TEN

Joe was a fast runner – had to be since he had been bully-bait since he went to school. He could outrun just about anyone if he wanted to, but he knew he couldn't outrun his father and brothers when they were mounted. So, as soon as he could, Joe made for the hills. He was a good climber too. Hoss said he must be part mountain goat, and so it was nothin' for him to scramble up and over boulders, taking a path that would be near impossible for his family to follow on anything other than foot. He needed time. He just couldn't face them. Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Joe glanced down at his lightweight tan shirt and pants and then at his bruised and bloodied feet. Of course, runnin' away on a cold September day when you took off in barely more than your birthday suit and a pair of slippers wasn't smart. In fact, it was downright dumb. He could just see older brother Adam, arms crossed, with that 'look' on his face, shaking his head and tellin' him to take time to consider his actions and their consequences. In other words, to look before he leaped.

He was really good at leapin', just not so good at lookin'.

The curly-haired man anchored his hands on his hips and breathed in as he looked around. He had no idea where he was going. He'd really wanted to visit his mama's grave so he could apologize to her. He knew she'd forgive him even if no one else would. But he couldn't do it. He knew that was the first place Pa would think to look. So instead, he'd taken off in the opposite direction, which put him on the side of the ranch closest to the Truckee Road. There wasn't much here. Tall pines. Fading grass. Rocks and boulders and more trees. There was a line shack fairly close by, but he figured his pa or brothers would think of that too. Scowling, Joe remained still as he considered what he should do. A shiver shook him and he wrapped his arms around his middle for some warmth. As he did, a wee small voice in the back of his head urged him to swallow his damn pride and go back home before he died of exposure.

Unfortunately, the great big voice of his guilt quickly shouted it down.

Shrugging off another shiver, Joe turned in all directions. He and Adam and Hoss used to play in this area when they were boys. He kind of remembered it. Adam, being older, had been in the lead most of the time. If he remembered right, there were caves along the river's bank that would offer him some shelter until he decided what to do. He doubted his family would think to check them as they weren't one of his usual haunts. Without warning, as a vision of his father and brothers riding slowly, looking for his tracks rose before his eyes, and Joe felt an immeasurable sadness. He didn't want to cause them pain and that's what he would do if he continued on his present course. He knew how his pa was when he went missing – he'd come home before to the older man's bent back, gaunt cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes cradled in shadows. Hoss was probably out of his mind. And Adam? Well, Adam didn't know, but if he did, older brother probably would have said, 'Good riddance!'

He wondered if he would ever get a chance to talk to his older brother again to tell him how sorry he was. To tell Adam...

He was right.

Joe's jaw tightened and he sniffed in tears. He thought a moment and then, fists closing, came to a decision.

He had to go back.

He was doing the same thing Adam had done after they'd had that fight – running away – and he'd thought older brother a bit of a coward for doing it. It was him who had gone to find Adam and bring him back. He knew Pa couldn't live without Adam and that their pa would blame himself somehow for one of his sons going away.

Pa would blame himself for him going away too.

It was hard to admit, but he was behaving like the child everyone accused him of being. A man would face up to what he had done and, if he was wrong, admit it and make it right. If everyone hated him after he'd done that, well, then he would leave. Joe snorted as he shivered again.

But this time, he'd wear a coat!

As he came to his decision, a sudden weariness overcame him. It wasn't all that long since he'd had the influenza and running a couple of miles in the bitter cold was probably not on Doc Martin's list of things to do for a speedy recovery. If he hadn't been so cold he would have laid down and taken a nap. As it was, he was cold enough that the only thing he could think of to do was start walking. Maybe he'd run into someone who could give him a lift to the Ponderosa. He could offer them hot coffee and a bite to eat when they got there. Joe grinned. Hop Sing was sure to have something ready in the kitchen for when he came to his senses and went home.

He wanted to be home.

Drawing a deep breath, Joe struck the remnants of tears from his cheeks and began to scramble back down the boulders. When he reached the road he took it, hoping he would run into his pa and brothers. He hadn't gone too far when he heard the approach of horses. Halting, the curly-haired man waited to see who it was. When the riders appeared, he knew right away it wasn't his family. Still, the two men looked vaguely familiar. He'd seen them before, but he couldn't remember where.

When they saw him, the pair reined their horses in.

"Hey," Joe said, giving them a little wave before placing his fingers back in the crook of his arms for warmth.

The shorter and darker of the pair favored him with a smile. "You're Ben Cartwright's boy, aren't you?"

Joe nodded. He knew they looked familiar. "Yeah, that's my pa. I'm Joe."

