Author's Notes

Hi everyone! I'm back with another long chapter! It would have been a veeery tense ending if I'd split this one up into two and I just didn't have it in me to do that . . .

The reviews on the last chapter were so great to read. Thank you members, and to the guests I can't reply directly to—"Guests", Reader, Gaben and Millie! Your feedback means so very much, especially on an emotional chapter like that. This next part is emotion-packed again and I hope you like it.

Loss of control, love and hate, a mirror and wise words. Here we go.

We'll need a warning on this one—This chapter has explicit violence and physical abuse in it.


Chapter 28

Close to four o'clock in the afternoon, the drab blanket of cloud still hung above Virginia City. The melancholy of the sky could be felt all over town and in the moods of its citizens. Streets were emptier than usual, saloons and restaurants filled to capacity and beyond, and shutters on windows were closed almost everywhere. Every so often, some tenacious sun ray would penetrate that thick layer of fog and spill a bright beam of light down onto the otherwise shadowy town. It would light up the spot where it landed, brilliantly, but also start to fade in the same instant, like a candle slowly dying away in the wind. And eventually, light surrendered to the grey once again.

Madeline stood on the boardwalk near one of those dying sun beams. Bottom lip between her teeth, she was gazing down the street, her gloved hands clasped tightly together by the front of her pale-yellow skirt. She wasn't even sure how she'd ended up out here. Really, she was supposed to be resting like her uncle had asked her to, but somehow, she'd gotten dressed and left the house, though she had no memory of it. And now she was here. Eyeing the sheriff's office in the distance.

There weren't many other people on the street aside from herself. Just a few groups of cowboys strolling along in their oilskin slickers and some ladies with umbrellas rushing home before the next cloudburst. And then, of course, there was her afternoon stalker standing on the opposite side of the road, watching her.

I need to get help.

That was the thought keeping her from resting, the thought that had brought her this far. Anxiety was building within her, twisting her insides into tense knots of dread. Her heart was hammering so hard against her rib cage, like her own private war drum sounding off before battle. Because that was exactly what this was—a battle—and she was about to charge into the unknown with no idea of the outcome.

Perhaps if I'm very quick . . . Just get to the sheriff's office, Mr. Coffee will know what to do . . .

Oh, I'll never make it . . .

How on earth was she supposed to do this? She was so lightheaded, it felt like she might lift off the ground and float away from this whole thing. Her own voice was roaring in her head, inner dialogue working to persuade one moment and dissuade the next. But then one three-worded thought surged in and overwhelmed all else.

He needs me.

I have to do this . . . because he needs me.

She latched onto that thought. There was no other choice. She adjusted her light-blue zouave jacket and pulled her bonnet down lower to hide her face. It was a fairly pointless action because she was one of the only people on the street and her stalker already had her in his sights. But it made her feel just a little less exposed. She gathered all her strength with a breath, felt her chest expanding as if filling with courage, with determination. Then she moved.

Hastening along the wooden boardwalk—her heels tap-tapping with urgency. She kept her head down and her sight nailed to the floor as she tried to control the quavering in her knees.

Keep moving, just keep moving . . .

Even though she refused to look over at him, she sensed that her stalker was extra alert now, following and watching her every move from across the road. There was no doubt in her mind that the moment he realized where she was heading, he would try to stop her. She didn't know how, but he would definitely try. And she knew that her only chance to get past him would be to run. The sheriff's office, which had been just a vague, distant square down the road when her tread had started, was now clear for her to see.

You're almost there, just keep going . . .

As discreetly as she could manage it, she moved her quivering hands to the front of her skirt. Her fingers clutched the fabric painfully and they were probably turning just as white as the gloves that covered them. In her mind, she started a countdown from three, knowing that when those three seconds were up, she would lift her skirt and she would run.

Three . . . two . . . one

"Hey, Madeline!"

Her frayed nerves leaped in different directions all at once, and she came to a grinding halt, catching hold of a nearby support beam to balance herself. Her face jerked out towards the street and a sickening wave welled up from her belly when she saw Little Joe jump down from his horse and lope towards her.

No . . . oh no, not now Joe . . .

She turned back to the boardwalk and focused all her attention on getting her feet to move again. One step at a time, she kept walking forwards because what else could she do?

"Madeline, wait up!"

Her pace quickened, and she prayed, Lord, she prayed that he would give up and just let her go and do this thing she needed to do.

Oh, please don't Joe . . .

"Madeline, just hear me out, it's about Adam."

She finally stopped. He was standing right next to her now and there was no point in going any further. But she couldn't look at him.

"I'm not trying to interfere in your business or cause trouble, but you need to know that he . . . he isn't himself and . . . we're really worried . . ."

Her eyes flitted up to Joe's troubled countenance lined with stress and she saw no trace of the carefree, spirited young man she had gotten to know.

"I'm very sorry to hear that, Joe . . ." she said with genuine regret.

