NINE

It was afternoon and Doctor Martin had come and gone, completing his second visit of the day. Adam smiled as he thought of the physician's face when they led him into their pa's room. Paul had been torn between joy, hope, anger, and exasperation. After grumbling something about the fact that 'at least' the pair were in bed, he set about examining both Joe and Pa. Joe's fever was up and Pa's was down, but neither were in a range that was life-threatening. Three days after the horrific scene he had come home to, it seemed life had a chance of returning to some semblance of normalcy.

Except, of course, that the man who had tried to kill his entire family was still on the loose and both Greg Webb and Rosey O'Rourke were missing. Sheriff Olin had organized a posse and they were on their trail. It chafed at him and Hoss that they had been forced to inaction by circumstances. Still, neither one of them had been willing to leave until they knew their father and brother were out of danger. The others in the house were similarly effected. Ming-hua was beside herself. The young woman from China did little but cry. Hop Sing, who was battling his own demons of fear and fatigue, managed to keep her busy during the day. Still, he'd heard her at night, weeping into the early morning hours until exhaustion compelled her to rest, terrified for the woman she had come to think of as a mother.

Since neither his pa nor his brother had been very forthcoming yet about what happened, he assumed Greg Webb was also a prisoner and was innocent in all of this. Monty had said something when he'd stopped in briefly before that indicated the young man would not have gone with Finch willingly. Adam had no idea what the family's dynamics were, but from what little he knew of Greg, and what Hoss had been able to tell him about Finch, he doubted the boy had taken part in what the outlaw had done. It made him wonder if there was more to Monty and Greg leaving the cattle drive early than either one of them had admitted.

He guessed he'd find out when the cowboy returned.

Adam leaned into the blue velvet chair and rested his head against its high back. He was weary to the bone. There had been so much going on – so many things to do – he hadn't really processed the fact that he could have lost his entire family in one night. This morning, sitting there, looking at Pa and Joe, it had hit him like a punch in the gut. Wasn't that, after all, what he'd intended to do – ride away and leave them all, perhaps never to see them again? The concept had become a cold hard reality. He had comforted himself with the fact that he would write and they would write back. Somehow, he would manage to remain a part of their lives even though he had chosen to be apart. The last few days had taught him there would be no going back. It would be as if Pa and Hoss and Little Joe were dead to him.

And he didn't think he could live with that.

No, he knew he couldn't.

"Mistah Adam want some cake?" Hop Sing asked after appearing at his side as like a genie out of a bottle. "Number one son not eat supper."

"I ate, Hop Sing," he countered. "You were there."

"Hop Sing there to carry plate away with enough food on it to feed pack of wolves outside!" the man from China snapped, a bit of his annoyance breaking through the concern.

"Forgive me," he said with a smile. "I promise I will do better tomorrow."

"You could have given me ol' Adam's leftovers instead of them wolves," Hoss quipped as he descended into the room. "I could eat a whole 'nother meal after findin' Pa and Joe together lookin' good and happy as two peas in a pod."

"Little Joe better in own bed," their cook pronounced. "Boy not know how to lay still. Keep father awake."

It was true. Pa would probably wake up with Joe's fist in his face and a long skinny leg draped across his own.

Adam met Hop Sing's anxious gaze. "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine, but a broken spirit drieth the bones," he said softly, quoting Proverbs.

"You need to run that one by Doc Martin, Adam," Hoss said with a snort. "He didn't look like he was none too merry when he found Joe in Pa's bed."

No, he hadn't. Fortunately, there were four of them and only one of Doc Martin. Little Joe had stayed put.

"Doctor say Mistah Ben much better." It was a statement, but still a question.

"Yes, " Adam replied as he rose to his feet. "Pa's fever is down and there seems to be no infection in the wound. It will be quite a while before his strength is back, but Paul is certain it will return."

"Little Joe better too?"

He nodded. "Yes, he's better too."

It was true Joe was better, but his fever was still a problem. Baby brother just couldn't seem to throw it off. Still Paul was optimistic. He thought that – now that Joe had accepted the fact that he wasn't responsible for shooting their father – he would quickly regain strength and might be up in a day or two. His broken rib was another matter. Joe still had weeks of healing ahead of him on that account.

Which left him with a problem, and that was the promise he had made to his little brother that they wouldn't go after the man who'd shot Pa without him.