The two men exchanged a look. Both smiled.

"Son, what are you doing out here without a coat – and boots?" the man asked.

How did he explain it without sounding like an idiot? "My coat's on my horse. So are my boots." It was kind of the truth. Well, it was probably the truth. Knowing his pa, he'd brought both along as well as Cochise for him to ride when they found him.

"Ah, I see. Spooked and ran off, eh?" The man looked at his companion. "Gorman, you think the boy could ride with you? You've got the stronger mount."

"I can walk," Joe protested, because he thought he should.

"Nonsense. Gorman here would be happy to let you ride with him." As the tall thin man nodded, the short dark one said. "My name is Regis. As it happens, we were headed to the Ponderosa anyhow."

"Oh?" Joe asked as he approached the pair. "What for, if you don't mind my asking?"

"We have a message for your father."

He was beside the tall man now. Gorman was leaning over, offering him a hand – or so he thought.

A second later Joe was on the ground, reeling from a kick to the side of his head. He heard more than saw the two men dismount and come to stand over him. The shorter, darker one knelt beside him and took his shirt collar in hand and lifted him up. Joe grew nauseous from the movement and his body started to shut down.

Guess he knew what the message was.

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Sarah sighed. She'd just added to her list of 'crimes. The first, of course, was stealing her head, hands, feet, and body from the man who 'owned' them.

The second one? Stealing a horse!

Due to the fact that most of her life had been spent on a plantation in the South as one of a part of a family of 'privileged' house slaves, she knew how to ride and how to do it well. After her father's death, her grandmother had feared she'd be punished. Instead, she seemed to be favored. While Carter Burl seemed to pay little attention to her as she grew, he saw to it that she was taught to read and write and to behave in a civilized fashion, which included how to ride. Her grandmother warned her that this special treatment would have a price and that one day Burl would order her to the big house to serve and to provide service to him. She had feared that was his intention when he took her to France with him the year before, but it turned out not to be the case. He had recognized her natural talent at portraiture and taken her along to apprentice to a painter he admired. Carter Burl had invested considerable money in her and he made it clear that, when they returned to the States, she was to use her talent to portray the members of his prestigious Virginia family. She'd been fine with that – until he made it clear that once she entered Burl Hall she was also to become his concubine.

That she was not willing to do.

When she told her grandmother that the day had come, the older woman instructed her as to what to write, and then persuaded one of the white plantation workers to post a letter to her grandparents. The first reply that came back was from a neighbor, telling them the older couple had moved to Virginia City, Nevada. Determined, her grandmother had written to the local sheriff there and he had managed to track down the Spencers and deliver the post. Of course, the sheriff knew nothing of her situation. It would have been interesting to see her white grandmother's face when she read the letter. In all the years that she had written to her father's mother – sending her cards and notes when she could – she had never received an answer. She'd assumed the older woman wanted nothing to do with her.

And she'd been right.

Sarah shifted uneasily in the saddle. She'd ridden a couple of miles before she realized she had no idea of where she was going. Little Joe could have run anywhere. She had headed in the direction of the lake because she'd heard he often took solace at his mother's grave, but it felt wrong somehow. The handsome curly-haired man would know that would be the first place someone would look for him. And so she was at a standstill.

Just like she'd been at a standstill in her hope of escape. It took months for a reply to come from her white grandparents. When it did, her slave grandmother had cried and shouted 'Hallelujah!' The letter, of course, was from Grandfather Thom. It contained only a few words, written cagily in case the note was intercepted.

'Of course. The door is always open. Tell her to come in.'

And so it began – the search for a way for her to 'come in'. Finally, the same man who had carried the letters and posted them agreed to help. His name was James and he was sweet on her slave grandma. He was also a man who felt uncomfortable in the role he had to play and tried his best to ease the lot of the colored men, women, and children who bore the brunt of the hard labor that kept Burl Hall going.

Sarah smiled sadly as she urged her mount forward. When the time had come, she had almost chickened out. The immensity of what she was doing – not only escaping, knowing the hunt for her would be intense, but traveling all the way out West alone by train and stage coach. When she'd come about halfway, she'd stopped in at the telegraph office to send a message to the Spencers to tell them she was on the way and give them an approximate time of arrival. She'd been delighted and not a little bit surprised to find there was a post waiting for her. Grandfather Thom had reasoned she would take the stage line and left messages – again, with guarded wording – for her along the way. He talked about the farm, the neighbors, and about a package he was to pick up on a certain date. He said, if it didn't arrive, he'd wait just outside of town at a local trading post along the route until it got there.

