Author's Notes

Hiya guys!

I'm sorry about the delay on this, I know it took ages. We all have ups and downs and for a while there, I just had a few too many downs. BUT, I'm back now and with another double-chapter situation! This one carries on almost straight after the previous chapter. I want to thank you all for your amazing reviews, guests and members, I just love hearing what you think! I'm pushing Adam to the limit and yes, it shows in his slightly uncharacteristic behavior. Hopefully, you find it interesting like I do, to see him in a situation that he hasn't been in before. Okay, here we go, I hope you're still with me and that you enjoy this! :) And chapter 26 will be up sometime today too, as soon as possible.

Chapter 25

The first thing he became aware of was how dry his mouth was. It felt like he had a cotton boll lodged in his throat. A sticky, foul-tasting cotton boll. Instinctively, he tried to swallow, but all that accomplished was a scratchy tickle in his windpipe which sent him into a violent coughing fit. By the end of it, there were specks of white breaking up the darkness surrounding him, and he lay in it, panting, as a merciless weight pressed against his skull from all sides. An acidic whiskey taste crept up the back of his throat and his lips twisted at the bitter memory.

"Might I suggest that you aim for the basin this time?"

That was strange. A familiar voice, but where was it coming from? And why was it shouting at him? He carefully licked his cracked lower lip. Maybe if he stayed still, the voice would go away.

"Come on, have some water."

There was a tap on his shoulder—making him realize that he had a shoulder. As he concentrated, he gradually comprehended that he had other things too—besides the splitting headache and parched mouth. His left foot twitched. His right arm shifted, and there was something soft and warm covering him. He couldn't get his left arm to do anything though.

The voice sighed. He got the feeling it was annoyed with him. After a while, he finally figured out the trick to opening his eyes, but as he pried his eyelids apart, they only got halfway before falling closed again. God, that was bright.

"Come on, Adam. You need to have some water."

Now it was his turn to get annoyed. Why couldn't he just stay like this? When there was another nudge at his shoulder, he cautiously peeped out through his lashes and a stabbing pain struck his brain. He let out a low, lengthy groan.

"Yes, I can imagine," said the voice.

". . . Paul?" he croaked.

"Well, it isn't your fairy godmother."

He closed his eyes again. What was the point when he could only see a blurry outline of the doctor's head? As he was lying there, his attention suddenly shifted to another part of his anatomy.

"Adam, will you just for once do as I . . . hold, hold on lad, just wait a—"

His body jerked as he struggled to sit up and a strong arm looped around his shoulders, pushing his head in a forward direction. Before he knew what was happening, his stomach lurched and a rush of acidic liquid spewed from his mouth. It seemed to go on forever, and Adam was oddly conscious of his friend's inconceivable achievement of holding the porcelain basin up, pushing his head in the right direction, and keeping him from toppling face first into the pungent mass. All of it done at the same time—by one man.

When the violent contractions in his gut finally ceased, he noticed that Paul even managed to get rid of the basin without releasing his grip, and the doctor magically produced a glass of water out of seemingly nowhere. Adam immediately went for it.

"Easy now, little sips. I for one, do not wish a repeat of what just happened."

The cool water instantly soothed the burn in his mouth and he made a disapproving grunt when it was taken away from him far too soon.

"You can have more in just a moment. Lie back down so I can get rid of this."

He was eased down onto his back, and the crumbled blanket was smoothed over him again. Watching a spot on the ceiling, he willed the room to stop twirling. Paul was moving around somewhere beside him and at some point, left the room. The water had helped clear his head a little and while Adam lay still, flashes of last night's events started coming back to him.

The more he remembered, the worse he felt. He was pretty sure that it was all just as bad as he recalled it. And the things that remained too hazy for him to conjure up were probably no better. Squinting down at his left arm, he saw that there was indeed a white bandage covering it, blemished with little spots of red. That part didn't bother him much though. The only thing he really cared about was that she wasn't in the room with him. And with the way he'd acted last night, he couldn't blame her.

When Paul came back in, Adam was in the same position, gazing up at the ceiling.

"So, you are capable of taking orders. That gives me hope."

The doctor came over with more water, a cloth and bandages, and sat down in the chair beside the chaise longue, placing the items beside Adam.