Seemingly satisfied by an answer that would have left him questioning more, Hop Sing nodded and returned to the kitchen. At that same moment a knock sounded at the front door. Hoss was closer, so he went to get it. After he opened the door, the big teen stepped back to allow a dusty and exhausted-looking Monty Webb to step into the room. He'd been in a little earlier to tell them he was back, but this was the first time they would have a chance to talk.

"The posse ain't given up, has they?" Hoss asked.

Monty removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh before hanging it on the rack. "Sorry about all the dirt," he said as his eyes darted about the room, settling on the area of the settee.

The cowboy seemed nervous. Adam had a sense that he had something he wanted to say, but was having a hard time finding a way to begin.

"Would you like a brandy, or maybe a shot of whiskey?" Adam asked. "You look like you could use it."

"I'll take some coffin varnish, thanks." As Adam mused over what his father would think of his twenty dollar bottle of double barrel whiskey being called such a thing, Monty advanced into the room, saying, "No, the posse ain't quit. They've moved on, following a trail they found."

Adam brought the drink to him. "But you don't think it's Finch's trail."

Monty downed the whiskey in one gulp and handed the glass back. He looked him in the eye. "Don't think nothin'. I know it ain't."

"And you didn't tell them?" Hoss was outraged. "What was you thinkin'?"

Adam held the other man's gaze. He recognized something in it. Something he knew Monty saw in his own.

"This is about family. Isn't it?" the black-haired man asked.

Hoss scowled. "What you talkin' about, Adam?"

He held a hand up. "I think Monty has the answer to that question. How about you, Monty?"

The cowboy nodded and then went to the settee and sat down. He shook his head when Hoss offered another drink.

Adam sat across from him while Hoss anchored an arm on the mantle. "Tell us," he said.

Monty drew a long breath and let it out slowly. Then he began.

"Me and Finch, we was born in Idaho. Our family was one of the first to travel west. They tried farming and then panning for gold, and then finally opened up a saloon. We lived upstairs over the main room. Finch was born before that, while the panning was goin' on. There were five between me and him. None of the girls made it past five and the younger brother we had died when he tried to swim a crick that was runnin' too fast." Monty sighed as he thought about it, as if that brother's death had hit him hardest of all. "Ma tried to teach us, but you know boys. By the time I was old enough to squat over a pot Finch was leadin' me into all kinds of trouble." He snorted. "How much older are you than Little Joe, Adam?"

"Twelve years."

"Then you know what it's like."

"'Cept with us Cartwrights it's the other way round," Hoss said, affection softening his tone. "That little brother of ours, he's the one what leads' us into trouble!"

Monty nodded. "Greg was like that too. Dang kid. I told him not to try crossin' that creek."

For a moment Adam's mind was filled with the image of Joe doing just that same thing. Then he realized what Monty had said.

"Was?"

The blond man licked his lips and nodded. "My brother Greg drowned when he was twelve."

Adam's brows peaked. "Would you care to explain then, how we met him a few days ago?"

"No, wait," Hoss said, taking a seat on the hearth. "I seem to remember Greg shoutin' somethin' at Finch while I was lyin' on the floor. I was half out of my head." He frowned, reaching for it. "I think Greg yelled somethin' about hatin' Finch and him not bein' his brother?"

"He's not. He's not mine either. Not by blood." Monty sighed. "But he sure is in every other way."

Adam leaned forward, wrapping his fingers around each other and dangling them between his knees.

"Go on."

The tale was long and twisted. Finch Webb, it seemed, had from the very beginning been a bad egg. He broke every rule and then, because he got away with it, broke them again and again. Their father died when Monty was six and Finch, seventeen. For a time their mother ran the saloon, but her heart wasn't in it and one day she simply disappeared, leaving her two surviving children to fend for themselves.

Finch lived on the edge and craved excitement, and so he soon gravitated to crime. Within a few months he was using Monty to swindle away widow's and little old ladies' savings. He went through money like water, so they were always at it and always on the move, it being too dangerous for him to remain in any one town for long. Eventually, as age and hard living caught up to him, Finch decided it was time to settle down and get a 'proper' job.

That was when he went to work at the Square Deal Saloon, one of the first establishments of its kind in the small gathering of houses and businesses that would soon come to be known as San Francisco. Finch had been in his mid-thirties, handsome, strong and able, and more than capable of turning the head of the female owner of the Square Deal with his sweet talk and winning smile. In time he just about ran the place, though his official role was that of bouncer.