And so, she had arrived – not as an unwanted stranger, but as family – to Grandfather Thom's open arms and a ready smile.

He told her on the way to the house how he had wanted to rear her. That the blood in her veins was the same as his and it mattered not one whit who or what it was mingled with. The older man told her as well that his wife, Margaret, was a different story. That she still grieved for her son and blamed the woman he had fallen in love with for his death. Maggie, he said, was ashamed – and he used that word, blunt as it was – that her son had been involved with a slave woman and died as a criminal trying to help her escape. He told her she would have to be patient with her grandmother. That she was a good woman who would come around in time.

Perhaps, now that Grandmother Margaret was in Heaven, she finally had.

Tightening her grip, Sarah pulled back on the reins. She'd heard the sound of horses' hooves coming from the direction of the bend in front of her. Panicked, she took a moment too long to come to a decision and before she could conceal herself, a man came into view riding a horse. Little Joe had been on foot, so she knew it wasn't him. The man slowed his mount's progress until he came to a stop alongside her.

Tipping his elegant gray wool hat, that matched his equally elegant gray suit, he said, "Afternoon Miss. Are you out here alone?"

His accent was southern.

Sarah was apprehensive. She was pretty sure of herself. After all, growing up on a plantation with all that entailed had made her tough. Still, even though the man was slender, he both outweighed her and was taller by a good five inches or more.

Smiling prettily, she answered, "Yes. I'm out for an afternoon's ride."

"Unescorted?" He shook his head. "That's hardly proper for a young lady of your status."

"My grandfather doesn't care," she replied. After all, it was the truth.

The man was eying her, looking from her mount to her clothes, and then to her face and hair. "Your grandfather. Now, that wouldn't happen to be Thomas Spencer, would it?"

Sarah stiffened. A shiver ran down her spine. "I don't think I need to answer that."

The man reached into his inner coat pocket and produced a snub-nosed derringer. "Now, Miss, I think you do."

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Adam opened his eyes. A moment later he groaned as reality bled back in and all of the various bruises and cuts he had taken in the beating made themselves known. He hadn't realized he had fallen asleep, but then one's body did that sometimes when it was pressed beyond what it could bear – issued orders instead of carrying them out. The black-haired man blinked away both nausea and fatigue and then righted himself. Something had awakened him. Some...noise. Ignoring the pounding in his head, he concentrated. Yes, there it was again. Someone was approaching the camp. At least two someones. They were mounted and almost here. Was it Burl and Valentine Latham, he wondered? Neither man had returned yet. Val's brother was just stirring too. Ab had laid down by the fire and fallen asleep shortly after their encounter. As he watched, the southerner rose to his feet and took a few steps in the direction of the sound. Then he hauled up short and snorted.

"Looks like you got company, Cartwright," he sneered.

Before laying down Ab had bound him to a nearby tree, with his hands tied behind the trunk. Bound as he was he couldn't shift to look at whoever had just pulled into the camp. He heard two men talking, a chorus of cruel laughter, and then a dull thud as something struck the ground. That was followed rather quickly by a rustling of leaves as that something or – as he was beginning to suspect – that someone was dragged in his direction.

"Got a present for you," an unschooled voice said a moment before dropping his baby brother's badly battered form at his feet.

Little Joe was pale; his breathing somewhat shallow. There was a large, odd-shaped bruise darkening from red to purple on the left side of his face. His tan shirt was stained with blood that had flowed downward from a split on his cheek. His hair, as well as his shirt and pants, were liberally dusted with dirt and covered in bracken.

"Pretty boy's sound asleep," the man's thin lips curled at the end. "Been that way since I put my boot to his head."

Adam's eyes flicked to his brother. Joe was pale – and this was so unlike his younger brother – not moving. At least he wasn't dead. A kick to the head that left a bruise like that could have easily snapped his neck. Steeling himself, Adam kept up his earlier pretense.

"I hope you had more luck knocking some sense into it than I usually do," he growled.

The thin man watched him closely. "You ain't mad?"

He made a face. "Hell, no. Like I told, Ab, I'm with you. I'm sick to death of my pa pampering the brat. It's no more than he deserves."

The tall thin outlaw's lips twisted as he dropped into a crouch by Joe. A second later his dirty fingers laced through Little Joe's chestnut curls and he placed his gun barrel against Joe's temple.

"You want I should pull it?"

"Gorman, you idiot! Get up!" Adam's bit back a sigh of relief as his gaze went to the speaker. It was the man he'd seen with Frederick Kyle in Virginia City. The one called Regis. He looked disgusted. "Burl isn't going to pay as much for damaged goods," he said as he dismounted and headed for them.