"Here, have some more."

Pushing himself up into a sitting position again, Adam took the proffered glass with his good hand.

"I'm going to change this bandage. I don't know how much you remember about last night but let me tell you that it wasn't pretty."

Adam stared down at the glass. "Paul . . . where's Madeline?"

"She went to the restaurant, they're quite busy at the moment," Paul said dispassionately. His focus was on the injured arm as he began unwrapping the bandage. "It's nine o'clock and when I'm finished with this, I'll rustle up some breakfast. Roy is going to stop by in a while and I assume that your father will be showing up soon too."

With the bandage removed, he bent down to scrutinize the stitches. "Mmmh." He nodded appreciatively. "Very neat work, if I do say so myself."

"Why won't she talk to me, Paul?" Adam's head was bowed, his voice quiet.

The doctor's hands went still. "I don't know," he finally said. "I . . . well, she won't exactly talk to me either." Paul's tone turned gruff at the end and he let the spotted bandage fall to the floor before taking the clean cloth.

"I only made things worse." Adam set down the glass on the worktable with an audible clatter. "I acted like a complete idiot." He looked straight ahead of himself, his head slowly moving from side to side.

". . . I'll agree that it was a rather ungainly attempt at sweeping her off her feet," Paul said with uncharacteristic hesitance. "But what's done is done."

"Yea."

Just one toneless word in response. It was all he had left.

"This will hurt a bit, Adam."

Sure enough, when Paul gently pressed the cloth against him, a sharp throb shot from his elbow down to his wrist—setting off little prickles all the way to his fingertips. His chest rose with a deep breath as the pain flooded his mind. He relished it. The minutes went by as he sat there, absorbed in only the physical pain until it lessened and became a dull ache. When he looked down at his arm again, a fresh, white bandage was neatly wrapped around it.

"There we are. Not too tight?" Paul asked.

"No."

"Good. Now, how do you want your eggs? I recommend scrambled with some toast. It's a specialty of mine and it'll probably be the easiest on your stomach."

"I don't want anything."

"Look, Adam, you need some nourishment," Paul said with enforced patience. "You haven't been eating enough to sustain yourself—I saw what went into that basin first hand, remember?"

Silently, Adam faced away from the doctor, his half-lidded eyes blinking once. Paul blew out his cheeks as he released a long gush of air.

"Okay, I realize that you're bothered by this thing with Madeline. But when she returns home later, you'll have had time to rest, clean up and sort yourself out. The two of you can talk, reiterate your love for one another and then we can all put this absurdity behind us. Frankly, it's rather exhausting."

Adam's expression remained solid as stone. He looked out at the room as if in a daze—numbed by the raw emptiness inside him—humiliation and rejection nibbling away at his insides. Everything was just too much.

"Thank you for your help, Paul," he said in a dead tone. "Send me the bill at the Ponderosa."

He twisted his body and lifted his legs, letting them dangle off the chaise longue. It wasn't hard to ignore the pain in his arm. He didn't feel much of anything at that point.

"Did you even hear a word of what I just said?"

"Yes, I did." Adam set his feet on the floor. "But I'm the last person she wants to see when she gets home. She told me to stay away and I just had to go and—" He broke off, biting the inside of his cheek. "She doesn't want me here, Paul. There's no point. In any of it."

As he pushed himself up to a swaying stand, Paul shot from his chair.

"And just where do you think you're going?" He placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder to steady him.

Adam waited for the world to stop rotating, then he raised his jaw and gestured to the doorway behind the doctor.

"To the saloon."

"Very funny," Paul said with pinched eyebrows. "You just take yourself upstairs and have another nap. Maybe you'll see sense when you wake up."

"Where's my horse?"

"I . . . Roy probably got someone to take him to the livery stable, but listen to me, you can't just—"

"Good day, Paul."

Adam managed three determined steps across the room before an intense, piercing pang hit the back of his skull, making him halt and lift a hand to the tender spot. Blindly, he put his other hand out to balance himself and encountered something soft.

"Adam, stop this nonsense! You have an egg-sized lump on the back of your head, probably a concussion. More alcohol is decidedly not the way to go, you know better."

