And here we are at the end. A huge thank you to everyone who has stuck with me this far, and for all the wonderful and encouraging comments along the way. A big thank you to the guests who have also commented and whom I have not been able to thank personally.

Until next time, best Bonanza wishes...

xxXXxx

A sprinkling of overnight snow had frosted the scrubby dirt of Boot Hill. For the first time this fall, Adam noticed his breath misting as he exhaled. The weather was on the turn, winter would soon be upon them. The sound of the ice crunching under his boots prompted Adam to tug his collar up higher around his neck. Another chill shivered through his body, though Adam did not know whether it was due to the nip in the air, or the ghostly touch of the spirits who wandered Virginia City's mountain cemetery. An icy blue sky looked down in all its immensity over a sprawl of tiny buildings that crawled up the slopes of Mount Davidson and across the valleys surrounding the town. The workings of the silver mines scarred the landscape. The hills were sliced, diced and eroded, all because of man's insatiable quest for wealth. Chimneys belched out smoke next to triangular headframes that stood sentinel over the mineshafts beneath. Adam could even make out the tiny box-like cages spewing forth rows of miners, like ants dispersing from the dark depths of their nests. The distant echoes of machinery, clanging and banging, drifted towards the hilltop where Adam stood.

His gaze shifted to the two graves at his feet. In a plot enclosed by elaborate metal railings, an ornate stone monolith announced the final resting place for Theodore Sherman Barley. Its unassuming epitaph read: 'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.' Theodore had been prepared for when his time came, having already purchased the plot and monument several years before. Adam doubted Jacob had been ready; the man was too arrogant to assume he would be inflicted with a sudden, premature and violent death. But even if Jacob had looked beyond his mortal life, no one in town was prepared to place a monument of equal size and standing next to that of old Ted. So a wooden marker was all that indicated the grave of Jacob Barley; a marker inscribed with his name and two stark words—his abiding legacy for future visitors to look at and wonder. The inscription simply read, 'Jacob Barley, Legally Hanged.'

Adam lent his elbows on the railings and hung his head. A father and son. That a son could want to kill his own pa was abhorrent to Adam. How could their relationship have got to such a point? Yet Ted had never even so much as hinted things were not right between them. Unless he had never known; unless Jacob had harboured a secret loathing for his father.

Adam pulled in a breath and released it slowly. Secrets. Words unsaid. Adam was under no illusion he had the perfect relationship with his own father. As in all families, they had experienced times when they had not got along. As a youth—before he came to his senses, as his father liked to put it—Adam had been a handful, chasing around with tearaways and getting into all sorts of trouble. His pa had told him later that, although Adam had been impossible to live with, it had not been unexpected—Adam had been rebelling, just as he had done when he was two. But they had endured. Shouting matches had evolved into measured conversations; necessary talks in the barn became a thing of the past. And as Adam matured, instead of defying his father, Adam had confided in him, sharing what was playing on his mind, or heart. These days, Adam had a tendency to keep his innermost thoughts to himself, but he knew he could always talk with his pa about anything that was troubling him.

Except this.

Adam wanted to talk to his pa, but he was scared, plain and simple. Scared of what his father would say if he revealed what was haunting him. Adam kicked at one of the rails. Damn this fear! He had known too much of it of late. The terror that had enveloped him when under the influence of that cursed weed plagued him in his dreams. Only hours since, Adam had snapped awake in the dark hours before dawn, his sheet pulled taut between hands clutching like claws at the material. His pillow and bed clothes were damp with sweat and his bedding bedraggled from where he had thrown himself about. But like all the nights before, he had no memory of the dream, only a sensation of immense fear, of being unable to escape the unseen horror that hounded him.

In the days that followed Adam's experience at the hands of young Barley and Amos Crow, the prosecuting attorney, Silas Oates, had honoured his promise to Hoss and kept the trial alive. Amos Crow's admission of guilt had tarred Isaac, and by association, Jacob. And so, in an afternoon of high drama at the Virginia City Court House, Isaac and Amos Crow were handcuffed and removed there as new witnesses. Adam had stayed away—unwilling to return to the place which conjured so many unsettling memories—but his brothers attended, keen to see that the men who had hurt their older brother pay the price for their crimes.