Gorman spit off to the side. The thin man ignored his partner and looked right at him as he said, "Might be worth it."

Adam held his breath as Regis reached out and knocked the gun from Gorman's grasp. It could so easily have gone off!

Gorman shot to his feet . "What'd you do that for?" he demanded. "Besides, who made you God?"

Regis was shaking his head. He tapped his temple. "This makes me God. I'm the brains. You're the brawn, Gorman, and don't you ever forget it." The dark-haired man looked down at Joe as if his brother was a prize steer just roped. "This one is going to buy our way out of obscurity and into independent financial freedom." Regis' eyes shot to him. "I'm sure Mister Cartwright here would be just as happy to see his spoiled younger brother sold into slavery as shot." Kyle's compatriot smiled. "This way his suffering will be never-ending."

Adam's jaw tightened. He nodded, unable for a moment to find words. Then, after swallowing, he said, "The boy's never worked a day in his life. He'll work now."

Regis' eyes never left him as he replied. "With his looks, I doubt he's for the field. There's plenty of plantation owners out there with...unusual...appetites. From what I understand, it should come naturally to him, considering who his mother was."

Rage fought to rein in his emotions. Giving them their head at this moment would just get both him and Joe killed.

He forced a wicked little smile. "Joe's pretty proud of the French Quarter mother of his."

As he spoke, Little Joe moaned.

"Gorman, tie the kid to the other side of the tree!" Regis ordered. "Carter won't be back until nightfall."

Joe moaned again as the tall thin man complied. Gorman was unnecessarily rough with Little Joe, thrusting him so hard against the tree he could feel the reverberations as his brother's head hit the trunk.

This time Joe cried out loud.

The sound of a hard slap silenced him.

"Sorry he's upwind," Gorman said as he moved away. "You'll just have to put up with the stink of that Creole blood."

Adam counted...very slowly...as the lowlife walked away. He made it to thirty before he called out softly, "Joe? Are you awake? Can you hear me?" When he got no reply, he tried again. This time his whisper was fierce. "Joe?"

A moan. It was like a whole conversation!

"Little Joe?"

"I...can hear you."

"Keep your voice down." He shot a look at the two men, but they were talking to Ab and ignoring them for the moment. "How bad is it?"

"Seein' stars..." He could tell his brother wet his lips. "Pain in my head. I can...take it."

Of course, Joe would say he could 'take it', even if he'd been run over by a train and there was just enough left of him to scrape off the tracks.

"Listen, Joe, I have to tell you something." Adam wet his lips too. What did he say? He was so ashamed, but there was no time to explain or apologize.

"What?" his brother growled. "Like you'd...rather see me dead?"

Good Lord! He must have been awake...

"Joe, I didn't mean –"

"What're you two blabbin' about?" Gorman's surly voice demanded.

Adam stiffened and looked up. "Just checkin' to see if the kid's awake." He tried to make his voice match his pretense, but worry and fear for his little brother were calling his bluff.

Gorman swung around the tree. He gripped Joe's curls and pulled hard. When his brother yelped and then cursed, the thin man snorted, "Yep, he's awake." As he released Little Joe's hair, the outlaw bent down and struck his brother so hard on the cheek the sound reverberated through the clearing. "Or he was!" he chortled.

The list of men he needed to see dead or in jail was growing longer by the minute.

"What's up with these two?" Ab Latham asked as he halted at Gorman's side. "Can't a man get a wink of sleep?"

"The little one was trying to wriggle free," the thin man lied. "Had to teach him to mind his manners."

"Which you're fine with, right, Cartwright?" Ab asked him.

Adam shrugged – as nonchalantly as he could.

Aberdeen Latham was staring at him. "Gag them both!" he ordered.

"No!" Adam said, a little too enthusiastically. "There's no need to gag me. I won't yell. I'm on your side, remember?"

"I remember. I remember all right," the elder Latham said as he dropped to the grass beside him. "I remember watching you and that little brother of yours back at the ranch. You may not like him, but you don't want to see him dead – not matter what you say."

"You're wrong."

"Maybe I am, and maybe I'm not," Ab replied as he took the bandana from his neck and began to fashion it into a gag. "It's no nevermind anyhow. You don't need to talk and I need to sleep! Open up or I'll let Gorman have his way with the kid."

Adam's gaze flicked to Gorman who looked all too eager.

"You'll regret this when Burl gets back," he warned.