"I came to ask you if—" He quickly took off his hat, holding it with both hands by his chest. "Can't you come out and see him? I really think it would help him and . . . we don't know what else to do . . ."

"I—"

A shift in the background drew her sight away from Joe—past him and to the man who had been following her. He'd come closer than ever before and he was now pretending to be checking his pocket-watch outside the bank. He'd angled himself in a way that made his coat hang open, revealing the gun belt hanging around his waist.

Madeline's eyes shot back to Joe, but he frowned at her, confused. She felt a cold shudder run down her spine when his body began to turn because she knew that his head would follow, that he was about to turn and look straight at that man and her stalker might see that as a threat.

"All right," she blurted out.

Joe wavered, looked back at her. "All right . . .? You mean . . . you'll come out and see him?" he asked in a baffled tone.

"Yes, I . . . tomorrow, I'll come out to the ranch tomorrow."

God, please leave Joe, please go!

"Okay . . . okay good . . . thanks, Madeline."

"I really need to go now . . ."

"Yea, okay . . ." He scratched his temple. "We'll see you tomorrow then."

His expression was more one of confused surprise rather than suspicion. She really hoped it was so.

"Yes . . . good day, Joe"

"Good day, Madeline."

She walked away, holding her breath as she felt two pairs of eyes following her.

Go home . . . don't come after me.

The boardwalk seemed as unsteady as a ship riding on waves and each step she took was a wonder to her, because she had no idea how she was even still standing let alone walking. The little encounter with Joe had lasted no more than two minutes, probably just one, but it had seemed impossibly long. It was only when she perceived the sheriff's office up ahead that it all came back to her—her plan and what she'd been about to do. She chanced it—a fleeting glance behind her—and saw that Joe and his horse were gone. The rapid pounding in her breast slowed a bit and she knew he must be on his way home, back to safety. Then she noticed her stalker starting to cross the street, closing in on her.

It was now or never. She swung back to the sheriff's office, lifted her skirt and her foot was in the air, stepping off the boardwalk when suddenly—a hand seized her arm and yanked her back.

"Walk with me, won't you, Miss Delaney?"

A stab of terror went through her gut because she instantly recognized the hissing voice. She twisted her head to look at him, and Ray's face was set in that frightening look she knew so well—the one that told her how close he was to losing control. He checked to see if anyone was watching them, then he spun her around and began walking back down the boardwalk from where she'd come. The grip around her arm was bruising as he pulled her along with him and she was about to call out, but he saw it and leaned into her.

"You make one noise and I'll make you regret it."

She bit down into her lip, her eyes welling up with tears. He looked out at the street, jerked his chin upwards and to the right and that's when she saw another man striding alongside her stalker, both men coming nearer. The hand on her arm clenched tighter and her tears started to fall as Ray turned right and forced her down an alleyway between two buildings. At the end of the narrow passage, he released her with a vicious shove. She wasn't prepared for that and she stumbled—gasped in pain when she fell hard against the brick wall next to her.

"I warned you, Madeline . . ."

Holding onto her burning arm, she got to her feet unsteadily, squashed herself back against the wall to get as far away from him as possible.

"Ray, I—"

"I made it CLEAR to you, what would happen if you disobeyed me . . ."

More tears fell as he came closer and at the edge of her bleary vision, Ray's two men were standing with their backs to her and her husband, looking down the alley towards the street to make sure no one was coming. No one could help her.

"Let me go, Ray . . ." she tried, but her voice sounded tiny, frightened.

"You left me no choice, Madeline. And now that young Cartwright will be paying the price for your disobedience."

An icy hand wrapped around her heart, encasing it, making it stop.

". . . What have you done . . ."

"I sent some men after him. You should just be grateful that I told them not to kill him."

"NO! Oh God, Ray, don't do this, he hasn't done anything!"

She pushed away from the wall, not caring that there were three grown men standing in her way, and she scrambled to get back down through the alley. But Ray caught her. His fingers dug into her shoulder and he ripped her back, smashing her up against the wall. She cried out, but he crushed his body against hers, his face turning scarlet and swollen with fury.

"SHUT UP, damn you! There's nothing you can do about it—my men have him by now!"

The shock drained out of her and she glared at him with naked hatred. "Let me GO!"

White teeth flashed beneath his mustache as he flung his right hand up in an all too familiar motion. She shrank back in anticipation of the slap. But for the first time in the three years they'd been married, he stopped himself. Instead, he clasped both her arms with excruciating force, shaking her violently.

"This is the last warning you're going to get, Madeline, do you understand me?!"

"S-stop, Ray—"

"We're going to leave this town together, you and I, we're going to start over just like I planned it all, and anyone who stands in the way of that will be killed, you hear?!"

He stopped shaking her and she stared at him. Her lips formed the same short sentence in silence a couple of times before she found the power to voice it.