Paul tried guiding him back to the chair when a loud clashing sound suddenly sounded from the foyer.

"Doctor Martin are you here?! Doctor Martin, we need your assistance immediately!"

The shrilly call was topped off with the unmistakable sound of a child's thin wailing. Paul's eyes flew to the doorway leading to his office, then dashed back to his friend

"Don't you move, you hear? I'll be right back."

He released Adam and hurried out of the room, running a hand across his scalp.

"Mrs. Jansson, what is—"

"Oh, Doctor Martin! It's little Henry, he fell from a tree, his arm is hurting terribly! I heard that you had returned, and we came straight here. Oh, Goodness, he is in such pain, doctor!"

Adam was only taking in bits and pieces of the conversation going on out in the hall. He groaned, removed his hand from the back of his head and settled it across his stinging eyes. Peeking out between his fingers, he focused on the doorway. He staggered towards it, wincing when the shriek wailing from the foyer pitched up.

"Sorry about that, lad. But at least now we know it isn't broken."

"Doctor, please, you must do something! Oh, my little sweet, everything will be all right . . ."

"Yes, well come into my office. I ah . . . I have another patient at the moment, so let me just settle him first."

Adam slumped against the doorway to the office just as Paul reentered the room from the hall and the doctor's jaw went slack as his fists clenched by his sides.

"Thunderation!" He rushed across the room, grasping Adam's good arm. "What's gotten into you?! You're going upstairs this instant or so help me, Adam—I'll knock you out myself—concussion or not!"

Adam found himself pulled, none too gently, forwards past Paul's desk but then stopped right in front of Mrs. Jansson's shocked face.

"Doctor!" she exclaimed, her mouth huge. "Surely, an injured child comes before a grown man who so obviously has himself to thank for his current state!" Her mouth twisted in distaste as young Henry continued to sob uncontrollably into her skirt. "I am sure that Mr. Cartwright will agree."

There was nothing Adam wanted to do more, but his mind was far too slow and Paul spoke before he got the chance.

"Mrs. Jansson, with respect, I am the doctor here and it's up to me to decide which patient requires immediate attention."

The doctor's clipped response elicited an appalled look with the woman, a grimace from Adam and another burst of howling from the little boy. Mrs. Jansson dropped down next to her son, taking him in her arms as his whole body shook and Paul's lips pressed together. Adam didn't care about any of it, he just wanted to get out of there. Right now.

"My apologies, Mrs. Jansson," Paul said, facing the woman while tightening his hold on his friend's arm when Adam started to move away, "but it isn't broken, I believe it's probably just bruised and—ADAM for the LAST time—"

"Let me go, Paul. Just leave me alone."

His speech was rough and raw, unrecognizable. Slowly, the grip around his arm loosened and suddenly—he was free. Free to make it to the doorway and out into the hall, to the foyer, and there was the front door, wide open, a rectangular shape of brightness.

As Adam disappeared from his sight, Paul stood motionless in the same spot. He screwed his eyes shut for a second, then turned around to his remaining patient. Kneeling beside the now lightly sobbing boy, Paul adopted his comforting-doctor-smile.

"Well, it looks like it's your turn little tree-climber. We'll soon have you in working order again. Why don't you and your mother go into the examination room and I will be right there. I'll even let you sit in my special doctor's chair while we fix that arm of yours."

The boy tentatively looked up at the doctor. He sniffled, then nodded—appeased by the prospect of sitting in a special chair. Mrs. Jansson's lips were still curled in a scowl, but she took her son's hand and the two headed into the next room to wait.

As soon as they were gone, Paul went to his desk and scribbled a short but succinct message onto a piece of paper. He then marched out into the foyer, folding the paper as he went, and continued out through the front door. A curse almost burst out of him when he saw three elderly ladies coming up the stairs of his front porch.

"Ah, Doctor Martin, so you are home! Oh, how very fortunate, I've had the most dreadful migraine these last few days."

"And my hip has been causing me terrible pain, doctor!"

"Oh, dear doctor, I've been awaiting your return, I have the most painful—"

"Yes, yes, ladies." He gestured to the front door. "If you'll just wait in my office, I will be with you in a moment."

