THE REST OF THIS STORY IS LOST. I POSTED ALL I HAD LEFT. ELECTRICITY BLIP AND NOW GONE-NO PREVIOUS VERSIONS EXIST. ANYWAY, I WILL JUST HAVE TO SUCK IT UP AND WRITE THE ENDING AGAIN, ABOUT 25,000 WORDS. IT WILL TAKE A WHILE-A FEW DAYS SO PLEASE CHECK BACK IN IF YOU HAVE THE INTEREST TO WAIT. I AM SO SORRY-YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW SORRY I FEEL FOR MYSELF. SO GIVE ME TIME TO HAVE A SMALL PITY PART, TO VENT AGAINST THE UTILITY COMPNAY FOR IT'S OCCASIONAL BLIPS IN SERVICE AND I WILL FINISH THIS. (I DON'T SUPPOSE "AND THEY LIVED HPPILY EVER FTER WILL SUFFICE.")

Mr. Hardesty was laying fresh straw in the stalls when Adam walked his horse into the small barn. They only had four horses and two cows so there was no need for a huge barn, just a place to keep the cows safe from bears and other predators.

"Good evening to you," Mr. Hardesty said, letting up his work and smiling. He put out his hand and Adam shook it.

"Good to see you here," Adam said. "Would you mind looking to my horse? I rode him hard today—I went to Carson City and back."

"Of course, I will. My bursitis is acting up today but I'll have the missus rub more liniment on it tonight. That's why I keep her around, well that and to keep my feet warm at night." The two men chuckled over the comment and Adam pulled the saddlebags from his horse while Hardesty held the reins.

"How's Mrs. Cartwright? She was ill when I left?" Adam waited.

"I haven't seen her myself. I went straight to milking the cows and feeding the chickens and stock."

Adam thanked him and went to the house. Even in the fading light of day he admired the stonework across the front. He had spent hours finding and then loading river rocks of the right size to haul back to the house. A few times Hoss and Joe had helped him. He had hired a stonemason from Sacramento to set the rocks for the fireplaces and across the front of the house; the rest was Ponderosa pine, hewed and stacked just like the family homestead. It seemed an odd choice for a trained architect to fall back on the style of the standard ranch house when there were so many others available to him but the older he became, the more he longed for simplicity. With that in mind, he had laid the flatter stones into the ground forming a short walkway; a buggy could be pulled to the end and during the rainy season, it would keep the mud off any dragging hems of a woman's skirts and save the soft, lambskin boots from stains.

Marjorie liked flowers but she had no preference, so Adam had brought home primroses and marigolds and planted them along the walkway and a morning glory would its way about the porch rails. He hung baskets of geraniums from the porch roof to ward off insects so that they could sit on the porch on warm evenings and talk or he could just play his guitar while Marjorie listened and perhaps knitted. That had been Adam's vision but the reality was far different. Life was full of other matters and Marjorie with all her nervous energy wasn't content to sit and listen while he tried new chords and new compositions. She said that it only irritated her to hear him plunk at the strings and fool with the chords until he finally found the note he wanted. So he often sat alone evenings while he sounded out different melodies. But he found he didn't mind. Her constant fidgeting annoyed him anyway.

He opened the door and the savory scents of dinner hit him; Mrs. Hardesty was back in fine form and the air was redolent with fried chicken. He dropped his saddlebags on a side chair by the door and walked into the kitchen.

"So you're finally home," Mrs. Hardesty said, almost scolding him. "I have the food in the oven to keep it warm."

"Where's Mrs. Cartwright?" Adam listened for her light footfalls on the stairs or in the parlor. There was no sound of welcome from Marjorie, not even a reprimand about being gone for the whole day and causing her to worry.

"She was complaining of a headache and some…distress known only to women." Mrs. Hardesty raised her eyes knowingly.

Adam suspected that Marjorie, for some reason, was lying. Perhaps it was to keep him at arm's length. He was unsure but since her behavior had been so odd—he said nothing more.