". . . You have gone completely mad!"

His face contorted into a grotesque grimace and he suddenly pulled her forwards only to smack her back against the building. Her shriek was cut off when he did it again. And again. Searing pain shot up her back and arms as she lurched back and forth, harder each time, too paralyzed to fight against him or call for help. The back of her head hit the wall, rattled her brain and made everything reel around her. Then finally—the brutal onslaught ended. But before she could collect her scattered senses, his smooth gentlemen's hands folded around the base of her throat. Her hands went to his forearms as her eyes grew wide, fixed on his wild, ice-blue irises when he started to squeeze. The panic was like a living being inside her, rushing through her veins and she opened her mouth to scream but only a pitiful squeak came out. The real scream was released within, ringing in her ears, only she could hear. She scratched at his arms and her lungs burned like they were about to explode and rip her apart. Yet, the pressure around her throat became tighter and tighter and her eyes watered as she saw the world slowly disappearing. The alley they were in disappeared, then she felt herself begin to go when she started to lose all connection, all feeling with her body. There was only him left. But even he was disappearing now, blurred by her tears to the point where all she could make out were his eyes. The horrific thought struck her fading mind, that this would be the last thing she saw in life—his eyes, bulging whites with pinprick-pupils.

Then, all of a sudden, the crushing pressure around her throat disappeared. She dropped, but somehow, she didn't hit the ground.

"DON'T—don't call me that . . ." he said, hugging her, holding her up. She felt his mustache tickle her cheek and ear as she gulped in air, choked on it hysterically, and coughed it out again. "You shouldn't say such things, dear . . ." he whispered, kissed her cheek, her chin, "I'm not—I . . . never say that again, all right . . .?"

She hung there in his arms, looking like the little brown-haired rag-doll she'd carried around everywhere with her as a child. Her breathing was still harsh and rapid, and it hurt—every ounce of air she inhaled hurt as it stoked the fire going in her chest.

After some unknown amount of time, Ray held out a handkerchief to her while still holding her up with his other arm.

"Wipe your face, Madeline."

She did, shaking and quiet.

"Good. Now, I want you to go back to your uncle's house. You don't talk to anyone, you don't go anywhere else. Go straight there and get yourself back together before he comes home."

A glossy sheen coated her eyes and she stood still as he stroked her messy hair back, pulled her bonnet back in place atop of her head. He tugged her zouave jacket closer around her, he even bent down to brush the worst of the dirt off her skirt from when she'd fallen after he'd shoved her. He looked at her and she saw his mouth move but she couldn't comprehend what he was saying, so she didn't respond. This time, he didn't seem to get angry with her though. He just went over to the two men who still stood with their backs to the alleyway-dead-end. After he'd spoken with them, they left, and Ray came back to her.

There was no force in his hand when he took her arm—the hold was even gentle, as gentle as he was capable of being. And still, it hurt her.

He led her back down the alley to the street, curved her in the direction of her uncle's house. Her aching back received a soft nudge and maybe he said something more to her, but she just didn't know.

The walk home was very much like the walk out had been—she had no recollection of it. The moment she became aware of herself again, she was standing in the foyer of her uncle's house just gazing at the hallway, with no clue about how long she'd been standing there. In a half-daze, she went to the staircase and slowly climbed it, still wearing her jacket, bonnet and gloves. She nearly climbed the second half of the steps on all fours because her muscles were giving out. But she made it all the way up and to her bedroom. She went in and closed the door behind her, walked to the bed.

Her whole body hurt. Her back, her arms, her neck—one big, pulsating agony. Every movement she made was drawn out as she took off her bonnet and another piercing pain made itself known. She looked down at her delicate, white gloves, saw that a couple of fingertips on each hand were spotted red, soaked through with blood. Removing them was painful too.

Everything was crumbling inside her. The walls that had held her up for what seemed like an eternity were collapsing, falling and landing in ruins all around her. She couldn't do this anymore.

Her jacket, bonnet and spoiled gloves were thrown haphazardly into a closet. She sat down on the bed, moved to lay on her side, drawing her legs up under her. Then she cried.

Waves of pure wretchedness rolled through her and her body convulsed with each one. Tortured sobs, hopelessness and creeping blackness filled the little room and Madeline lay in it, the pain continuing to abuse her until blessed sleep overtook her.


He awoke with that same sour taste on his tongue that seemed to be there every time he opened his eyes now. His upper and lower lashes were sticky and he had to do a quick succession of blinks to get them to stop clinging together. Expecting to see his father, he rolled his head left on the pillow. Even in his foggy-brained state, he was mildly surprised when he saw that the chair by the bed was empty.

He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. With a groan, he dropped his heavy head in his hands, but that just made him aware of how much his injured arm hurt, now that he could actually feel again. It felt as though the skin on his forearm was splitting.

