Chapter 4, Part 3
The room was very quiet. Ben continued to mindlessly stroke the back of Adam's hand with his thumb, but his expression was still and distant.
Paul finally broke the silence by clearing his throat. "He's probably still confused," he suggested.
Ben looked at him, then looked away.
"Don't read too much into it, Ben. He's been out for a long time."
"I'm not stupid, Paul." Ben's voice was low and fierce. "I've lived in the Sierras for better than twenty years. I've seen what that kind of prolonged cold can do to a man's mind."
"No doubt you have." Paul's tone remained even. "And no doubt you've also seen men recover with no real ill effects. Let's not jump to any hasty conclusions."
Joe was looking from Ben to Paul, his face increasingly uneasy. "What are you trying to say?" No one answered him, so he pressed. "Adam's okay, right? It's like the Doc says - he's just confused."
Paul glanced at him, but he addressed himself to Ben. "He's got a furrow on the side of his head I can lay my finger in. Concussion does funny things to a man. Give it a little time, Ben."
Ben didn't seem to hear him.
Joe's voice rose. "It's true, Pa. Adam couldn't be - I mean, then he kinda - wouldn't be Adam - "
"That's enough, Joseph!"
Something in his father's voice startled him into silence, and he shot a pleading glance at Dr. Martin.
Paul was meticulously screwing lids back on some bottles. "This is very premature, Ben, " he said firmly. "We don't know anything yet. Not really. Between the bullet wound and the fall Adam's brain has gotten a good rattling. Let's keep him breathing, let him get a little rest and get his bearings, then we'll know more."
Ben hesitated, then nodded slightly.
"In the meantime, I'd like to get that steam kettle going. I'll tell you, I'm missing Hop Sing's herbs about now. They always seem to do some good." He stood and made his way around the bed, pausing to squeeze Ben's shoulder as he passed. "Wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get some sleep yourself. You too, Joe. Everything looks more dire when you're exhausted."
Joe frowned at the figure in the bed, then back at Dr. Martin. "I want to stay with him."
Ben stirred a little. "Go to bed, Joseph. Let Paul do what he needs to do."
"I won't be in the way, I promise." Joe looked hopefully at Dr. Martin. "I can help, even. Please?"
Paul's eyes traveled from Joe to Ben. "I don't have a problem with it."
Ben sighed tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Very well, then."
Paul paused, eyeing him. "What about you, Ben? If you don't want to sleep we could get another chair in here."
Ben was silent, running his thumb lightly over Adam's cheekbone. "No," he said after a moment. "No. I have something I need to attend to."
Joe shifted uncomfortably. "Something - I can help you with, Pa?"
Ben stood slowly. "No. No, thank you, son. You'll keep an eye on your brothers for me?"
Joe nodded, watching him uneasily. "Sure thing, Pa."
"Good." He pressed a hand against the small of his back and, with a last glance at Adam, headed for the door.
Joe couldn't explain the crawly feeling that had taken over his stomach. "Pa? Are you sure - ?"
Ben looked at him, but Joe felt as if he wasn't seeing him at all. "Quite sure. Thank you, son. Stay and help Paul."
Joe stared after him, feeling oddly helpless. He cleared his throat. "Sure doesn't seem like himself."
Paul didn't look up from the items he was pulling out of his bag. "Yes, well, I wouldn't wonder. It's been a rough couple of days for him. You want to sit with Adam while I get some water boiling?"
Joe nodded jerkily, still trying to trace the unsettled feeling in his ribcage.
Paul eyeballed the book that hung from his hand. "Maybe you can find Pythagoras now - read to him a little. Might help him focus himself."
Joe nodded again.
"Good. I'll be back shortly."
Joe watched him go, then sat awkwardly back on the edge of the chair, the book open in his lap. He stared painfully at Adam as he stirred slightly, then choked, wracked by another series of coughs. Joe moved closer and laid one hand on his arm as if contact might somehow make it hurt less.
"Come on, Adam," he whispered. "Come on. I know you're in there - I don't care what anybody says. Tell me about this Pythagoras fella. Come on - talk to me."
000
Ben moved blindly down the hall and into the room next door. He wasn't sure exactly where he was going until he actually found himself there, standing just inside the doorway, watching Hoss's chest rise and fall gently as he slept.
Less than forty-eight hours ago his breathing had been as uneasy and dubious as Adam's. He supposed that that should be reason to hope, but instead what he felt was something else. The volcano that hovered under the ice inside him was burbling hot now, threatening to erupt. A curious sensation, the lava-like heat mixed with the glacial ice. He wondered what happened in that faraway land of fire and ice when one erupted. No one had ever said.
Hoss looked innocent as a baby in his sleep. Never mind that he was a grown man - an overgrown man, really - in his twenties - to Ben he was indistinguishable from the little boy Inger had lain in his arms all those years ago. Her special gift to him - her living memory. And damned be the man who had tried to take him away from him.
He moved his gaze to the window. The sky was almost imperceptibly lighter - nearing morning, now. What a night. What a week. No wonder he felt so tired.
He heard Paul move towards Adam's room and closed his eyes as though that could block out the sound - could block out everything, so that he could pretend that it was days ago and none of this had ever happened. That his boys were all happy and sound and well. Bickering, maybe, over some foolishness.
He almost smiled…until he heard Paul's voice again, and then Joe's answering about something, followed by Adam's tortured cough.
No. That was something he couldn't think about right now, for that way lay madness. Adam was his son, his boy, and the idea that no matter whether he lived or died he might now in some ways still be gone from him forever was more than his weary heart felt ready to contemplate. He stared at Hoss once more, fixing the image in his mind, and turned to the door.
The flight of stairs seemed to have gotten longer and he was grateful that his desk sat at the bottom of them and no further. He pulled out his chair to sit down and paused, gazing silently at the row of pictures in front of him. Elizabeth. Inger. Marie. What they had entrusted to him - the most important, maddening, frightening, and joyous challenges of his life. The reason he'd had to get up and go on after their deaths, even when he'd no interest in continuing. His future. His very heart. How did a man go on living without his very heart? He couldn't, could he? What did a man do when his home and hearth and everything he held dear was threatened and savaged - here, under his own roof? When the man responsible might walk away, unscathed and laughing, to violate some other family…and another …and another?
What would you want of me? he asked the three faces soundlessly. They're your babies, too - what would you have me do? I tried to protect them, and I failed - what would you have me do now?
He stood staring from face to face to face, praying for guidance, for courage, for some relief from the awful heat and cold that bubbled inside him. His eyes drifted to the wall opposite, to the smeared and dented bloodstain; now spread and diluted and far from gone and somehow even more horrible in the flickering lamplight, and a terrible calm descended upon him. With a glance at the three pictures that was both apology and promise he moved to the next wall and stood staring a moment, thinking.
His thoughts had settled now into a single, crystalline focus and he pulled open the glass doors, noting and debating and rating the various merits of the contents. After due deliberation, he made his choice and curled his hand around one.
He felt better just touching it - it felt solid and certain and definite in a world that had somehow become wavering and random and treacherous. The fire inside him seemed to grow hotter, swallowing all the ice and forging his decision to white-hot iron.
He knew what he had to do. It seemed so obvious now.
With great care and meticulous precision, he loosened the catches and lifted down the biggest rifle he could find.
End of Chapter 4
TBC
Yeah, Tauna, it ends up being kind of a long road for everyone.
I should have warned you, drmweaver, since I wrote this in sort of "melodrama" fashion, there are a lot of cliff hangers. Like this one. :)