Chapter Twenty One
The curtains fluttered and the air smelled of pine and roses. Standing next to the open window at the end of the upstairs hallway, Hoss quietly pled his case.
"I think I should stay with that little gal, Pa. I ain't sayin' it's your fault, but ya gotta admit, it sure seems like she lost her breath when you mentioned your name.
"I talked to her, Pa," Hoss continued. "Got her to take a bit of water. I think she was startin' to trust me. Might be best if it's me she wakes up to. You know, a familiar face."
Of one thing, Ben was certain. Hoss had been a comfort to the girl—waking in an unfamiliar place, injured, with a stranger, and a man at that, standing watch. It had to be frightening; confusing, at best. And when Ben had entered the room, the girl was speaking calmly—maybe his son was right.
"All right, Hoss. You sit with her until Paul arrives. If she comes to, keep her as quiet as you can." Ben started for the stairs. "Could be she's got a concussion. That would explain her fainting so suddenly." Or, she heard my name and she's got something to hide.
Hoss watched as his father turned the corner at the top of the staircase. He scratched his head—the girl had some explaining to do just as soon as she was stronger.
For as long as she could remember, Olive Jacobson had dreaded darkness. Being trapped in the arroyo hadn't helped that fear, but now, with her eyes closed and her mind racing, darkness seemed her only friend.
Although the Cartwrights had moved from the bedroom and into the hallway, she'd heard most of what had been said. The one called Hoss was right—she had lost her breath the moment the silver-haired man introduced himself as Ben Cartwright. But Hoss was also wrong. He'd told his father they had to show her they could be trusted. Olive didn't know yet if she would ever trust anyone on the Ponderosa.
I remember what you said, Grandpa. "Nothing good was ever learned from eavesdropping." Olive hated going against her grandfather's learned lessons, and she knew he'd be disappointed in her for faking the fainting spell, but she needed time to think, time to plan. I'm sorry, but you were wrong.
Aware the doctor would arrive eventually, she continued her ruse. It wasn't difficult—as a child, she'd often resorted to feigning sleep when her mother and grandfather had one of their arguments, loud, full of insults, and rarely followed by compromise or apology. Oddly enough, her eavesdropping had proved most informative on what had started as an ordinary night, just twenty months ago.
It was on the day after Emmitt Jacobson's sixty-fifth birthday that his granddaughter, Olive, had first admitted the change in him. Misplacing a favorite clay pipe or forgetting why he ventured to the bedroom was one thing, but neglecting to don a jacket in the face of a blustery wind before heading to the corral for no apparent reason was not so easily credited to aging. For weeks, she'd let more and more pass, shrugging off her grandfather's forgetfulness, making excuses for his sudden mood changes, and convincing herself there were acceptable reasons for his unusual behavior. But that night, with dusk blanketing the way station, Olive had no choice—something was wrong with Emmitt Jacobson . . .
"Grandpa!" Olive had shouted into the fierce wind. "Grandpa, you forgot your jacket!" Standing in the entrance to the way station, she tugged on the thick pine door, the storm threatening to yank it from her grip. "What are doing? Grandpa!"
Emmitt was relentless, pressing on against the wall of wind. He tucked his head against his shoulder, his hands shielding his eyes from thrashing leaves and biting sand as he tottered and lurched, his path wavering from side to side.
"Grandpa! Come back inside!"
Emmitt reached the corral gate and gripped the uppermost rail. Olive watched as he fumbled with the latch, and she knew he'd be cursing his aching fingers as well as the iron pin he was trying to slide.
"Grandpa!" she called into the howling wind. "I'm coming, Grandpa!" She dashed back inside the station, swiped her grandfather's wolverine coat from his chair, and rushed outside, pulling the coat on as she ran. Before she reached him, the corral latch surrendered, and the gate flew open, banging against the fence beyond. Her grandfather stumbled.
Olive stopped in her tracks, gasping as he caught himself on the nearest wooden post. Sprinting into the wind, she yelled, "Grandpa! What are you doing?" She lurched forward, alighting next to the determined old man. "We've got to close the gate," she shouted, her hands gripping the rail. "The horses! We'll lose the horses!"
Fighting against the gale, she dug her heels into the dirt, tucked her chin against her chest, and pressed against the corral gate. It took every ounce of strength she could muster, but she was able to secure the latch before any of the livestock escaped.
The wind was harsh. Gripping the fence railing, she pulled herself toward her grandfather, stopping twice to brush the hair from her eyes.
"Grandpa, we've got to get back inside!" she cried, wrapping an arm around his waist.
Luckily Emmitt, a sizable man and strong for his age, gave no resistance. Seconds later, they crossed the threshold to the station, and before Olive could bolt the front door, Emmitt disappeared down the hallway.
She removed the coat and flung it against a chair. Staggered by his behavior, she started after him, smoothing her hair into place as she mumbled her disbelief. "Grandpa, we need to talk."
A familiar creaking made her shake her head—her grandfather was climbing the stairs at the back of the house. "Grandpa, where are you going?"
She hurried to catch up, amazed he'd already disappeared into one of the bedrooms off the upstairs hallway. She peered into the first room, her room, and found he hadn't gone inside. The second room was Emmitt's, and when she looked in, her heart sank—he was nowhere to be seen. That left the third upstairs room; a dark room; her mother's room; the room Olive and Emmitt had avoided since the day her mother left twelve years ago.