What he wouldn't give for a drink right now . . . just to take the edge off. Not only for the pain but just as much to escape this overwhelming feeling of shame coursing through him. Because he remembered everything that had happened before he'd been taken to his room by his father. In animated detail, he recalled his own reckless behavior, his spiteful, bitter words and worst of all, he remembered the looks on his younger brothers' faces. Right now, shame enclosed him at his lowest point, smothered him, and he no longer had an escape from it.

Some commotion from downstairs broke through his self-loathing. His head lifted, and he tried to concentrate, listen. There was more noise and now raised voices. Was that Cantonese yelling he could hear? Hop Sing must be back from his visit to his cousin then. The cook had probably caught Hoss stealing something from the kitchen . . . It was a very plausible explanation, given that it had happened so many times before. But this time . . . no, not this time.

Something was wrong, he could feel it.

Adam got up from the bed and stood swaying. He was an outright mess—the word mess was indeed the most accurate one he could think of to describe his condition. It seemed to encompass all his immediate feelings; the nausea, the heaviness in every limb, the complete exhaustion and devastating dejection. And yet, in spite of all that, he had a strange sense suddenly telling him to get out of this room—go downstairs.

With a slight wobble, he walked across the room to the closed door. When he opened it and came out into the hall, his awareness sharpened further, and he moved faster because now he could plainly hear his father's concerned voice.

He reached the top of the stairs at an unlikely speed and held onto the wooden railing as he got a view of the sitting room.

"What's wrong?"

His father, Hoss and Hop Sing were huddled in front of the settee and his question made them all look up at him

"It's Joe," his father said, expressions of anger and worry battling for his face. "He's been bushwhacked."

Adam had to grab the staircase railing with his other hand too to support himself. His eyes flashing with sudden alertness, he started down the stairs, feeling his pulse thundering in his neck. He caught a glimpse of Joe when Hoss leaned down by the settee to pick him up. Holding Joe's limp form in his arms, Hoss made for the staircase with their father following. They met a few steps up, and Adam stopped Hoss from going further when he reached out to take his baby brother's dangling hand.

"Joe . . .?"

Joe was out cold and his head was tipped in against Hoss' chest, but on the side of his face that Adam could see, there was a thin trail of blood running from his nose and a purple bruise along his cheekbone.

"I got 'im Adam, let's get 'im to his room, okay?"

Hoss continued up the stairs before Adam could reply and suddenly his father rushed past him too, touching his shoulder briefly on the way.

"I get water and bandage, Mr. Adam," Hop Sing called up to him from the sitting room. "You go, be with Littah Joe."

Shaking himself free of his momentary shock, Adam nodded at the cook, then went back up the stairs. The fog around his mind had dissolved within seconds and his thinking was now clearer than it had been for several days. With quick and purposeful strides, he hurried down the hall to Joe's bedroom door and entered.

"Hoss get his boots."

"Yea Pa."

Adam watched his father and brother hovering by the bed, removing Joe's boots and muddied, green jacket. Joe was lying motionless as they maneuvered him around, showing no signs of consciousness. Making his way to the other side of the bed, Adam's eyes were intent on his kid brother.

". . . What happened to him?"

"We don't know," his father said, sounding strained while he unbuttoned Joe's shirt. "Hop Sing hired a ride home from town and found your brother lying at the side of the road with Cochise standing nearby. They were closer to here than Virginia City, so he decided to bring Joe straight home."

Adam leaned over the bed. "Has he been awake at all?"

"No . . . he was like this when Hop Sing found him. Someone just left him this way after emptying his wallet and saddlebags."

With a careful hand, Adam touched Joe's curls in a gentle caress. There was dirt in his hair and little mud-splatters on his other cheek. When Adam saw that, his lips compressed, and he felt a rush of heat rise up his neck. The thought of someone beating up his little brother and leaving him unconscious in the mud . . .

"Do we have any idea who did this?" he asked in a low voice.

"No, we ain't, not yet." Hoss faced him, and the big man's usually kind, mellow demeanor held a smoldering sense of violence waiting to be unleashed. "But I tell ya Adam, when I find the fellas who did . . . I'm gonna tear 'em limb from limb."

"We'll discuss that later." Their father's firm insistence broke through their mounting tempers and he eyed them both meaningfully "Right now, we need to check him over to see how badly hurt he is, so we can decide if we need to send for Paul."

Both older brothers glanced down at their sibling, then back at each other, silently agreeing to put their anger aside for now.

"Yea, all right, Pa," Hoss said.

They turned their attention back to Joe and while Hoss and their father got him undressed, Adam checked his head for any serious injuries. He found an impressive bump on the back of Joe's head which was undoubtedly the cause of the kid's passed-out condition. Adam knew just how unpredictable head-wounds could be, but at least there was no blood around the lump.