Trouble was, some of the men Finch 'bounced' ended up dead.

It was only then that Monty began to suspect his older brother might be more than a cheat and a bully. That maybe, he was a killer too.

Monty had paused then and his look darkened. There was a woman who worked in the saloon that Finch became obsessed with. She was a sad, dark-haired beauty who went by the working name of Silks, due to the expensive silk dresses she wore. One day Silks tried to kill herself. A new doctor in the town was called – a doctor who was willing to enter such an establishment and treat 'soiled doves'. He saved her life and then they fell in love. Shortly after that they were married and Silks went away, leaving behind the sordid life she'd lived.

But she couldn't leave behind Finch.

It was at this point Adam had stopped Monty's narrative with a question. "Do you know her real name?"

Monty bit his lip and nodded. "Found it out, but only after...what happened."

Hoss looked sick. "It was Miss Rosey, wasn't it?"

The cowboy nodded. "It took me a while to recognize her. She looks different. Older. Tougher. But it's her."

"So your brother Finch was the man who killed Rosey's husband and son? And you stayed with him?" Adam's tone was accusatory.

Monty shrugged. "Finch was all I had, and you gotta remember, Finch was all I knew. I was aware that some of the things he did was crooked as a snake fence and he shoulda been in jail, but at the time – I was only twenty or so – it all seemed like a kind of lark." Monty paled. "Until the O'Rourkes."

"Did you know he killed them?"

"Only later." The blond man paused. "And he didn't kill 'them'. Finch only killed Patrick O'Rourke."

"Then what happened to Rory?" Hoss asked, mystified.

It was like a brick wall falling.

"Greg," Adam breathed. "Greg is Rosey's son."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rosey caught the ripped bodice of her dress in her hand and held it up so it covered the exposed skin and underpinnings beneath. This was the first they had stopped in their mad dash to avoid the Cartwrights and the law, and the first time the man she had once known as Sten had tried to take advantage of her. She'd spat in his face and fought like a wildcat, raking fingernails down his cheeks like claws. She knew this man and knew if she made him mad enough he would lose his lust in another more overriding emotion – rage.

Fifteen years had passed since she'd found herself in this position. Fifteen years that had seen the life and death of the man she loved and their son, as well as the baby daughter whom this monster denied breath. He had taken away everything and everyone she loved. They were all dead.

Or dying.

"Ben," she sobbed as tears ran down her cheeks.

Finch had been reaching for her. He stopped when he heard her speak the rancher's name. It was at that moment that the rage overcame him. Rosey could tell he wanted to throttle her. A myriad of emotions flashed in those cold callous eyes. There was anger, but even more there was fear. If he lost control and killed her then he'd lose, because she'd be dead and free.

And Finch couldn't stand to lose.

Just before his hands would have circled her throat, the former bouncer turned and picked up a chair and slammed it into the wall, sending wooden missiles flying through the room. It made quite a racket. Unfortunately, even if anyone heard, no one would care. They were in a back alley behind a dive of a saloon in a small village called Harriman, just outside of Reno. Finch planned on robbing the town's bank. He'd already gambled away almost all of the money he'd stolen from the Cartwright's safe and what he'd got from selling their things. Apparently in the years he had been on the run, cattle rustling and robbery had become his vocation. Sadly, Finch had pulled his younger brothers into it including the young man with the thick wavy brown hair who lay unconscious at her feet.

Greg had tried to protect her.

"Ain't no use your worryin' about that dead rancher. He's long gone and the Devil's welcome to him!" Finch snarled.

"You're the only devil I know!" she countered sharply as she knelt beside the young man. "What's wrong with you? You may have killed your own brother!"

"Greg ain't dead," the villain sneered, and then finished enigmatically, "Couldn't kill him. Then or now."

The young man moaned at her touch. "He needs a doctor," she said.

Finch spat. "Seems to me, Silks, you should of learned enough, havin' a medical man between your legs. You take care of him."

Ignoring the taunt, Rosey turned her attention to the young man's injuries. There was a deep gash behind Greg's left ear where Finch had hit him with the butt of his gun. It had been at least ten minutes and this was the first the boy had shown any sign of consciousness.

"He may have a concussion."

"Don't matter to me what's wrong with him so long as he's up and movin' by the time Simms and me get back." The villain crossed to the door and opened it. He turned and showed her the key. "You know these places. Ain't but one way out and I got the key, so you just settle back and wait."