That evening, Hoss and Joe had stood warming their backs against the fire, and enthusiastically related to Ben and Adam the events of the afternoon. Hoss began with how Jacob had denied all knowledge of his son's actions; at which Joe had passionately re-enacted the moment when Isaac had jumped to his feet and called his father a dirty rotten liar and many other derogatory euphemisms hinting at carnal activities with particular farmyard animals. Isaac earned himself a new charge, and Joe a dressing-down from his outraged father. Adam smiled as he recalled Joe's face during their father's reprimand. His little brother's eyes had squinted as they had wandered the room, reacting to every boom and bellow from his father's lips. A final blast from Ben caused him to flinch and a pained look to flash across his face.

But it had been no time until the animated account of the trial had been resumed. Jacob Barley had leapt to his feet at his son's insults and called him an irresponsible, bone-idle, weak-minded, deceitful little ingrate; that everything he had ever done had been for him. To which Isaac had parlayed back that Jacob was as much a disappointment as a father, and what did he expect from a man who would kill his own pa. At which Jacob screamed he had only done it for Isaac. The courtroom had erupted into uproar—Hoss took great pleasure in acting out Jacob's reaction of collapsing back limply into his chair—and it had taken many minutes, and much pounding of the gavel, to calm the spectators and counsels down.

The remainder of the trial had determined that Jacob's motivation had been greed, nothing more. His own business endeavours were a dismal failure, and combined with a lifestyle increasingly beyond his means, led to an abortive attempt to have his aging father sign his profitable business over to the less than competent son. Unsurprisingly, that had come to nothing and in a moment of impetuosity he had seen an opportunity and taken it. He had not counted on a witness to his rash action riding home late that night. Jacob was subsequently charged with murder and sentenced to hang in seven days.

That had been three weeks ago, and now Jacob Barley lay next to his father. His cohorts had melted back into the dark places they had crawled out from, and both Isaac and Amos Crow had left in the back of a prison van en route for a stretch in a chain gang.

Ben had been needling him for days to ride into town with him, to get back to some semblance of normality, and after raised voices and an exasperated plea, Adam had finally relented, if only to get his pa off his back. Once Ben appeared sufficiently preoccupied, sorting through their post at the mail office, Adam had taken his chance and ridden out of town the mile or so to the cemetery. He noticed the curious looks from the townspeople who stopped and stared at him as he rode past. The role Isaac had played in Adam's mental collapse was common knowledge, but he knew they were watching, hoping against hope that maybe a Cartwright would create a spectacle in the streets of Virginia City once again.

And now, as he looked upon the grave of his friend, Adam wondered if he would ever be the man he was before. He felt different. He was different. He had stayed quiet about what he had experienced that night, wanting to keep it buried deep within. But the emotions and memories that had been stirred went round and round in his mind until he had wanted to hit his head against a wall and knock out the thoughts that constantly harassed him.

Joe had asked a day or so after returning to the Ponderosa what Adam had seen when under the influence of the jimsonweed. And Adam had paused and answered, 'ghouls and goblins'. He knew Joe would feel he was getting the brush off, but his brother merely said, "pretty scary, huh," to which Adam had nodded and the conversation had moved on. It had not been alluded to since. But it had been hard to avoid the glances and the halted conversations when he entered a room. Most difficult had been the look of hurt that would cross his father's face when they found themselves alone together, and Adam would make his excuses and walk away. He knew he was hurting his pa, but he was struggling with the ideas that had been so firmly planted in his mind, and no matter how much he acknowledged his unreasonable attitude, he could not shake off his newly unearthed guilt.

The Ponderosa's silence had not helped, for it had been like thunder in his ears. He could not escape from the roar of his family's whispers or from the pounding of their boots as they trod softly around him. As they exchanged looks behind his back, it was as though a lightning bolt split his heart in two. Yet here, at Ted's grave, in the solitude of the cemetery, Adam found the peace he had been craving.

The crunch of a footstep sounded behind him. Adam angled his head and recognised the solid shape of his father. He turned back to gaze at the stone grave with a slight shake of his head and his cheek dimpling.