They moved past him and into the foyer, chatting and cackling like a group of hens. Paul stood alone on the porch, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes and now half-considering joining Adam at the saloon. It was the same every time he came home after being away; his patients, especially the elderly lady ones, always seemed to develop all kinds of "ailments" during his absences and the first few days of being home again were exceptionally busy at his practice.

But in spite of everything that was going on in his private-life, he was still their doctor and he had a job to do. He scanned the street and stuck a thumb and forefinger in his mouth, whistling sharply at a young man walking along the road. He waved and the lad loped across to the doctor's house and jumped up the stairs to the porch.

"Do me a favor—get this message to the Cartwrights at the Ponderosa. As quickly as you can."

Paul got out a dollar and gave it to the youngster along with the message.

"Yes sir!"

The young man leaped down the stairs and set off down the street.

Knowing that he couldn't delay any longer, Paul straightened his vest and turned back to the house. On his way inside, he glanced down at the broken porch swing lying on the floor. With a weary snort, the doctor went into the foyer and closed the front door behind him.

xXXx

"More coffee?"

Mr. Barns held the coffee pot in the air, studying his partner on the opposite side of the table. When he received no response, he stifled a yawn with his free hand. "All right, I'm finishing it then."

Bright morning sunbeams shone in through the window, chasing away the shadows in the hotel room and all was quiet except for the soothing sound of coffee pouring. Mr. Barns tipped the pot, letting the last few drops spill and the dark liquid almost reached the brim of the floral-decorated porcelain cup. He set the pot down on the table and looked over at his associate again. Wickworth was facing the window to his left, his hands folded by his mouth. His eyes were shiny, glazed. Mr. Barns lifted the cup, pushing his lips out in a pucker under his mustache as he sipped the coffee.

"Ahhh," he sighed with a smile of content, "definitely the most drinkable coffee I've had out here in the West. Refreshing."

He replaced the cup on its saucer and relaxed in his chair, casually adjusting his silk neck-scarf. A reverberating, clinking noise captured his attention and he noticed that the dainty cup was trembling slightly on the saucer. With a displeased frown, he realized that the cause was his partner's leg vibrating under the table.

"Would you mind not—"

"What the devil were you thinking, Chris?!"

Wicksworth's hand flew from his mouth, landing on the tabletop with a smack and a wave of coffee splashed over the lip of the little cup.

"Really, Robert . . ." Mr. Barns reached for a napkin and dabbed at the dark puddle in the saucer, "what an unpleasant thing to do."

"Why—WHY would you go to see your wife with her uncle present, with the SHERIFF there?!"

"Like I told you, I had no choice. I needed to know what was going on and I knew she wouldn't dare say anything while I was there."

"Did you even stop to think about what it would mean for us—for everything we've worked for—if things hadn't gone as you expected?" Wickworth swung both arms out, his face flushed. "And what's to stop her from telling her uncle now, while they're alone? You can't have eyes inside that house!"

Taking his time, Mr. Barns arranged the now damp napkin in a neat square on the table. "I'll say this once again; she won't tell her uncle anything. Me showing up there was the most effective warning I could've given her. She recognized my intention, I'm sure of it."

Wickworth glared at him. "This little game you're playing has gotten completely out of hand! And what about that Cartwright fella, I thought you said he was out of the picture? Have you got someone following him around too?"

"Don't you concern yourself about him and no, having him followed would be a mistake. From what I've heard around town, he's a sharp one, he'd probably realize it. It was just lucky that one of my men was at the saloon last night and recognized him. If I hadn't gone there, we might actually have some trouble on our hands now." A slow smile developed across Mr. Barns' mouth. "He isn't like other Yankees I've met. I must admit that the more I learn about him, the more intrigued I am. By him and his family."

A high-pitched, hysterical laugh suddenly filled the room. "Well, why don't you just invite them all over for coffee and tea then?" Wickworth dug down into his vest-pocket and ripped out a handkerchief. "It has become very clear to me that you have no qualms whatsoever."

He wiped the beads of perspiration from his forehead, then brought the cloth down across both his chunky cheeks and to his chin. When he noticed that he'd received no reply, he looked across the table and realized that his partner was observing him. Wickworth wriggled a little uneasily in his chair.

"What?"