They were all quite relieved to find no injuries that appeared too alarming. He'd been pretty badly beaten and had a couple of bruised ribs along with a developing black eye, but nothing seemed to be broken. Still, it was an upsetting situation for everyone and Hoss and Adam could see the toll it was taking on their father. The worst part was that Joe still hadn't woken up.

Hop Sing came up with the water and bandages and some of the Chinese herbal liniment he always kept on hand for situations exactly like this. In all honesty, a beaten-up Cartwright brother wasn't exactly a rare occurrence and Hop Sing knew that better than anyone, well, except for maybe Paul Martin.

Seeing that there wasn't much else he could do there, Hoss said he'd go out and look in on Cochise. That came as no surprise to Adam. It was such a typical Hoss-thing to do and by taking care of Cochise, he was also taking care of Joe. The four Cartwrights cared for all animals, especially their horses, but the bond between Joe and Cochise was indeed very special, very much like the one Adam had with Sport.

When Hoss had left, it was mostly their father and Hop Sing who tended to Joe. Adam wasn't much help now that his left arm was rendered pretty much useless on account of the numbing pain throbbing all the way from his elbow to his wrist. He didn't say anything about how bad it was though. He knew that he deserved to feel it.

He'd been so caught up in himself and his own sorrow—he hadn't cared about how it was all affecting his family. He'd behaved selfishly and he'd said cruel, hurtful things to them when they were only trying to help him. Things he couldn't take back. And now, his little brother was lying on a bed, beaten and unconscious, and he couldn't even apologize. It was one thing after the other, his life seemed to be rotating with heartache and he was so tired of it all.

When Joe had been cleaned up and his ribs bandaged, Adam sat in a chair on one side of the bed while his pa sat on the other. Hop Sing had gone off in a huff to "get house back in order", and Adam had noticed the open gratitude in the look his father gave the departing cook. He'd realized then, how much pressure his pa must have been under lately with worrying about him, looking out for Joe and Hoss, tending to ranch business and doing everything without Hop Sing around to take care of all those practical chores that made the household function.

The thought stirred the deep shame already eating away at him.

They sat together for several minutes in the room, both of them just watching Joe when Adam eventually spoke.

"Pa, you want me to send someone to get Paul?"

"We'll wait a bit." His father's eyes lifted from Joe and settled on him instead. "It isn't as bad as I thought at first and the worst is that lump on his head. If he doesn't wake within the next hour, we'll send someone for Paul, otherwise we'll wait until tomorrow."

"All right."

Adam looked back at Joe, but those brown lashes were lying still, not about to flutter open. He stood from the chair and held his left arm close to himself. Without saying anything else, he headed for the door.

"Adam . . . where are you going?"

His father's words were slow, like they were weighed down with trepidation and hearing it made another pang of guilt strike Adam's heart. He turned back around and out of all the things he knew he should be showing with his face—regret, repentance, shame—he only managed tired reassurance.

"It's time I got cleaned up. I'll be back in a little while."

Instantly, relief soothed the anxiety in his father's features and he slumped in his chair, nodding. He even gave a small smile. But Adam couldn't return that smile, he had no right to and when his pa faced Joe again, he left the room.

xXXx

He walked down the hall and stopped on the threshold of the doorway, trying to comprehend the sight of his own room. He'd been living in this room—practically hadn't left it for the last one and a half days and yet he hadn't seen it. Not really. But he was seeing it now, that was for sure.

Bottles, clothes, papers all over the place and dried-out splashes of alcohol sticky on the floor. Uncertain, he stepped forward, looking around himself at all the chaos.

How had all this happened?

His creased uniform lay on the bed, disrespected, tossed aside. He wanted to go over and fold it neatly as he'd always kept it, but he couldn't move. On his desk lay the last letter he'd ever gotten from a friend no longer alive and next to it . . . a telegram. On the floor were crumbled pieces of paper—miserable, failed attempts at a letter to the woman he loved.

Everywhere he looked, he saw his own suffering. It had taken over the entire room. It made him feel sick and even more disgusted when his eyes started to burn and his throat closed up. He'd walked straight into an ambush, crippling emotions lying in wait for him. Floored by the state of everything, he glanced left which he definitely shouldn't have done because that was where the long, oval mirror stood.

God, who was that . . . ? It couldn't be . . .

Staring at the shocked face in the mirror, he lifted the palm of his hand to his cheek and felt coarse beard touching him back.

What have you done?

Unable to bear the accusing tone, he turned away from the face because he had no answer for the question.

Coward . . .

A coward? . . . yes. Yes, he was. He couldn't stand seeing the glaring, wordless truth that only mirrors could tell of. In their language of reflection.

He closed his eyes, tipped his chin up and gripped the bandage around his arm—let it burn just a little more. Just a little more.

Weak . . .

Yes. He was weak too. Only a weak man would seek refuge in physical pain to avoid an agony much greater.

He breathed in. A lungful of air that seemed infused with misery—his own—along with that lingering scent of intoxicating spirits that teased his senses, promised him solace. Tempted him anew.