"Well, I fixed her some broth which she barely ate, and fried up the rest of the chicken. I hope you're in the mood for fried chicken."

"Yes—smells wonderful. Let me just wash up and—Mrs. Hardesty."

She had begun to pull the plates of food from the oven with the aid of towels but stopped. "Yes, Mr. Cartwright?"

"Why don't you and Mr. Hardesty stay for dinner? It's late and I'm sure you're both hungry."

"Oh, thanks, that's kind of you but we're just the help and…"

"Nonsense, but if it makes you more comfortable, why don't the three of us eat out here in the kitchen? I don't relish eating alone with Mrs. Cartwright indisposed."

"All right—it does smell mighty good, don't it? My mouth's been waterin'. I'll set us up three places and go tell my mister to wash up and mind his manners 'cause we'll be eating with the boss. Now let me place my pan of biscuits in—should be ready in about 15 minutes."

Adam smiled. "That'll give me enough time to go wash up and look in on Mrs. Cartwright."

Opening the saddlebag flap, Adam slid out the folder. He went upstairs to face Marjorie. He would get to the bottom of it, and the sooner the better

He cleaned up in his bedroom—their bedroom-washing the dust and sweat off himself—but there was still no sign that Marjorie had unpacked or even been in there. Adam looked at his reflection and considered shaving but knew that in a few minutes, Mrs. Hardesty would call him for dinner. He went across the hall and after a quick rap, tried to turn the knob—it turned without result; the door was locked.

He rapped louder. "Marjorie, open the door. I need to talk to you. I have news about your sister." He waited. He was about to knock again when he heard a key turning and the door was opened. Marjorie looked tired, her eyes red and swollen. She had been crying and Adam softened towards her. Now that he knew the truth about Madeline, her sister, he could understand why his wife was so changed, so upset.

"I don't feel well. Can't this wait?"

"No." Adam gently pushed the door open. Marjorie was in a cambric gown, one he had seen on her many times but her hair was tumbled about her shoulders; usually she kept her hair neatly confined. Her valise was open on the floor. On the top of the clothes was a gray wool suit he had never seen. The dress she had worn that morning was tossed over a chair—something else that Marjorie never did; the rigid training drummed into her at school was still strong in her, so strong that she hung up her clothes every night, brushed her shoes and made sure the top of her vanity was neat, all her hairpins in one place. If her clothes needed cleaning, Marjorie would take the pieces down to the hamper off the kitchen for Mrs. Hardesty to either hand wash or to take to the laundry in town. Adam decided that Marjorie must truly be ill to have abandoned her dedication to order.

"I have news about your sister that contradicts what you told me." Adam watched as she blanched and sat heavily on the bed. The sheets and coverlet had been pulled down but only on one side of the bed. But her pallor extended even to her lips-he was afraid she was going to faint. Adam quickly poured a glass of water and waited beside the bed while she slowly drank.

Madeline's heart thumped and he ears rang; she was sure that Adam knew who she was, that she was a fraud. And did he know that his wife, that Marjorie was dead? Madeline couldn't speak for fear. What was he going to do? Turn her over to the law? Bodily harm her?

When Adam was certain she wasn't going to faint, he rose and picked up the folder he had tossed on the bureau when he went for the water. He handed it to her. Madeline took it in one hand.

"What is this?"

"Information from Stratford."

"Who?"

"Stratford, the lawyer we hired to locate your sister Madeline."

"Oh…yes. I don't…I can't read it right now." She dropped the folder on the floor and curled up on the bed.

Before Adam had interrupted her, Madeline had been lying on the bed thinking about Marjorie and Pauline. Had they begged the men for their lives? Were they aware why they were being targeted? So she wept for them and also wept for herself. She knew she was selfish, that she had only thought of herself and her own safety. She had run away. And now she found herself in an impossible situation. What was worse was that the only means she could think of at the time to save herself was to cause more to pain to the man who had married her sister, who loved her sister but he had to be expendable; she was fighting for her own survival. Had someone in Baltimore realized that it wasn't she, Madeline Marsh, who had been murdered in that hotel room? If so, would they track her down? She had foolishly used the name Mrs. Cartwright as she traveled—now, in hindsight, she could see that had been a mistake. Coming to Nevada had been a mistake but all she could think of in her fear and panic was what she and Marjorie did as children—switch places, switch identities and dupe others. They had always impersonated each other and fooled instructors and friends and even their own parents on occasion. So the first thing that had occurred to Madeline when she was desperate was to pretend to be her upright, married sister.