"You following me, Pa?"

"I saw you ride out of town, figured I'd find you here."

"I could have carried on going, headed up to Lake's Crossing."

"You forget, I know you, better than you know yourself sometimes."

A pair of gloved hands curled around the pointed rails topping the iron balustrade as Ben moved to Adam's side. Adam straightened out of his lean, his gaze fixing on nothing in particular.

"When are you going to stop avoiding me, son?

Adam's brow furrowed. What could he say? He could not deny it, because it was true. Adam sighed deeply and mirrored his father, gripping the rails with gloved hands. He pushed back with straight arms, letting his head drop.

Do it now. Don't hide from it any more. Face it.

"I'm sorry, Pa."

He sensed Ben looking towards him.

"For what?"

How to say it? Straight out, just straight out.

"For my mother."

"For…" Ben frowned. "Son, I don't understand."

Adam raised his head but could not bring himself to look at his father.

"Do you blame me, Pa? For my mother's death?"

Ben started. "Is that what this is all about?" He pulled Adam around to face him. "Adam, son, I have never blamed you for Elizabeth's death. I never will and you know that. Why now, why after all these years?"

Adam removed himself gently from his father's grip and walked to where the hill began its slope down to the town.

"That day, when I…lost control…I saw things, heard things." He paused, bringing to mind the rumbling tones of his father, "you killed her, boy. She died to give you life." Adam threw a glance at the sky.

In a handful of strides, Ben was next to him, staring with concerned eyes at his son. "What, Adam?"

"You, Pa. I heard you. You said it was my day of reckoning, that I had killed my own mother. You blamed me for Ruth, too, you remember, the woman the Shoshone thought was a spirit woman. You said these people had died for me, and asked, was I worth it."

A quick glance and Adam could see cold shock on his father's face. Ben's mouth hung open and his eyes were fixed on Adam as he digested his son's words.

"I said this?"

Adam nodded. "I was aware of a…shape, a thing…always in my sights from the very start. At first I couldn't get a clear look, but later I could see it better. A shape, like a man, only not a man." Adam shook his head quickly as he tried to make sense of his visions. "It was just…there, the whole time, in the street, in the cell. In my dreams." His mouth quirked upwards, his dimple coming to life briefly. "But the voice, your voice, seemed to come from it."

"And it was this…thing…that told you about your mother, about Ruth?"

Adam looked at his father, and nodded again.

"But you know it's not true. Son, Elizabeth's death couldn't be helped. She was not strong and giving birth to you took away the last of her strength. But it wasn't your fault. How could the innocent child she carried be to blame? And as for Ruth, how do you know she died—"

"She would have come looking for me."

"Son," Ben gripped Adam's arms, "she went willingly to the Shoshone—"

"To save my life!"

"Adam, she made that decision of her own free will. Yes to save you, but, from what you've told me, to help the sick too."

Adam sucked in his lips, unknowingly wearing the same look he had worn when he had been discovered injured and feverish in Ruth's small camp. Despite the women he had known since his fleeting encounter with the white buffalo woman, his heart was still fractured from her sudden disappearance. Their love affair had been so brief. They had fallen in love, made an oath to be together always and then been wrenched apart in what seemed like only a heartbeat. Now, all he had to remember her by was the soft sensation of her hair beneath his fingers and her sweet tender kiss. He felt his father stir beside him.

"Tell me about the figure you saw, your vision."

Adam was pulled from his memories of Ruth. Walking back to the grave of Theodore Barley, he gazed across at the monument.

"At first, it was a blur. It moved unnaturally." He snorted. "Terrified me. I don't think I've ever been so scared in all my life." He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly cold.

"It's okay, son. You weren't…yourself."

Adam found a smile. "You could say that again. A couple of times I saw its face properly and decided it was the devil. I was so scared, Pa." He twisted around, seeking out the reassuring presence of his father. "Later, in a dream, I saw the face again, only, by then, I wasn't scared anymore." His hand unconsciously moved to the sleeve which covered a long, jagged scar on his forearm.