"You're starting to irritate me now," Mr. Barns said coolly. "I advise you to stop. Strongly."

Wickworth's hand fell from his chin, his eyes turning incredulous. "You're just outright crazy, aren't you? No that's it . . . I'm pulling out of this thing, Chris. I should have left this town days ago."

"We would have left days ago if you hadn't slipped up!" Mr. Barns snapped and abruptly stood up. "No one here has heard of the San Francisco-Fresno Railroad, and rightly so, since it doesn't exist." He moved away from the table and began pacing around the room with short, agitated steps. "All your man had to do was send a wire on behalf of the railroad confirming that we are who we say we are—it was the one thing you assured me you could take care of. Clearly, I should've handled that myself too."

"We've been through this, I don't know what the hold-up is with that telegram, but something must have gone wrong," Wickworth said, watching his partner's tread back and forth. "That's why we should cut our losses and leave now—we still have a few female investors who are so overcome by your boundless charm that they'll likely pay up without that confirming wire—"

"Oh, stop babbling, neither of us is going anywhere." Pausing in the middle of the room, Mr. Barns faced his associate. "Now, pull yourself together and start thinking clearly. If we don't get that telegram from your useless friend, there's another way of making our enterprise look good and reliable."

"Oh? I'm just dying to hear this."

Mr. Barns smiled as he ambled back to the table. "How about an investment from the biggest and perhaps most influential landowners around here?"

Dropping his head, Wickworth spoke warily. "You mean the Cartwrights . . ."

Mr. Barns stopped behind the chair he'd been sitting in before and leaned his arms on the backrest. "Apparently, Ben Cartwright has had some dealings and lumber contracts with the railroad and he's even made a few investments over the years. I've already obtained some information on the most notable gentlemen around these parts in the business whom I'm sure he knows." A wicked gleam came into Mr. Barns' eyes, making them sharp and bright. "Once we tell him that several of these prominent businessmen are connected to our enterprise, we'll likely have his attention."

"And just what happens when Ben Cartwright contacts one of these gentlemen, to hear what they have to say about our phony project?"

"Why, we won't be around for that, Robert." Mr. Barns walked around the chair and sat down again. "All we need to do, is make arrangements for a meeting with Cartwright, then drop a few remarks about it around town and let the gossipers do what they do best. Once our other investors hear that the successful Cartwrights are interested in becoming our newest shareholders . . . everyone will want in on the deal. They'll be ready to pay up straight away and we leave the moment they do."

Wickworth began chewing on a fingernail as he considered the plan and Mr. Barns pulled out a black leather cigar-holder from inside his suit jacket. He stuck a cigar in between his lips and motioned towards the match box lying on the table by his partner. Wickworth pushed the box across the table and pressed his sweaty handkerchief against his forehead once again.

"I don't know," he said as the other man struck a match on the little box. "There's still no guarantee that the other investors will go for it just because they think the Cartwrights are in."

Mr. Barns lit his cigar and waved the match in the air to put out the flame. "They'll go for it. Greedy bunch, they are."

Neither of the two men spoke for a while and Mr. Barns sank as low as he could in his chair as he stretched out his legs underneath the table. As resignation eventually set in, Wickworth also fell back in his own chair, mimicking his partner.

"You know . . . there's one thing I'd like to know, Chris. Do you even care half as much about getting our money as you do about getting her?"

A puff of smoke drifted from Mr. Barns' lips as he held the cigar out in front of him. "She belongs to me." He stared at the cigar with wide eyes, his face showing no emotion. "By the way . . . you call me crazy again, and I'll kill you, Robert."

The chuckle that rose up from Wickworth's chest died as a short, strangled cough when he understood that the words were no joke. He held his breath, watching as his partner smoked the cigar. Robert Wickworth was in way over his head.

xXXx

"Another, Bill."

An empty tankard came sliding along the counter to the bartender.

"You sure about that, Adam? I ain't the type to go pryin' into people's business but—"

Adam slapped a coin down on the counter-top without looking up. The bartender stopped cleaning the glass he was holding and eyed the Cartwright skeptically.

"Fine then," he said, taking the dime. "But I heard about what happened at the Bucket last night and I don't want my place endin' up in the same condition. So, I'm gonna say to you what I usually tell them brothers of yours. Stay outta trouble, ya hear?"