But now as Adam stood before her, Madeline knew it had been a mistake; obviously the scheme had been discovered.

Adam bent down and picked up the folder adjusting the papers inside. "All right, Marjorie. I'm going to have dinner and then a bath. But we need to talk about this tonight. You sleep for a few hours but I'll be back up…" Adam looked at the mantel clock, "in two hours—before 10:00." He started to leave but turned back and opened the nightstand drawer. He glanced at her; she was watching him.

She sat up. "Do you actually think that if I was sneaking up a bottle of whiskey that I would hide it in the very same place?"

"Marjorie, I don't think I know what you'd do anymore. Things have changed and I believe I know why." He walked a few steps, and paused. "I'll be back up in a while."

~ 0 ~

This time, the bedroom door wasn't locked. Adam opened the door cautiously and saw the woman he believed was his wife sitting in a chair, a blanket wrapped about her, and looking out the window at the night sky. She turned and Adam again was amazed at how lovely she actually was, how desirable.

"I brought you up a mug of tea—you like cream in it so…." He handed her the thick china mug full of the steamy liquid. He tightened up the tie to the robe he wore after his bath.

"Thank you." She took it from him and then held it gingerly in her lap, resting it on the many folds of the blanket. Then she went back to looking into the darkness. The only light in the room was from the fireplace; she had obviously placed fresh logs on it as the flames were high.

"I prefer that you look at me but I'll settle for this. Why did you lie about your sister?"

Madeline had read the material in the folder and had sighed in relief. She had also bought herself time to come up with a believable lie.

"I was embarrassed. She's my sister and I love her…and I love you." Madeline was afraid she sounded insincere but if she did, either Adam hadn't picked up on it or considered the situation and found it not worth mentioning. "Well, I wanted to make her sound…respectable so I lied. I know it was wrong, that I should have just told you the truth…and your father. I lied first to him—told him that I was envious of my sister's life when in reality, it was the opposite. I abhorred her life—it was awful in the sense that…she was a kept woman. The suites were beautiful—luxurious. She had hot and cold running water for baths and washing and gas lights and heat and…it was wonderful. She invited me to stay with her while I visited but….because I wasn't sure about her being kept and if the man would return at any time, well, I stayed the night in my room. I asked…Madeline…" Saying her own name aloud sounded odd. "If she would come back with me, to give up that way of life, but she said no. She said that she was happy with her life, with having a man keep her and so, well, I left the next day."

Madeline waited but Adam said nothing. She turned to look at him. He just sat on the bed looking at her oddly.

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure." He put out his arms. "Come to me, Marjorie. You've been gone a long time—almost three weeks and I've missed you. I think…maybe we need to touch, to lie down together. You seem almost a stranger."

"Well, I…" Madeline considered his proposal. He was a handsome man and her sister was dead—it wasn't as if she was committing adultery with the man. He wasn't even her sister's husband but a widower. She had often felt repulsion for Markham and yet she managed to behave as if his mere touch sent her into ecstasy; she had been well-paid to feign affection, to feign sexual bliss in Markham's arms. She could easily pretend with this man as well. She rose and placed her mug of tea on the bedside table and then dropped the blanket off her shoulders. She stood before him in the thin, cambric gown and she noticed him looking at her as she stood with the light from the fireplace behind her. She went down on her knees before him and began to untie the cord about his robe, watching his face as she did and she noticed he looked puzzled. Perhaps, she considered, Marjorie wasn't aggressive, wasn't forthright in her desire and didn't believe in taking a subservient position with her husband. Madeline didn't know what she should do next so she asked. "What do you want me to do? What do you want…tonight?"