Yes, she knew these 'places'. This backwater town had two saloons and Finch had taken up residence in the most sordid one. He'd rented one of the cribs out back of the ramshackle building and forced her into it, intending to have his way with her. He would have too, if Greg had not barged in and tried to stop him.

She felt an inexpressible moment of relief as the door closed behind him.

Brushing the dark hair back from Greg's forehead, she pressed her hand to his skin. It was clammy. She was frightened for him. From the moment Finch had grabbed her and forced her out of Ben's ranch house and into the wagon that took them away, Greg had remained close by her, as if – by his very presence – he could protect her somehow from his brother's madness.

Much like Patrick had done.

In fact, the boy reminded her of her husband, though Pat had been a good deal older when they met. Still, Greg had the same sensitive mouth; the same caring eyes. Even the shape of his face was similar. But it was there the comparison stopped. Patrick would never have been a party to the things this boy had – robbery, rustling.

Maybe murder.

Greg would have been a boy when her husband and son were murdered, so she was fairly certain he had not taken part in that horrific crime. Still, from the things she'd heard along the way, his hands were not entirely clean. Finch's man, Abel Simms, had made a remark about him holding the horses during an earlier robbery.

Even that could be enough to get a man hanged.

A second moan from the young man drew her attention back to him. He was trying to sit up.

"Here," she said, taking hold of his arm. "Let me help you."

Greg glanced at her and then shied away. "Why would you?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," she said, refusing to yield. "And would be even if you hadn't tried to help me."

He had a shy grin and favored her with it now. "Fat lot of good I was."

"You were a good deal of help. You stopped him." Rosey glanced at her torn gown. She didn't elaborate. She didn't need to. "Thank you."

The young man nodded and then turned a pale shade of green as sweat broke out on his forehead. "I think I'm going to be sick."

She'd expected it. In his rage, Finch had broken not only the chair but a small table and knocked the basin it held to the floor. She reached for it now and held it as Greg retched. After propping him back against the wall, she rose and went to get the pitcher that rested on a shabby bureau. Returning with it, she sat it down and then proceeded to rip lengths of cloth from her petticoats. Balling them up, she dipped them in the water and used one to bathe his face.

She smiled as she wiped the blood away. "I've got you, sweet boy," she said. "You'll be just fine."

Greg watched her, a strange look on his face.

"Are you going to be sick again?" she asked.

He shook his head. Carefully. "Can I ask you to do something?" he asked, his voice catching.

Her fingers were on his chin. She was running the cloth over his face again. As she did, for some reason, a chill ran along her spine.

"Of course," she said, hiding her discomfort.

"Say that again." At her puzzled look, he added, "What you just said, about being 'fine'."

She noticed he closed his eyes as she spoke. "I've got you, sweet boy? You'll be just fine."

His brow wrinkled. A tear escaped his eye. "My...ma called me that."

"How old were you when she died?" she asked.

"I don't know. I don't...remember. Finch said I was about twelve." Greg drew a deep breath and opened his eyes. "My pa's dead too. We were at some woman's home when these bad men came. They killed my pa. I...I tried to save him. I was shot. One bullet took me in the side and another along the head, that's how come I've forgot a lot." He licked his lips as he rested his head on the crib wall. "When I woke up I was with Finch. He told me the men had hit several homes in the valley including ours, killing everyone, and since I was a witness, I couldn't go back – not even for the funeral." He shrugged. "I was just a kid. There wasn't anything I could do about it."

She was wringing out the cloth, watching the boy's blood color the water. "What happened then?"

"Finch adopted me. Started telling people we were brothers and that was all right with me. After all, I didn't have anyone else. We traveled north into Oregon Territory and that's where I met Monty." Greg smiled. "Me and Monty hit it off. He's a good man."

Even though Monty too had taken part in robberies and Heaven only knew what else.

"Did you ever think of running away? Of trying to find your people?" she asked as she picked up a new cloth and began to fasten a binding for his head.

Greg was silent a moment. "Monty and me, well, that's what we were doing. All three of us were working this big cattle drive. We figured we could get away and Finch wouldn't be able to track us due to all the steers moving through and trampling any prints. We heard we could get work in Nevada, hopefully with the Cartwrights since they pay better than anyone else and they had such a big spread. When we made enough, we were gonna head to San Francisco."