Defeated.

He opened his eyes, released the breath. Let go of his arm.

No.

He started wandering restlessly around the room, and God, his control was slipping again. Thoughts were becoming fragmented in his head, plunging down to that dark void in his soul that he couldn't hide anymore and he fought the urge to cover his ears with his hands.

Through his haggard breathing he swore at himself—cursed himself, hatefully, because now wasn't the time for this. Not now. He needed his wits about him.

Give into the cravings of the physical self . . . the cost, emotional death.

He wheeled around and stomped over to his tormentor. His fist clenched—desperately itching to smash that image looking back at him to smithereens—give release to all that pent-up something inside of him in what would be an extraordinary explosion of broken mirror shards, fractured truths, and a bloodied fist.

For a moment, he saw it happen . . . but only as a figment of his imagination. Because he didn't actually do it. What he did instead was, he forced himself to look at the face in the mirror. At his face.

Startled eyes trailed over every pained line, every tense feature and saw all the fear, shame, the anguish. Absorbed everything and accepted it. Until there was nothing more to see and the shock subsided. And left room for the beginnings of some sort of peace. He kept watching himself—growing calmer with every second. He saw his own shoulders lower a little, saw his chest lift and fall more evenly.

This mirror had told him a truth, yes, but right now, it was telling an even bigger lie. Because the mirror showed him as whole and he wasn't. He was as the broken, shattered mirror in his imagination would have shown him.

For him, there was no running from it. What he was. And there was no lying about it.

But that didn't really matter because he was still needed. His family needed him. His baby brother needed him. With all his heart, he wanted to believe that Madeline still needed him in some way. Whether he was whole or just broken little pieces, he still had a purpose.

Adam turned his back to the mirror. He looked at the room and without giving himself time to think too much about it, he went to the nearest cluttered spot which happened to be his dresser overburdened with clothes and a few bottles. It wasn't a very fast-paced or efficient tidying-demonstration of his, but with one arm, he did the best he could.

Once he'd finished with that area, he moved towards the rumpled bed when he heard scurrying footsteps from the hallway behind him. As expected, Hop Sing appeared in the doorway and Adam met him with a chagrined grimace. He really wasn't proud of the state of the place.

But Hop Sing strode in as if it was quite normal that it looked like a hurricane had struck the room and he stopped in front of Adam. In a very matter of fact manner, the cook stuck a handful of black clothes out towards his good arm.

"Here. You take fresh clothes. Shaving things weaddy for you in washroom. You wash up now, I look at bad arm after."

"Uh . . . thanks, Hop Sing, but I was just—" He had to take the clothes when Hop Sing tried to stuff them under his arm. "Well, I guess I can go and wash up first."

A little puzzled, he moved towards the door but Hop Sing didn't follow. The cook wiped his hands on his apron, the one Madeline had made for him, walked over to the bed and began clearing all the bottles and letters away.

"Hop Sing, leave it, I'll clean up in here—"

"Mr. Adam." Hop Sing twisted back to him, directing a finger at him. "YOU clean YOU"—he then pointed to himself—"I clean room."

"No, I should be tidying up this mess, not you."

He was halfway back to the bed when the cook scurried over and stood in his way. Looking up at him, Hop Sing's sharp eyes radiated profound understanding as well as fierce persistence.

"In family, when person make mess, everybody got mess. All help clean up. It what family do, Mr. Adam."

The simple, earnest message wasn't at all what Adam had expected to hear and it successfully quashed any further protests he would have tried to make. With a slow, soft expression, he dipped his chin.

"Thanks, Hop Sing."

"You welcome, Mr. Adam. Now, you go wash up! Use velly much soap. I take look at arm after, so you no run off."

Hop Sing was back by the bed in an instant, springing into action. For the first time in a long, long while, Adam's habitual half-smile graced his face as he watched the cook. It stayed there when he walked out into the hall and headed for the washroom.

xXXx

Ben's chair creaked through the quiet when he leaned forwards, studying his youngest son fixedly.

"Adam, I think he's about to wake up . . ."

He glanced over at his firstborn, but Adam had already seen Joe's eyelids twitch and was bending forwards in his own chair.

"Joe?" Ben said, stroking his son's arm.

The rich brown lashes flickered between half-open and shut for a few seconds until finally, they opened fully. First, his eyes were slightly cloudy and they disappeared behind the lashes again. Ben held his arm tighter.

"Can you hear me, son?"

Joe's eyes opened again, and this time they became more focused. His body seemed to sink lower down into the bed, and Ben knew he was relaxing with the knowledge that his pa was there. Suddenly, the young man stiffened when he noted the person sitting to his other side.

Squinting at his brother, his voice came out unstable and unsure.

". . . Adam?"

Adam shifted, seemed just as unsure. "Hey, little buddy . . ."