Adam rose from the bed and after raising her up to her feet, Madeline found herself swept up into his arms, felt his lips move on her cheek, find her mouth and kiss her. Before she had time to think what to do next, they were both on the bed and Madeline felt the man's practiced hands moving over her, felt her gown raised above her waist and then she stopped thinking and only felt as pleasure coursed through her body. And Madeline realized afterwards that she hadn't even had to pretend to be thrilled and ecstatic; for once her response to a man was genuine.

~ 0 ~

"Marjorie," Adam said as he took his hat off the rack in the kitchen, "I won't be back until dinner. I need to get the books from the mining office, the daily poundage records and reconcile them." Adam had talked to his father many times about the smelting refinery they used; he felt they charged too much per ton but the problem to building their own for local use was that they smelled so awful—"worse than downwind from pigsties." Not only would the stench hang over the Ponderosa, but when the wind shifted, the smell would reach anyone nearby.

Madeline stood quietly by. Again Adam noticed that her clothes seemed tighter.

"I asked Joe to take you into town for your meeting. He should be here by 10:00, so you best be ready to go—you know how impatient he can be." Adam pulled his gun belt about his waist and buckled it, then tied the thigh strap. He smiled at his wife; last night had been a new experience for him, for them both as far as he knew. Never before had Marjorie been so compliant or so wanton. She had never run her mouth over him before, never touched him before the way she had that night or removed her gown completely. He had reveled in her flesh, the roundness of her thighs, the delightful touch of her hands on him, urging him to enjoy her repeatedly. He had fallen in love with his wife all over again—and loved her more deeply than he ever had; her passion had finally matched his and he considered that it had been a fortunate pairing after all—lately he had harbored doubts. And again, just that morning she gave herself to him. He had hated to see her rise from the bed because it meant she was going to wash and dress for the day precluding any more tussling among the sheets but he was still thrilled to see her, to see her move with no self-consciousness; she even seemed to enjoy his pleasure in seeing her rounded body with its new sensuality. He had watched while she touched herself just for him—for him to wish that her hands were his and when he rose from the bed to go to her, she had laughed and gently turned away, sweeping up her gown from the floor where it had lain after she had tossed it from the bed during the night. If whiskey relaxed her to this degree, allowed her to take more pleasure from being with him then he wouldn't question if she took a glass of wine along with him at dinner or even a glass of brandy afterwards. He might even encourage it.

"I think," she said, "that I would rather go into town and buy a few new dresses. I…well, I ate so well on the train and at my…" Madeline remembered that she had lied about the champagne and the digestif. "Well, it will take a while to lose the pounds I've obviously put on. Buying a few new dresses will have to suffice."

Adam pulled her to him, kissing her cheek. He felt again the fullness of her figure. "I'm going to ask you and don't be angry…are you with child?"

Madeline almost laughed in his face. If he only knew what precautions she took, what precautions she had taken for years to prevent a child, he would be shocked. "No, I'm not. You'll find out soon enough," she said, "when you have to do without me for a week."

Marjorie never talked of such things with him—just mentioned it when he reached for her at night, that it wasn't a good time. He was puzzled again but she kissed him and smiled and so he relaxed and decided not to question his good fortune.

Madeline walked him to the front door, holding onto his arm as if she regretted his going. He kissed her again at the open front door, the sound of horse's hooves interrupting them but when he turned to look, Adam was surprised to see Caleb Stratford ride up to the house.

"I'm glad I didn't miss you," Stratford said. "And I'm glad you're both at home. I have bad news."

~ 0 ~

"I am very sorry, Mrs. Cartwright. If you like, I can make arrangements for the body to be brought here, that is if you like."

"No," Madeline said flatly. Stratford half rose as he was ready to leave. Adam partially rose as well, ready to walk out with Stratford but Madeline's curt reply made them pause.

"Why not?" Adam asked. "She can be buried next to your parents. I think it's the right thing to do."

