started to say something but her fingers flew to his lips. With a shake of her head that said, 'not now', Rosey moved out of his arms and up the stairs, disappearing just as surely as Marie had.
In a moment, it was like she had never been.
At that same instant the front door flew open. Hoss rushed in and then slammed it shut behind him. When his son turned to look at him, Ben saw blood dripping from his lip.
"We got us a passel of trouble, Pa!"
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Adam and Monty were slowly making their way back to the Ponderosa. They'd dawdled more than they should have before heading out and, since night had fallen, had decided to make camp even though they were just a few hours from home. There was no real hurry other than his concern for Joe. The report Greg had given him made it sound like things were under control. Still, he didn't like Paul Martin's ominous words that the broken end of Joe's rib could puncture an organ. He knew the prescription to prevent that would be rest, and knew just as well that 'rest' wasn't in his little brother's vocabulary. Their father was great with Joe, but he had a tendency to run out of patience just about as quickly as their little brother did. Pa counted on him to run second-string and make Joe listen.
Pa counted on him.
Adam blew out a sigh and reached for the coffee pot.
"Sounds like you got the weight of the worlds on your shoulders," Monty said softly.
He started to protest, but then relented. With a half-smile he admitted, "I guess I do."
"Thinkin' about your family?" The blond man shifted, seeking a comfortable perch. "Or maybe more about your family obligations?"
"Both, actually." He took a sip of coffee. "It's a philosophical question, I guess. Where does a man's obligation to his family end and the one to himself begin?"
Monty nodded. "A friend once told me that relationships based on obligations lack dignity." The cowboy laughed. "I ain't entirely sure as I know what that means, but it sounds like it makes sense."
It did. " 'To thine own self be true,' as the bard put it," he replied.
And yet, he'd heard a man speak at college once about commitment and duty. A man he respected. He'd been a soldier during the war with Mexico and had traveled with Kearney's Army of the West. Out of all the man said, there'd been one thing that had stuck with him all these years.
'The more obligations we accept that are self-imposed, the freer we are.'
"Who's the bard'?" Monty asked.
Adam snorted. "According to my little brother he's a man wearing lace and tights with too much time on his hands."
Monty looked at him. "You love that kid. Don't you?"
He drew another long sip of coffee into his mouth, relishing it, and then swallowed. "Is it that obvious?" he asked with a wink. "I thought I did a pretty good job of hiding it."
"Maybe only to another older brother." Monty tossed the remainder of his coffee aside and sat up. His face grew pensive. "I'd do anythin' for that kid."
"Is it just the two of you? I mean, is the rest of your family gone?"
The blond man pursed his lips. For a moment Adam thought he'd said something wrong. Then Monty replied, "Mostly. Pa was married a couple of times before he died. First wife passed after birthing Finch, he's my older brother. The second one lasted long enough for me and Greg."
"I take it one of you looks like your mother and the other, your father."
"Yeah. Funny, ain't it? But inside, where it counts, Greg and me are the same." He frowned. "Finch's got his own ways."
Adam tossed the remainder of his coffee aside and then settled back against his saddle. "Was he with you on the drive? Finch, I mean?"
"Part of the time. He had other business and left for it was over. I s'pose Greg and me should of waited for him to come back, but we decided to strike off on our own."
"Oh?" Amusement lit his hazel eyes. "Being 'true' to yourselves?"
"You might say. We felt it was time for somethin' different, if you know what I mean? A couple of the wranglers on the drive had worked for your Pa. Sounded like a good man with a good spread and a place for a new beginnin'."
"What about your older brother? Does he mean to join you?"
"Nah." Monty slid down against his saddle and tucked his hat over his eyes. "Finch took himself off years ago to pursue his own dream. Can't complain when we do the same. 'Sides, ain't no one or nothin' means as much to Finch as Finch."
For a long time Adam remained where he was, half-seated against his saddle, contemplating a cowboy's wisdom. Then, he shifted down and slept, sensing somehow that he would have need of strength to confront the coming day.
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Ben ducked as a bullet struck the front door splintering wood. Now that he was beside his son, he could see that Hoss had been in a fight. There were bruises forming on his son's cheek just above the bloody trail leading down from his lip.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Finch Webb." Hoss took a moment to wipe the blood away. "I came on him beatin' on Greg. He was mighty sore about somethin'. Strange thing was, Greg was takin' it."