There was a pause. Adam tried a tentative half-smile for his younger brother and Ben's heart melted at the sight.

Joe mumbled, "You're . . . you . . ."

Although words left him, Ben understood how he felt. The father was having trouble containing his own emotions when his youngest boy fought against a quivering lip-pout.

"It's all right, Joe," Adam said, taking hold of his hand. "I'm all right now."

Joe blinked as little spasms crossed his face. He quickly wiped at his eyes with his other hand and let out a gravely chuckle.

"Is this supposed to be the cleaned-up you? Cause you still look pretty terrible, older brother."

His smile growing, Adam rubbed his now clean-shaven, pale cheek and gestured to him. "You're not looking too good yourself, kid."

"I don't feel all that good either."

With a wincing smile, Joe moved a little under the covers.

"JOE! Yur awake!"

Hoss came into the room, his mouth open in a grin of joy. He went straight to the bed and gave Joe's arm a pat.

"I'm sure glad to have ya back with us, shortshanks . . ." His grin faded away. "How are you feeling?"

"Kinda like you fell from the barn roof and landed on my head."

He looked caught off guard at first, but then he laughed loudly, and Adam smiled too. Ben was just glad to see the cheeky liveliness back in those green orbs of his youngest son.

"I've been out fussin' over Cochise in the barn," Hoss said. "He's nice'n warm and well-fed now."

"Thanks, Hoss. Even while I was out, I could feel he was there with me. I'm just glad the bushwhackers didn't take him."

"Yea, me too."

Hoss glanced at his father and other brother for the first time since entering the room and he did a double-take when he saw Adam. His jaw dropped and he moved unwittingly around to the other side of the bed.

"Doggone it, Adam . . ." He halted by his brother's chair, and the amazement gradually left his countenance. Laying a hand on Adam's shoulder, he regarded him with calm sincerity instead. "I'm glad to have you back with us too."

Adam hesitated, then he nodded, but avoided looking directly at either of his siblings. Ben had a good idea about the reason, but decided to divert the attention off his eldest and onto the pressing matter concerning his youngest.

"Joe," he said, "can you tell us what happened?"

Joe rested back against the pillows and sighed. "I don't remember much, Pa. I . . . I was leaving Virginia City and stopped to let Cochise have some water before the ride when someone came up behind me, knocked me down."

"You said bushwhackers just before," Adam said, emphasizing the plural, "any idea how many they were?"

"No . . . I woke up once, hanging off Cochise. It was outside town somewhere and I heard their voices, there might've been three . . . more than two at least." Joe looked thoughtful. "How did I get home?"

"Hop Sing found you lying along the road on his way from town," Ben said in a voice cold with resentment. "The bushwhackers must've left you there."

"Dadburnit, them stinkin' good for nothin—" Hoss broke off and his scowl turned to a confused frown. "How come they got the jump on ya anyhow, Joe? It ain't like ya."

Gingerly, Joe touched the back of his head. "I know, I guess I just had a lot of things going through my mind."

The room went quiet and Ben could tell that Joe regretted saying that, especially when Adam drooped dejectedly in his chair.

"I, well, I mean that I just wasn't paying enough attention . . ."

Clearing his throat, Adam straightened up, obviously trying to appear unaffected. "Did you meet up with anyone in particular or get into a bad poker game at the saloon? Anything you did in town might be connected to whoever did this."

Joe threw a cautious glance at Hoss but he was busy looking for something in his pockets.

"No . . . I didn't play poker," he said, fidgeting with the edge of his blanket. "I just . . . wanted to see what was happening in town."

Ben's gaze travelled from his youngest to his middle son. "Hoss told me you were meeting some friends?"

"Well . . . uh, I, yea. That was what I was gonna do and then I kinda . . . ran into Madeline and just sort of forgot and . . . rode around . . . some."

Another quiet spell.

"Wait—" Adam held up a hand, eyes narrowed. ". . . You went to town to see Madeline?"

Joe faced him with clear apprehension. "Don't be angry, Adam. I was just trying to help . . ."

"I'm not angry, I—" He mumbled something inaudible to himself and stood from the chair, apparently needing to move suddenly, which Hoss quickly made sure he had plenty of room for by keeping a good few feet's distance.

"So you talked to Madeline . . . and that was all you did in town and then this happened?"

"Yea . . . you were just so . . . I just wanted to get her to come out and talk to you—"

"Oh, she's gonna talk to me all right."

Ben watched his pacing firstborn. "Adam . . ."

Adam stopped and flipped his good arm out. "Look Pa, she was the last person to talk to Joe before he was attacked. Maybe she isn't aware of it but she might've seen something, someone suspicious, anything." His eyes seemed to turn inward, as if the next thing he said was a promise to himself. "And if she did, I'm gonna find out, whether she wants to talk to me or not."