Madeline looked up at Adam. When Stratford had broken the news, Madeline had feigned weakness and Adam reached over and chafed her wrists while Stratford, under Adam's direction, retrieved a bottle of brandy from the den and poured her a small glass. Adam held it to Madeline's mouth and she reached up and grasped his hand and controlled sipping the smooth drink. She had sighed as the brandy warmed her; it was what she needed only now she wanted more—much more. She was having difficulty pulling off the change of identity and needed courage—even if it came from a bottle. And after her "spell", both Adam and Stratford were deferential, looking to her after every piece of news to see if she felt faint again.

"You told me what she was really like—do you honestly think my parents would rest quietly with their estranged daughter next to them having become what she did?" Madeline felt that it was a strong argument but she quickly realized she had underestimated Adam.

Giving a small snort of disdain, Adam responded. "First, Marjorie, your parents are dead. Your sister is dead. They have no opinions anymore. We are concerned with disposing of your sister's remains and I don't know how you can go back to your church guild and face any possible questions about what has happened to your sister if you then have to say that you allowed her to be buried in some anonymous plot back east. After all, you'd been sharing your upcoming trip to Baltimore with the ladies and from what you've told me and what Mrs. Worth told me, all of you were hoping for a second firebrand like you—that you would bring Madeline back with you and she would join in your…projects. What are you planning to tell them about your sister—a lie as you told me and my father?"

Stratford cleared his throat. He was uncomfortable with the Cartwrights arguing; he was embarrassed for them and he realized that he had formed an incorrect assessment about Mrs. Cartwright; he must be losing his abilities as he used to be able to figure out a person's character within five minutes of meeting them, a necessary skill for a lawyer. But her… Maybe, he considered, he had been dazzled by her beauty then as he was now and…damn, he was getting old. He was becoming lecherous and the sight of a full bosom distracted him.

"Now, Mr. Cartwright," Stratford said, "if your wife and you would like, I can have her sister buried with a headstone and in a nice cemetery. Even if she wasn't a church member, well, with enough money we could have her buried in the middle of the Baltimore Cathedral."

"Thank you but we're going to have her brought here. I don't know about the…maid, though. What about it, Marjorie?"

Marjorie dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She had pulled it out earlier to feign crying as Stratford revealed the news about her sister and before Adam read the letter for himself.

"Whatever you think is best." She sat quietly and looked elsewhere to distract herself. Mrs. Hardesty needed to dust out there and also to strip the bed. She would have to remind her. And she needed a bath drawn.

"I'll contact the constabulary," Adam said, "and tell them I'll claim the bodies. Are you sure they haven't been buried yet?"

"No, I'm not but I can contact my man there in Baltimore and then…."

"What if they've been buried, Adam?" Madeline said rising form her chair. She intentionally raised her voice a few pitches attempting to sound hysterical. "Are you going to have them dug up and shipped here? How ghoulish—how horrid! And the letter said the bodies had been in the room for three days before they were discovered by the staff—there was a 'No service" sign on the door handle. People are usually buried within that time and not left…rotting. I say, bury them up there—let their bodies rest in peace after all they've been through." Madeline quickly ran up the stairs and into the bedroom where she had slept—where Adam had slept with her just last night. The bed was still tousled, the sheets twisted since the Hardesty's hadn't yet arrived for the day, it not even 7:00 in the morning.

Where's the door key? Madeline looked around; she wanted to lock the bedroom door, to lock Adam out and this time she wouldn't open it to him. He would have to kick the door down. She ran her hand along the fireplace mantel but it wasn't there. That bastard—he took the key last night along with the bourbon. He's such a controlling son-of-a-bitch! Just like Markham—he has to be in charge just like Markham. The only difference is that Adam hasn't yet thrashed me or forced himself on me and laughed about it, but...