"I hear ya," Adam muttered.

It was a quarter to ten o'clock and the Silver Dollar Saloon was fairly empty. Except for the five-man poker game going at one of the tables and the town drunks slumped in chairs around the room, there were just a few other customers. Some had come in for their morning whiskey-shots while others hadn't left at all yet since the night before. For the saloons that were open around the clock, it wasn't uncommon for patrons to spend practically the entire night at the establishment and although Bill sometimes complained—saying he was running a saloon, not a hotel—it was just part of the deal.

When Adam had first come in, he'd gone straight to the bar, not acknowledging anyone else in the room. Since then, he'd been standing at the far end of the bar-counter with his back to the saloon's other occupants, his demeanor withdrawn. No one, not even the usually talkative bartender had attempted to start up a conversation with him, and it suited Adam just fine. He was feeling anything but sociable.

He gave a mumbled thanks when Bill placed a new beer in front of him. Grabbing the handle of the tankard, he pulled it closer and the foamy top bulging out across the edge of the glass bounced a little.

He wasn't about to admit it, but Paul had been right. Drinking more alcohol on an empty stomach and with a crack in the head really wasn't one of his better ideas. The little good that the fresh air and brief, stumbling walk to the saloon had done him, had already been quelled. His head felt impossibly heavy again, like it was weighed down by all those muddled thoughts and the pounding by his temples was lessening at an agonizingly slow pace. But at least he was heading for that state of confusion and numbness that could take the edge off feelings—off heartache. After all, that was the whole point of it.

Lifting the tankard, he took a long gulp and ignored the nausea threatening to rise up again. He set the drink down and leaned dejectedly on the bar.

"Whoever she is, she isn't worth it."

The words came from somewhere close-by and since Adam was the only one in the near vicinity, he figured they were directed at him. He cast a side-long look at a suit-clad man standing by the other end of the bar-counter.

"Did you say something?"

"Oh, I meant no offense. It's just, well"—the man gestured to Adam with a broad sweep of his arm—"your appearance. I've seen that look on a lot of men's faces and there's always a woman to blame for it. And she's never worth it."

"Well, you're wrong." Adam turned back to his beer. "This one is."

"Ahh. She must be quite something then." The man smiled and strolled down the bar towards him. "You're Adam Cartwright, aren't you? We met briefly last night during all the excitement, but I very much doubt you remember it."

His eyes fixed on his drink, Adam raised the glass again. "Who are you?"

"I'm Chris Barns. I'm new around here, just staying in town with some associates for a few more days."

Adam gave no indication he'd even heard the words, he just sipped his beer. Mr. Barns rested an elbow on the counter-top and inclined his head at him.

"Is it quite painful?"

Glancing down at his bandaged arm, Adam gave a shrug of indifference. "I've had worse."

"Yes, I'm sure you have."

There was a little pause, and whoever this guy was, Adam was developing a strong dislike for him already. He just wanted to be left alone. But Mr. Barns spoke again.

"I was pleased to learn that this Mr. Clayton is being kept behind bars for a while. He seems to be a rather uncivilized fellow."

"Mm-hmm."

"Then again, I suppose this remote and uncultured part of the country breeds characters such as him. It's a pity."

Silence again. Adam greatly preferred the silence. He took another swig of beer, but just as he was about to swallow the drink, he noticed something out of the corner of his left eye. He turned and saw Mr. Barns scrutinizing him. In an intense way. Slowly, he swallowed the mouthful.

"And what brings you to Virginia City, Mr. Barns?"

His voice was laced with such unabashed disinterest that just about anyone would have taken the blatant hint.

But Mr. Barns simply smiled. "Why, I'm so glad you asked that. You see, my associates and I are here to promote a most interesting enterprise we're involved in—The San Francisco-Fresno railroad."

"Is that so."

"Indeed. I'm convinced it will be a success, it's very promising."

Done with humoring this overzealous businessman, Adam faced the counter again. "I'm not interested, Mr. Barns."