Hoss backed him up. "Adam's got a point, Pa. Miss Madeline might be the best chance we got at catchin' them fellas who did this to Joe."

Raising both hands, palms out, Ben agreed. "All right . . . so what do you want to do?"

"I'm going to town to see her tomorrow," Adam said.

Joe spoke up. "She did tell me that she'd come out here to visit you tomorrow . . ."

". . . She did?" Adam's brow lifted in surprise.

"Yea."

"Hey, ain't tomorrow that Virginia City annual rodeo show?" Hoss asked.

"Yea, that's right . . ." Joe snapped his fingers. "Then we better all go."

Ben drilled his youngest further down into the bed with a stern look. "You, young man, will stay right here in this bed."

"But Pa, I might remember something more tomorrow . . . and it's the annual rodeo, it only comes once a year!"

"Yes, Joseph, I am aware of what the word 'annual' means. Nevertheless, you won't be seeing the rodeo until next year."

Joe attempted to do a disappointed arm-cross, but jarred his bruised ribs instead. When he winced in pain, Ben swiftly went to help settle him better.

The discussion was effectively ended when those characteristic scurrying steps entered the room. Hop Sing came over and set a tray loaded with roast pork and sweet potatoes down across Joe's lap, then he ordered the other three Cartwrights to go down and eat their supper before the meal went cold and dry. Despite all the dramatic events that had taken place throughout the day, the sight and thought of food still brought an eager smile to Hoss' lips. Before he was pushed out of the room by the Chinese cook, he told Joe he'd bring up the checker-board as soon as he'd finished eating. Ben was pleased at that because he knew that the thing that always bothered Joe the most about being ill or injured was the time spent alone in his room, confined to the bed.

Following Hoss and Hop Sing, Ben went out into the hall, but he stopped when he noticed that Adam had hung back in Joe's room. The father stayed still out in the hallway and heard Joe's hesitant voice.

"Hey, Adam?"

". . . Yea?"

"You think that . . . you're gonna come up again later? You know . . . for a game of checkers maybe?"

Ben listened hopefully until Adam's soft response came.

"Sure, Joe. If you want, I'll come up in a bit."

"Okay . . . I'd like that."

Preferring to avoid being caught eavesdropping, Ben continued down the hall, and he sensed his oldest son exit Joe's room behind him. But as he got to the staircase, he realized that Adam hadn't followed him. Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, he wavered. Then he turned on his heel and strode back down the hall, past Joe's room—to the only other place his boy could have gone.

"Well," he said, walking into Adam's perfectly orderly bedroom. "This place certainly looks a lot more like it used to."

Adam stood by his desk with his back to him, fingering a tidy stack of letters on the wooden top. Ben glimpsed the dark-blue uniform lying neatly folded on the foot of the bed.

"Hop Sing cleaned up . . . I didn't ask him to."

"You generally don't ask people to do things for you very often, Adam." He approached his son's back. "But it doesn't hurt to let them every once in a while."

He stopped just behind him, waited.

"I'm sorry, Pa . . ."

For what, boy? Being human?

Adam bowed his head, giving Ben a clear view of those little, rebellious curls thriving at the back of his neck, like they'd done when he was just a baby. Back then, it had been so much easier, soothing him.

"I know you are, son."

"I'm not sure that I . . . I don't know how to . . ."

Ben laid a hand against his back. "Sometimes, people don't know. We don't always know how or why and we're not supposed to. But we have each other, family and friends. People who care and who love us and want to help us find the answers to those questions. If we let them . . ."

Adam stayed silent and Ben found it strangely comforting, feeling that strong back rising and falling with each breath under his hand.

"You don't need my forgiveness, Adam. You already have it, like you've always had it. And if you'd looked—really looked at your brothers just before—you would have seen that you have theirs too." He withdrew his hand. "What you need . . . is your own."

He knew better than to expect his reserved son to suddenly pour his heart out to him. If that day ever came with Adam . . . he actually had no idea about how he would even handle it, yet he still wanted to. As a father of three grown boys, it was something he'd learned to live with—the pondering over how he'd failed his first child. What had he done wrong or left out in raising Adam that had made him this way, so different from Joe, and to a degree, Hoss? Could he have done anything to prevent some or even just one of those tragic events which had hardened that young boy?

Adam wasn't going to change overnight, but he did have his moments, little ways and times of opening up and Ben cherished each one.

The most important thing to him right now, was that he'd gotten his message across and he knew that he had because Adam wasn't speaking, he was busy thinking.

Ben turned and started to head out of the room.

"I'd like you to come down and have some supper with us, son."

It wasn't quite an order but it was firmer than a request. Whether little boys or grown men, sons sometimes needed that—their fathers telling them what to do, lightly nudging them back on the right track again. Adam was no different there.

"Yea. I'll be down in a minute, Pa."

Ben walked out into the hall feeling a new strength running through him. His family would endure this trial as long as they had each other.