CHAPTER FIFTY

"What is it, Mr. Cartwright?" Carrie asked as she rushed into the guest bedroom, Alyssa on her heels, their eyes darting immediately to the figure in the bed.

Removing the bullet from Joe's thigh had been more than Carrie had bargained for. The extraction was done successfully and with minimal blood loss, but being seeing the pain on Joe's face had left Carrie exhausted, frazzled, and more connected to Joe than she ever dreamed possible.

Both Alyssa and Ben had praised her for her skill, thanked her for helping Joe, and told her how proud they were of her level headedness throughout the difficult surgery. Yet truth be told, Carrie had been terrified. She'd observed Doctor Martin on many occasions, even assisted a few times with gunshot victims, but to instantly take the responsibility of removing a bullet upon herself had surprised even Carrie. Circumstances had left her no choice. Joe had to be helped, and she was the only one able to do so.

His cries of pain and pleas for relief hadn't been easy to set aside. Carrie had barely begun when he broke free of Alyssa's hold and reached for her hand, begging her to stop probing for the bullet. If not for Ben's swift descent, Carrie might have lost the courage she'd mustered. Even now, Carrie could still feel Joe's hand, cold and damp with sweat, his fingers wrapped tightly around her wrist. She could feel his eyes penetrating hers, beseeching her to find some way to end his agony.

Now, she shuddered as she reached his bedside, recalling the decision she'd made to move him from the settee to the bedroom, and the difficulty with which that move had been accomplished. She prayed that regret for her decision would not arise.

"He called out for you, Carrie," Ben said, leaning forward in the chair next to the bed. "He said his leg is on fire."

Carrie first felt Joe's forehead, smoothing back a curl of his hair.

Joe pushed against her hand and its cooling touch.

She raised the sheet from the bottom of the bed, the slight breeze causing Joe to shiver. Carefully, she checked his wound and the surrounding area.

Ben breathed a sigh of relief when she smiled up at him.

"No fever and no excessive heat around the wound," Carrie announced. "I'm sure he was hurting, but as far as I can tell, there's no cause for alarm." Gently, she covered Joe, folding the sheet just below his neck.

"Pa," Joe moaned, "is Hoss back yet? Did he find Mercy?"

"Not yet, Joe," Ben answered. "Don't you worry about that now, son. You just rest."

"Pa?"

"Yes, son?"

"What if Stu hurts her? More than he already has?"

Ben swallowed hard. "We're all praying that he doesn't, son."

"Pa?"

"Yes, Joe? Carrie fixed me up real good, didn't she?"

Ben raised thankful eyes to the young woman standing on the other side of the bed. "She sure did, Joseph. She sure did. Now you rest, son."

Joe's thankful eyes swallowed Carrie as the ends of his mouth turned upward, ever so slightly. Within seconds, those same eyes fell heavily and Joe was fast asleep.

Carrie took a seat next to the bed, her body aching from tensed muscles and emotions. She sighed as she sank back against the softness of the cushion and allowed her eyes to close as she listened for Joe's breathing.

With the watchful eyes of his nurse temporarily closed, Ben pressed his palms against the chair, trying yet again to find a position that would allow him to fool Carrie and remain in a chair and not stretched out on the settee or alongside his son on the guest room bed. He winced as a familiar pain shot from his hip to his shoulder. What he did not expect was, unlike the other times he'd shifted or moved on his own, this time, the pain did not subside. Clenching his jaw, he rested his head against the pillow Alyssa had slipped behind his neck. Satisfied that the pain did not worsen, Ben tried in vain to overlook the throbbing in his body by concentrating on the happy reunion he prayed would soon take place.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Circles of brilliant gold and shining silver light bounced atop the surface, twinkling their replies to the questions from the stars now hidden from the sky. Rays of heat caressed each rock, each tree and every thin, hearty blade of grass. The smell of the Ponderosa pines swirled around the scent of crystal blue water and together, they danced through the clean, Nevada air. He'd talked of a place such as this although 'talked' did nothing to describe the emotion, awe, and longing on his face. The soothing calm in his voice and the love radiating from his eyes as he spoke of his home warmed the breeze and lightened the memories of the day.

"Adam," she whispered, her own voice carried away with a puff of air.

"Prince Adam ain't here!" Stu shouted as Mercy sifted through the sounds and smells, slowly bringing herself back to consciousness.

"You all right, miss?" Hoss asked, his concern riling Stu's already harried state of mind.

Mercy's reply was buried beneath the crack and thud of Stu's pistol against Hoss's jaw.

"SHUT UP, FAT HOSS!"

Mercy gasped as Hoss's head pitched to the side, his blood spurting through the air.

Hoss calmly wiped his mouth on his shoulder before turning back to Mercy. "You fainted, miss," Hoss said. "I'm powerful sorry, but I gotta ask. Do you remember what I told you?" He saw the turmoil in her eyes as she nodded her head. He opened his mouth to speak, knowing in his heart that nothing short of Adam bursting through the door could answer the colliding questions and scenarios in her mind.

"I SAID SHUT UP!"

Gray pain swirled into black relief, warm blood trickled from a gash on his head, and Hoss grasped at the last sound he heard - Mercy's cry. "NO!"

"You didn't have to hurt him!" Mercy cried.