Ab shrugged as he shoved the gag between his teeth and tied it in a tight knot at the back. "Maybe. Not likely though." He chuckled. "An 'overabundance of caution', boys. That's Carter Burl's byword."

As the two men walked away, Adam heard his brother groan. Here he was, inches from Little Joe, and he couldn't tell him why he was acting the way he was. What must his brother think, he wondered?

That he hated him. That's what.

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Sarah sat on a low boulder, her spine stiff and her hands folded neatly in her lap, listening to a man she was beginning to think was slightly mad – at least where Little Joe was concerned. Apparently this was Frederick Kyle, the southerner she had heard the Cartwrights speak of. He'd spent the last so many weeks trying to woo Little Joe to the cause of the South, apparently succeeding enough that it had brought Joe and his brother Adam – whose mother had been from New England – to blows. As Kyle spoke, Little Joe's deep regret began to make sense to her. From what the southerner said, the handsome young man had all but enlisted in the man's campaign, ready and willing to leave his loving family behind for the memory of a mother he had never known and the place where she had been born.

It was a thought that would never have occurred to her, but then, men were different, or so her grandmother had told her repeatedly. Still, to leave a haven of safety such as the Ponderosa for a far-off land and a people you knew nothing of – to fight for a cause that was not your own – well, that made no sense to her.

Maybe she didn't know Little Joe as well as she thought.

Still, that didn't change how she felt about him or her growing anger with this man who thought he knew what was best for a young man whom he had only just met – again because of this woman, Marie.

She must have been something, Little Joe's mama.

It was obvious Frederick Kyle had been, if not in love with, then enamored of this mystery woman. He had been traveling west on other business when he met up with Carter Burl, but the two men had quickly discovered they had something in common – a fascination with Marie De Marigny.

Only with Master Burl, it was an obsession.

The man pacing in front of her had agreed to work for the plantation owner partly because of that commonality, but mostly to woo Marie's son to return to 'where he belonged' – and, maybe, to save Little Joe from Burl. After the Cartwrights figured out what Kyle was up to and Little Joe's father ordered him off his land, never to return, the southerner had been unable to leave. He was desperate to make Little Joe understand that he was not a liar and a schemer and that his 'Cause' was real. In order to do this, Frederick Kyle hired two men by the name of Latham to befriend Joe and bring him to them. When that failed, he decided to take a chance and come to the Ponderosa himself to speak to Little Joe and that was when he encountered her. With his gun pointed at her, Kyle had demanded she tell him what she knew. She'd thought about it a moment and then told him, honestly, that Little Joe had run away and she was trying to find him. It wasn't a betrayal. The southerner knew more about Joseph Cartwright than she did and she hoped he might be able to lead her to him. What she'd do once they found Little Joe, she had no idea. Kyle knew who she was. And more than that, he knew what she was. If Little Joe or any of the Cartwrights were caught trying to help her they would go to prison. After all, they would be violating federal law in aiding and abetting a fugitive slave.

Or worse they could be killed like her father and there was nothing anyone could say or do about it.

Sarah drew in a breath and held it as Frederick Kyle turned and pinned her with his pale eyes. They were lit with a fanatical fire.

"I know where he is," he announced.

"Where?" she breathed.

"Captured," he said.

"Captured?" Sarah rose to her feet. "I told you he ran away."

The southerner watched for her reaction. "Carter Burl has men looking for him. That's part of what brought me to the Ponderosa. I was coming to warn him."

"Why didn't you say so before?" she demanded as her heart sank to her toes.

Kyle pinned her with a stare that said she was less than the dirt under his feet. "Why would I tell a quadroon anything?"

"Because I can help you," she shot back knowing that, with his monumental ego, the southern man would believe her. "Joe Cartwright meant nothing more to me than a way out of slavery. He can't give that to me now, but I think you could – if you wanted to."

"And why would I want to?"

"Because Little Joe will come to me and he won't come to you." God help her, it was the truth. She could only hope that when the time came, she could come up with something that would help them both escape.

"Why should I trust you?" Kyle demanded.

Sarah bowed her head, assuming a stance she knew he was familiar with – one he would find compelling. "Because...master, you have the power," she said softly.

Frederick Kyle remained where he was for several heartbeats and then crossed to stand before her. He reached out and caught her chin and lifted her head so she was forced to confront his fervent gaze. As his lips curled with pleasure, he laid a hand on the skin exposed above her neckline. Though he thought of her as less than human, she could tell he was attracted to her.

She supposed, in a way, she was not so different from the mysterious Marie De Marigny.

"Yes," Frederick Kyle said, nodding. "Yes, I do."