Madeline stopped; a way out of the situation suddenly came to her. Instead of seducing his father, if I can taunt Adam into slapping me, striking me, maybe worse, then I can leave. I'll have a reason and his family will back me—I'm sure. Marjorie would never stand for that, for a man to slap her around. Never. She would leave so I can as well. Madeline had hidden her small leather bag under the mattress and panic suddenly gripped her. What if it's not there anymore? She kneeled beside the bed and pushed her hand under the mattress trying to feel for it but the mattress was too heavy and since it was held up by a hammock of tight hemp netting, her hand kept becoming entangled in the crisscross knotted ropes. She began to panic. What if it's gone-stolen? But it has to be there. No one else has been in the room except me and Adam and Mrs. Hardesty when she brought up the broth. It was just easier to slide the bag under than to remove it—that's all. It has to be here.

Madeline lay on her back and pushed herself under the bed. She saw the bag. She sighed in relief. It was still there but she saw that it had become entangled in the ropes. She decided that when the time came, she would just cut the ropes to extricate the bag that held her money.

Madeline worked her way back out and then went to the vanity mirror to push her hair back in place. Yesterday morning, before Adam had first arrived home, she had taken the brush, comb and mirror set off the vanity in the other room—a plain, simple wood boar's hair brush and comb and a bottle of lemon verbena toilet water, a scent that, in Madeline's opinion, only spinsters and grandmothers wore. Madeline had pulled open all the drawers of the vanity table and there were merely folded handkerchiefs, a sachet tucked among them, and a few jewel cases with simple earrings and jeweled necklaces—the majority, paste. It was also the room where Marjorie's clothes hung in a good-sized closet. There had been a few evening dresses that Madeline had half-pulled out to see better, but the majority of them were simple, high necked dresses just like the modest ones in the valise, and a few starched cotton blouses. The hats in their round milliners' boxes were stacked on the top shelf that ran along the closet length and Madeline had looked at them the day before; dull and simple. Madeline had then gone through the drawers and pulled out some underclothes and a few night gowns as well as stockings and a corset. Madeline knew she would have to be pulled tighter to fit into the waist of Marjorie's dresses but then her breasts were pushed up to become fuller and that caused other issues with clothes. She had decided that she would visit the dressmaker and have some dresses let out—just a few so that she would have something to wear for the short time she planned to be there, and then buy a few calico dresses off the rack; she thought of that type of dress as printed sacks. But she had seen no other choice—but that plan was ruined by Stratford's arrival. Damn all men! Nothing but trouble! They ruin everything-everything! Or maybe that's just my lot in life.

But she didn't have much time to consider her appearance anymore as the door opened and she spun around to see Adam standing in the doorway. She tried to calm herself down, to steady her breathing. But to Adam, his wife had never looked more beautiful—never more desirable than at that moment. Her eyes were wild, her cheeks flushed, her lips red and she was breathing heavily while glossy, black tendrils fell loosely from her mussed hair; to him, she looked to him as if she had just enjoyed a man.

"What do you want?" Madeline faced him down. She would be irrational, intractable, would call him names and go about attempting to belittle him. Then he would strike her, she was sure. "I have no need of you."

Adam stepped into the room. "Oh, I think you do. I think you need me quite a bit." He moved closer to her. He could smell her skin and it had a different scent, a scent of heat and lust and hunger. "I told Stratford to contact the officials in Baltimore. I want your sister's body sent here—and that of the maid. If she served your sister, well, she apparently died while trying to defend them both."

"Do what you want then—I don't agree with you though. Would you please leave now?" Through the open bedroom window, the curtains fluttered from the light spring breeze. Madeline heard a wagon pull up in the yard. She went over to the window, bending to stick her head out to see but heard Adam behind her say that it was only the Hardestys. They arrived every morning at 7:00—but then she knew that, didn't she, he asked.

Madeline felt Adam's hands on her waist and then the weight of his body as he bent over her, kissing the back of her neck.

"Stop," she said, twisting around so they were face to face. "Let me go. It's only 7 in the morning and the Hardestys…" But she could say no more because she was silenced by his mouth. He murmured that he loved her, that he adored her and that he was desperate for her and then Madeline stopped struggling; she could anger him later, make him furious later, but this, this coupling she would enjoy.