Turning, Olive started toward the room. Outside, the wind pounded against the way station, whistling as it forced its way through a crack in the hallway window's frame. The sound drew her attention, and as she passed, she pressed the pane against the sill. The eerie shrillness quieted. She stepped closer, a floorboard creaking above the lashing moans of the wind. And then, a voice, pleading and mournful, beckoned Olive to her mother's room.
She continued the short distance and stood, thunderstruck, in her mother's bedroom doorway. At first, she hadn't even recognized her grandfather's voice, its tone one of pain and desperation. But the next words he spoke flooded Olive's mind with the stories she'd heard over the years, and she shivered as tears welled in her eyes.
"How Medora?" Emmitt cried, his wild eyes fixed on nothing but air. "How can a daughter of mine not see what kind of man he was?"
Emmitt turned sharply and ran his fingertips through his hair. He spun back around, addressing nothingness once again.
"He abandoned you seventeen years ago and not one word from him since."
Olive watched as her grandfather seemed to study the apparition he spoke to. He shook his head, and his shoulders relaxed.
"I watched you, honey, watched you rushing to the door every time a rider approached, every time a stage pulled into the station. I saw your face when the visitor was a stranger, not him. I heard you, heard the sadness in your voice, watched from your doorway as you wrote in that damned journal, heard you crying night after night . . . Where was he when you fought the sickness? Where was he when the town buzzed with gossip?"
Olive started into the bedroom. She froze when her grandfather's expression changed abruptly.
Emmitt's eyes narrowed. "Where was he when you could no longer ride?" Pacing, he flung his arms about. "Where was he when we almost lost her to pneumonia?"
Olive moved closer. "Grandpa?" she said. "Grandpa, please, come downstairs."
Emmitt shouted into the air. "Deep inside, you must have known what kind of man he was. He talked of foolish dreams, of how he felt compelled to move west. And where was your man when we almost lost the station? When-"
"Grandpa, we can . . . we should talk about . . . Please, Grandpa, I need to understand. I . . ."
As suddenly as it had started, Emmitt's relentless pacing stopped. He dropped his hands to his sides, turned, and faced the pristine bed, still draped with Olive's mother's cherished quilt.
For the first time in her life, Olive thought her grandfather looked small. "Grandpa-"
"Why wasn't he here?"
Olive feared the pain in his voice much more than the anger just seconds before.
"Right there," he said, pointing bedside chair. He turned slowly, tear-filled eyes beckoning Olive.
She stepped closer, slowly, deliberately, her heart drawing her in despite her fear.
His attention returned to the chair. "That's where I sat, when night turned to day and day to night, until . . ." He faced his granddaughter, smiling, as if he hadn't known she'd been there all along.
"Until you were born, my sweet Olive." He took her hand and led her toward the bed.
Stroking the muslin and cotton quilt with one hand, he looked up at the cross mounted on the wall. "I thought I'd lose you both that night. But He saw fit to give me a granddaughter and . . . and a chance to help my daughter change her ways, and I . . ."
Emmitt released Olive's hand. "I failed. She stayed, for a bit, and then she ran off. Searching for someone . . . What was it she said?" He nearly sobbed, choking on his words. "I need a man who makes me happy, the way he did. I need someone with no ties. No responsibilities. No regrets."
Olive started to speak, but Emmitt's abrupt turn startled her.
"Why wouldn't you listen?" he shouted, first to Olive, and then to the very air in the room, as if her mother's face filled every space. "Even after your sins with that no-good man, God gave you a beautiful, innocent child, and still, you weren't satisfied!" He snatched her photograph, the frame shattered years before, from the dresser. Holding it at arms length, he shook his head. "You were my daughter, Medora, but God forgive me, I hate you for leaving Olive and me. I hate you . . ."
He collapsed to his knees, the photograph crumpled in his palm.
Olive rushed to his side and wrapped him in an embrace. "Oh, Grandpa," she said softly.
He shifted, sitting back against the dresser. Slowly, he raised his eyes to meet hers. "Olive?" His brow creased. "Olive, where are we?"
Despite the passing of time, the fear in her grandfather's voice that night still unleashed a shiver in Olive's very core. In the Ponderosa bedroom, tucked beneath Inger's quilt, the shiver swelled and she trembled. Tightening her grip on the quilt's edge, she drew in a breath and blew it out slowly. She knew the man named Hoss was still in the hallway, and she'd heard footfall descending the stairs—Ben Cartwright was gone, for now. Tears stung her eyes, and she hazarded opening them, the need to ground herself in daylight outweighing her ruse. Cautiously, she raised her eyelids, her tears' escape a sudden rush. She blinked, clearing her vision. And then, she saw it. Lying across the room, draped over a chair, was her grandfather's wolverine jacket. Silent sobs wracked her body, and she bit down on her lip to smother the sounds.
"Grandpa," she thought, "I miss you. I'm so sorry. You were sick, and I didn't even know. And then you were gone, and I-"
Footfall snatched Olive from her memories. The one named Hoss. Quickly, she closed her eyes and stiffened her body. "Oh, Grandpa," she thought, "what do I do now?"