Ben moved to stand in front of Adam and took a deep breath. "What did…the devil look like?"

The silence in the cemetery drew down around them like a shroud. Even the distant machinery could no longer be heard.

Adam looked into his father's eyes, his voice a whisper.

"Me, Pa. The devil wore my face."

xxXXxx

Ben reined Buck to a sudden stop, prompting Adam to do the same a few strides along. Circling Sport around, he lopped back to where his father was waiting, his face a quizzical mask.

"What's up, Pa?"

Ben took a long look at his son.

"Adam, you say when you came face to face with the devil, it was you?"

Adam squinted. "Yeah?

"And you now know what you were seeing and hearing wasn't real; it was the effects of the jimsonweed on your mind."

Adam's eyebrows tightened.

"What are you getting at, Pa?"

Buck tossed his head and Ben leant down to give his mount a pat. "It seems to have taken the death of a good friend and the subsequent messing with your mind to bring a long-buried guilt to the surface."

"Now, Pa—"

"Don't you 'now, pa' me, boy," Ben retorted sharply. "You asked me back at the cemetery whether I blamed you for your mother's death. I always thought you knew the answer to that. From the time you were old enough to understand I drummed it into you that you must never feel blame, that I never held you responsible. But now it seems that you never accepted my word. Perhaps you thought you did, but deep down…"

Adam looked away from Ben, his temples flushing red.

Ben sighed. His voice softened. "You said this devil, this creature that terrified you, looked like you. Well, what if you were seeing that which frightens you the most, your own guilt. You've always been one to let the weight of the world settle on your shoulders. You don't face it; you bury those thoughts and feelings which will hurt the most. But that night you suddenly had to confront it, and it terrified you."

Adam scratched his ear. "Well if that's the case, why did I hear your voice, why didn't I hear my own?"

Ben's eyebrows rose. "I never hid the truth from you about your mother's death. And I've never blamed you, son. But it's clearly a burden you've carried with you your whole life. You feel guilty because of me, so I think that guilt revealed itself in the only way your mind could handle, by hearing my voice."

Adam pouted, thinking over what his father had told him.

"And what of Ruth? You never even met her."

"No, but it was me who stopped you going after her. I imagine you feel some lingering anger towards me for that."

"No, Pa, I—"

"It's okay, Adam. It's out now. It's no longer eating away inside of you. And we will talk about this further, whether you want to or not."

Adam's cheek dimpled as he pictured the conversations to come.

Ben wheeled his horse around so he was next to Adam and reached over to squeeze his knee.

"But believe me, son, I don't hold you responsible for anything that's happened in the past, most of all Elizabeth's death. It was at the will of a being a lot more powerful than you or I, and we must not question His will."

He nudged Buck out into the road and twisted back in his saddle.

"Now, are you coming? Or are we just going to sit out here in the middle of the road talking all day."

Adam smiled. "Coming, Pa."

And as Adam followed on behind his father, he felt a sudden lightness take hold, as though a mantle that had encumbered his shoulders had been lifted and taken flight. The deeply buried guilt within him had fought its way to the surface through years of stubborn denial and was, at long last, set free. For the first time, Adam could look at his father without a powerfully veiled sense of shame masking his vision. Watching his pa's back sway from side to side ahead of him, Adam recognised his father's losses had made him who he was; they had made him stronger. The death of Elizabeth had meant Inger had come into his life, and given them the warm and sensitive Hoss. And the tragedy of Inger's killing during an Indian attack had led his father to find Marie, resulting in the passionate and boisterous Little Joe. The shutters had come off, and now Adam knew in his heart there was no time for regrets, for allowing events he had no control over to consume him. Life was good, it was to be celebrated.

He kicked Sport's flanks, and whooping into the cold air, he spurred his mount into a gallop and sped by his father at speed. As he heard his father's laughter fade behind him, Adam knew they were going to be okay, more than okay. He laughed as he brought Sport to an abrupt halt, the animal rearing slightly onto its hind legs. And as Adam waited for his father to catch up, he looked out over the land that had been his parents' dream and breathed deeply. With a newly discovered peace in his heart, Adam greeted his father and they rode towards home.

The End