For Want of a Brother, Part Ten

by J. Rosemary Moss

Adam took a bath once I was done—he was almost as muddy and ragged as I had been—and then the household turned in for the night. I slept in Adam's room. I'd never slept in a room that nice before, nor in a bed that plush. I promised myself to savor it, as I was unlikely to have such an experience again.

They had thought about giving me the guest room, but there was that issue of trust again. Mr. Cartwright, I think, wanted as many eyes on me as possible, lest I try to escape into the night. Can't think why I would do that, especially with the roads nigh impassable, but he was taking no chances.

He didn't tell me his thoughts, mind you. In truth, I scarcely spoke two words to him. But I reckon he thought I might have second thoughts about turning myself in. And considering what I had to face from the law, I can't say I blamed him.

So I was to stay with Adam—and Joe and Hoss would stay up in his room as well, taking turns keeping watch on me. But no one had a gun trained on me, I reminded myself. And no one cuffed me or put me on a tether, so I had no cause to complain.

And I didn't mind sharing the room. After all, this wasn't like one of those cramped hotel rooms where you have to fit two or three men to a bed with scarcely an inch between them. And there were no bed bugs or lice either.

I think Adam and I both fell asleep as soon as we hit the blankets—leastways I know I did. I hadn't really slept since before the shooting. I suppose I should have had nightmares after what I did: nightmares about Clayton falling backward, all bullet holes and blood—or maybe nightmares about a noose around my neck. But I was just too exhausted to dream.

I woke up early the next morning, right at daybreak. Adam was still sleeping on the other side of the bed. Joe was dozing in a rocking chair with his feet up on a chest. And Hoss was sprawled in an old, worn, cushiony chair—giving the impression of a man who was somehow comfortable and alert at the same time. He nodded at me when he saw my eyes open, but he didn't say anything.

I put my hands behind my head and stared up at the ceiling. I had some thinking to do.

Did I regret spurning Adam's offer of freedom? To some extent, I suppose. But I thought about Adam again and how he would have had to live with his conscience after aiding and abetting my escape. He was my brother now and a man doesn't do that to his brother. Besides, I was no coward, I told myself. I had decided to shoot a man to death—with good cause, I thought—and I wasn't afraid to pay the price for it. Even if that price was a noose.

But if I had it all to do over, I wouldn't have pulled that trigger. I would have found some other way to make Clayton pay for what he did to my sister. Some way that left him with his life and the chance to make amends.

For I had robbed him of that chance, hadn't I? Not that it was possible for him to make amends—Rosalind was dead, after all, and he couldn't undo that. But maybe, if he still had his life, he could have found some way to make his miserable existence worthwhile.

Not that I think he would have. Like as not, he'd have stayed just as selfish and cutthroat as he'd always been.

Of course, there wasn't much I could do to make my own life worthwhile now. That was a fine piece of irony, wasn't it?

But I could make sure that I didn't let Adam down—that was one thing I could do. And, to that end, I promised myself that I would never regret my decision to face the law. Not even if I hanged. I would just make what arrangements I could to provide for Celia, and then I would face my fate like a man.

Adam began to stir just about then. I heard him yawn as he rolled over to face me. His eyes had a sort of glassy, just-woke-up look to them.

"How you doing, kid?" he murmured.

I managed a smile. "Well enough," I said. "I ain't never stayed in a room this nice before."

He chuckled at that as he propped himself up on his elbow. Then he stifled another yawn. "Listen, Pa, Hoss and I talked about your situation last night," he told me. "We decided that it'd be best if Hoss went to fetch Sheriff Coffee. We want him with us when we bring you to Virginia City—that way, if we run into the posse, no one will have an excuse to shoot you."

"But I may not be able to get in today," Hoss put in. "Depends on how the roads are—and there looks to be another storm coming."

Joe must have woken up at the sound of the conversation, for the rocking chair creaked suddenly and he put in his two cents. "It don't matter," he said after a long yawn of his own. "If we can't get anywhere, than neither can the posse."

Adam nodded in agreement as he pushed himself up and out of bed. "We want you to keep to the house, though," he said to me. "I'd just as soon not have the other hands realize you're here."

"Let's talk about it over breakfast," Hoss said. "I'll bet Hop Sing's getting ready to cook flapjacks and to perform some miracle with that salted pork we've saved up for the winter. I'd best go see what I can fetch for him."

Joe and Adam just shrugged, but Hoss took that as an indication of approval for his plan. He eased himself out of the chair and then scurried out of the room. If a man his size can be said to scurry, that is.

Joe shook his head in his wake. "Nothing gets him moving like the thought of food."

Adam was already getting dressed by now. "You can borrow some clothes from me," he told me as he buttoned up his shirt. "We're almost the same height—just help yourself."

"Thank you," I said as I climbed out of the bed and glanced at his wardrobe.

He nodded and left the room in search of his Pa, promising to return directly. I turned to look at Joe.

"Am I—am I supposed to eat breakfast with you all?" I asked.

"Of course," he answered, raising his eyebrows at me. "Why wouldn't you?"

I shrugged. "I've never been invited to dine with your family before."

He grinned at that. "Yeah, I know," he said. "But you're here—so I suppose we'll just have to lower our standards."