"Now, now, you shouldn't be so quick to dismiss it," Mr. Barns said with a slight chuckle, friendly and chiding at the same time. "I merely thought I'd mention this extraordinary opportunity to you. As a matter of fact, there are several prominent railroad representatives involved in this thing already. Come to think of it, you might even be familiar with some of them, perhaps if I list a few—"

"That won't be necessary," Adam cut in, "I'm sure you've done your research and that you already know I am in fact familiar with every one of the gentlemen you're about to mention. If you want a Cartwright-investment, you'd be better off talking to my father—he's been handling all our railroad deals and stakes the last few years." Casually, Adam shifted to look at the man again, angling his head to one side. "And I bet you were well aware of that fact before you approached me."

Mr. Barns' cordial smile stiffened. Actually, his whole face seemed to freeze like in a painting—even his eyes were completely unmoving. And Adam had never seen an expression quite like that before. A very odd few seconds of staring at one another went by, until Mr. Barns' features appeared to come to life again, starting with his smile that gradually grew wider.

"Well . . . charming as it has been talking with you, I should be on my way. I have a few acquaintances at the Cattlemen's association I'm meeting with." He backed away from the bar, but Adam noted how the man's eyes hadn't followed the rest of his face. They were still completely inert.

"Good day, Mr. Cartwright. I'm sure we'll be seeing each other again."

Something about those last words hit Adam in a strange way. His eyes tracked Mr. Barns as the man walked back along the counter and to the saloon doors, until the moment he left the saloon. With a frown, Adam twisted back to the bar.

xXXx

Hoss peered over at his younger brother riding on the other side of their pa. He saw the same apprehension displayed on Joe's face as he was feeling inside, and the big man gulped. From under the brim of his hat, he chanced a speedy glimpse at their father.

Ben was sitting tall in the saddle, his chin tipped up as he glared at Virginia City in the distance. His dark eyebrows were low and pushed together, creating a knot of tension between them and his lips were drawn-in, barely visible, as if he was struggling to prevent another outburst.

The three men rode on for a little while further, nearing the town. Then all of a sudden, Ben let out a scoff—supposedly just aimed at the road ahead—as he yanked a little piece of paper out from his vest.

"'Come and fetch Adam at the saloon immediately'," he grunted out loud for the sixth time within the last twenty minutes. "Adam, drinking at the saloon this early?! I've never heard anything so ridiculous!"

Hoss grimaced. "Pa, I sure wish you'd calm down . . . we don't know that he's over there drinkin'. Could be he's just there . . . well, killin' time or somethin'."

"Yea, we can't know anything for sure yet," Joe agreed cautiously.

"And what's Paul doing home so early anyway?!" Ben went on, swinging the paper around in the air. "And sending out foolish messages like this . . ."

The brothers made the wise decision not to comment on the muted, albeit impressive string of grumbled curses that their father uttered then. From the bits they overheard, both Hoss and Joe thought to themselves that if either of them had said even one of those words when they were younger, it would have earned them one memorable trip to the barn.

Ben finally ran out of steam and when he looked down at the message again, his straight posture suddenly sagged. Hoss saw it and he directed Chub closer to his father's horse.

"He's gonna be alright, Pa. I know you been worried and you had that bad feelin' yesterday about him not comin' home but it don't mean that somethin's happened. And now, at least we know where he's at, so we just go get him and take 'im home. But let's hear him out before ya go flyin' off . . ."

Joe had also moved closer to his family. "Hoss is right. We'll figure it out, don't worry Pa."

They watched their father anxiously because it took him an unnervingly long time to react to their words of reassurance. He just sat in the saddle as Buck walked on, still holding the paper—his tired and worried countenance making him seem older than his years. Eventually, he got himself together again and it was probably the thing Hoss and Joe most admired and most relied on about their pa. His endless strength and his ability to pick himself up and carry on. Ben blinked a few times and pulled his shoulders back while folding the message again.

"Yes, you're both right," he said, glancing to either side of him, at both his sons. "There must be an explanation. I suppose I should just be glad that we were already well over halfway to town by the time that messenger met us with Paul's note."

Steely determination flashed in his eyes and he turned back to the road. Virginia City was just up ahead.

"Let's go and get him."

Boosted by their father's resolve, Joe and Hoss nodded fiercely, and the three men kicked their horses to a fast canter as they rode up the last stretch to town.

xXXx