A grim smile lit the older man's face. "And you took exception to that."
Hoss winced as another bullet struck. "Sure did, Pa. He'd like to have killed him."
"Ben? What's happening?"
The rancher spun to find a terrified Rosey descending the stair. Any questions he had for his son would have to wait. The fact that Finch had been discovered beating his brother might have gotten him thrown off the ranch, but there was no reason for him to pursue Hoss and open fire.
More was happening here than they knew.
"See if you can find Hop Sing. Give him a rifle," he said to his son as he moved away and toward the exposed woman. Once he reached her, he caught Rosey about the midriff and moved her over to the area of the settee. With a quick caress of her cheek, he forced her to sit on the floor by the red chair. "Stay down!"
He felt a pull on his pant's leg and looked down. "Ben, is it Finch?" she asked.
The rancher nodded. "We think so. Still, we can't be sure. It sounds like more than one gun. Now, you stay put!" he ordered as he turned back. There had been another shot – a bullet striking wood – and then...
Silence.
Into the silence came a voice. "Mister Cartwright?"
He frowned. It didn't sound like Finch. A least not what he remembered of the man's voice. Moving closer, he called back.
"Who are you? What do you want?"
"Open the door and I'll tell you."
"You've just put a half-dozen bullets in my front door and threatened my family. In God's name, why do you think I would let you into this house?"
"This is why," a cold voice announced.
Ben heard Rosey's gasp. He knew even before he turned what had happened.
How could he had been so foolish as to have overlooked protecting the one thing in the house that was the most in need of protection?
Finch Webb stood at the top of the stairs. Joseph dangled limp in one arm.
There was a gun pressed against his son's curly head.
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Joe Cartwright cracked one eye and watched as his floppy feet struck the steps one by one on the way down the staircase. It took everything that was in him not to move or cry out. Whoever this guy was, he had his arm wrapped tight around his chest and was puttin' pressure on his broken rib. He was pretendin' now, but he actually had passed out when pain erupted through him as he was snatched out of his bed. He'd come around just as they reached the landing and had quickly decided to play possum. Joe didn't know what was going on, but the scare he was gonna give his pa by appearing to be out cold would be worth it if it meant he could help somehow. Maybe he could find a way to let his pa know he was awake.
He'd sure like to.
The man who held him stopped abruptly at the bottom of the stairs. The nose of the gun worked its way further into his hair.
"Open that door, Ben," the bad man said, using Pa's Christian name when he didn't have a right to.
Joe sucked in a breath as the cold metal reached his skin. At this point – if that gun went off – he wanted it to be quick and over. He'd met a man one time who'd been shot in the head and lived.
It wasn't livin'.
"Release my son and I will," his father thundered.
Good old Pa. Takin' charge as ever. Using that voice of his as a weapon.
"I think I hold all the cards here," the man said as Joe felt the barrel of the gun shift from his hair to his temple.
Joe wanted to look at his pa. He wanted to see his strength and siphon some of it right out of the older man – but he couldn't. He had to keep still. Had to stifle the groans rising from deep within him.
Had to keep his eyes closed.
"There's still a locked door between you and your men, Finch."
You tell him, Pa!
"Oh, really," Finch replied. "I seem to notice you have another son missing."
Joe couldn't see his pa, but he could tell by his voice that what this Finch had just said had siphoned off more of that strength than he ever could.
Pa's voice shook as he asked, "What have you done to Hoss?"
The man holding Joe shifted his grip, bringing his arm in more tightly against his injured rib. Stars exploded behind his eyelids.
Joe bit his lip and drew blood.
"Simms!" the outlaw shouted. "Get in here!"
Joe was just dying to open his eyes. It was driving him crazy that he couldn't see what was goin' on. As he hung there, feelin' helpless, he heard a series of sounds – something falling over, pans clattering on the floor, someone grunting and then, the crash of pottery. It was all comin' from the kitchen. At the angle Finch was holding him, the fringe of hair that normally lay on Joe's forehead was dangling in front of his eyes. Hoping it was enough to keep the bad man from figuring out he was awake, Joe peeped through the curls. And then wished he hadn't. A long lean stranger was dragging someone into the room.
It was Hoss.