She was tying the band around his head. Again, there was an electric thrill, as if someone had stepped on her grave.

"Why San Francisco?"

He shrugged. "You know how it is. Even though I lost most of my memories before that night, I still have a few impressions. I remember being in San Francisco with my pa. I think he might have been a doctor. I thought maybe someone there would remember me."

Rosey's hands froze in the midst of fashioning a knot.

"A...doctor?"

He nodded. "I think I went out with him sometimes, to see his patients." He frowned with remembered pain. "I think that's why we were at that lady's house. To help her."

Her heart was beating fast, pounding in her chest. "Do you remember your father's name?"

He shook his head. "No"

"Your mother?"

Another shake of the head. "No. Not hers either. I just called them 'ma' and 'pa'." He paused. "But I do remember my own name. Well, my Christian name."

"What? It's not Greg?"

"That was the name of Finch's kid brother that died. He made me use it. Said it was close enough to mine but different, and I needed to hide because of the outlaws who had killed my folks and would be gunning for me."

She felt as if she might faint. It couldn't be. It just couldn't. Not after all these years.

"And...your real name is?"

He had a little smile on his face.

"Rory."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Adam Cartwright sat at the side of the bed that held his sleeping father and brother. His mind was awhirl. He had come up here to find some peace. He'd needed to be alone and yet, strangely, needed just as much to be with someone. He loved Hoss, but his brother had a tendency to work through family problems by hashing them out with words. He just didn't have it in him to talk right now, and so he'd sent Hoss out to ride the line and check in with the men. He was probably furious with him. It didn't matter.

All that mattered was what he was going to do next.

Near the end of their talk Monty admitted that he had deliberately mislead Sheriff Olin and his posse. It wasn't that he intended to let Finch get away. What he did intend was to be the one to take his brother in. His main concern was Greg. Correction. Rory.

Greg-ory.

How could they have been so blind?

Monty knew that, if Olin and went in with guns blazing, it was likely Greg would be killed. Posse's that contained civilians were notoriously indiscriminate when it came to the take-down, often going off half-cocked. They were also hard to control. Lynchings happened. During the night the cowboy had laid a false trail for the lawman to follow and then returned to the Ponderosa.

The sheriff was going to be royally pissed when he figured it out.

Monty went on to explain that he knew his older brother's haunts and was fairly certain where Finch had gone. He'd returned because he was sure that he and Hoss would want to go with him when he went to confront his brother. He was right. He did. So did Hoss.

So did Little Joe.

Looking at his baby brother now, Adam didn't know how he could take him along. Joe was still recovering. A few hours before the fever had finally left him and he was sleeping normally for the first time, his arm wrapped around Pa's middle. Pa had made it through the woods too. Paul Martin had grumbled and growled and then admitted with a smile that the Cartwright miracle machine was in place. He said before he left that, barring anything unforeseen happening, their father would make a full recovery.

And therein lay the rub.

If he and Hoss rode out and left Little Joe behind, and Joe knew that their pa was out of danger, it would take nothing short of an act of God to keep their baby brother from following them. Oh, they could try to hide their intent from him, but it was bound to slip out. There were simply too many men; too many chances for Joe to find out what they were up to. They could put Ming-hua and Hop Sing in charge of him, but Joe had a way of wrapping the man from China around his finger and Ming-hua, well, she was simply too distressed about Rosey to be of much help.

They could, of course, always take Joe into Eagle Station and let the sheriff lock him in a cell!

Adam ran a hand over his face. But that wouldn't be fair to Joe. He was a Cartwright too. It was his father who had nearly been killed. It was his right to see justice done as much as it was theirs – maybe even more for what Finch had forced him to do.

Rising, Adam went to the other side of the bed and sat down. He sighed and then, reaching out, placed a hand on his brother's shoulder. Here he was, at the same point he'd been several days before. He knew what his father would say and yet, knew as well that Joe needed this. Little Joe had felt so helpless since the whole debacle with Wade Bosh and now, dear God, now he felt responsible for Pa being shot. Joe needed something.

Something to hang onto.

His brother shifted and moaned and a little smile twisted the edges of his full lips. A moment later the kid reached up in his sleep and covered Adam's hand with his own.

The black-haired man sighed again and then snorted. He seemed to do that a lot when the kid was around.

Still, a promise was a promise.

Adam only hoped he didn't live to regret making it.