"What do you care?" Stu yelled, malice gleaming from his eyes. He grabbed Hoss by the hair, checking his level of consciousness, then released his grasp, sending Hoss's head plummeting toward his chest. "Fat Hoss isn't so tough after all! Especially without Prince Adam to step in and fight his battles!"

Stu staggered past Mercy and she watched him lurch his way into the kitchen of the old house. He's mad! Crazy! And, oh God, Adam's alive? How? It isn't possible. Maybe Hoss was playing along with Stu. Adam always said Hoss was very clever when you'd least expect it. But his eyes. His eyes told the story with a purity of truth that his words couldn't match. Adam is alive!

Hugging her legs close to her chest, she rested her chin atop her knees. Rocking slightly, she clamped her eyes shut, blocking out the dismal room and the sight of Hoss, his head drooping against his shoulder, only to have the image of Adam's face appear in her mind. A sob escaped from deep inside her. I . . . love you. I think, more now than ever. How is that possible? If I close my eyes, I can feel the fabric of your shirt against my cheek. As I breathe, I smell your scent, masculine and earthy. If I listen, I hear your heart beating in rhythm with mine.

The clunk of something quite heavy and hard colliding with shattering glass jolted Mercy from her daydream. Low mumbling echoed from the kitchen, and for a moment she thought Stu's absence may ensure their safety. But as the frantic burble grew louder, all hope was lost, snuffed out like the flame of a nearby candle whose smoke lilted then faded into the darkness as Stu's shadow passed by. Terrified, Mercy cowered on the bed, her mind conjuring images to match the wailings of a madman.

"This is rightfully mine!" he shouted. "I did all the work, followed all their rules! Even took a tanning from my father 'cause I was studyin' on this instead o' finishin' my chores!" In his hand, trembling with fear and anger, Stu held a small, pine-carved trophy. The star, seated atop a five inch by seven inch block of wood, had been veiled for nearly fifteen years behind a sturdy cabinet, beneath a loosened floorboard in the Weaver kitchen.

With no more ancient, hidden whiskey bottles to be found, Stu's raging moments earlier had sent the cabinet toppling to the floor. Shards of glass and thick splinters of wood now dotted the dust covered floor. Even in his stupor, he noticed the warped board along the wall and the memory of him sneaking, years ago, into the kitchen late one evening flooded his mind.

The trophy had been awarded to the student at the Virginia City school who had written the best essay for the Founder's Day Celebration. And although Stu had spent countless hours on his composition, the result was deemed worthy of second place. The winner announced that day at the celebration was Adam Cartwright.

Stu had watched, his emotions seething, as the people of Virginia City applauded the decision, showering Adam with the praise and admiration Stu felt he alone deserved. And later that day, when the trophy had mysteriously disappeared from the Cartwrights' buckboard, Stu was infuriated by the outpouring of consolation for the talented young writer.

And now, years later, the warped floorboard revealed a long-forgotten reminder of Adam and his successes as well as Stu and his failures, and the strange, malicious voices that had controlled much of Stu's life returned, their words a jumble of hatred and ridicule.

As Mercy listened, the mayhem in the kitchen continued, each crash seemingly more violent than the last, as Stu destroyed what had been abandoned in his kitchen. Relieved that he was liberating himself of some of his demons by smashing things instead of hurting Hoss or herself, Mercy listened carefully as her captor's emotions imploded.

"NEVER! I was NEVER good enough for you, was I father?" Stu yelled. "Not smart enough. Not handsome enough. Not kind enough. Not successful enough. Not . . . not a Cartwright! Not Prince Adam!"

Mercy flinched at the thunderous booming sound that followed. He's mad and he's destroying everything!

"Quiet! QUIET!" Stu cried. "I told you not to speak to me again! EVER!"

Another crash - breaking glass - and then an eerie, ever-changing tone of voice made Mercy's skin crawl.

"Why won't you stop talking to me? I have to pay attention to the teacher. If I don't, she'll tell my papa 'n' he'll tan my hide! Shh! All of you, stop talking! I have to listen!"

Mercy's heart raced as she listened to Stu's mind crumbling in the next room.

"Why do I have to do that? Why do you want me to hurt him? If I steal something, do I still have to hurt him? . . . I don't wanna! His brother will come after me again! Shh! Don't tell me I HAVE to. You can't tell me I HAVE to! Show yourselves! All of you! Why are you whispering? What are you gonna do to me?"

Mercy shivered. I thought he was capable of anything before. Dear God, what will he be capable of now? Frantically, she searched the room. Hoss. I have to get to Hoss.

Another incoherent cry from the kitchen reached beyond the pounding in Hoss's unconscious mind. He stirred, the movement stabbing against the back of his neck.

"Hoss!" Mercy whispered, dropping her feet to the floor and leaning as far forward as her restraints permitted. "Hoss, can you hear me?"

He licked his lips, flinching as his tongue made contact with the split and tasted the blood still running from it. He tensed his arms against the ropes, forgetting in the moment that he'd been securely bound. His eyes opened, slowly, squinting in the darkened room as he endeavored to focus.

"Hoss! Don't try to move. You're tied and pretty badly hurt," Mercy said. "Stu's in another room. Hoss, he's gone mad! He's talking to himself and smashing things. Hoss? Hoss, can you hear me?"

"Yes'im," Hoss moaned. "Did he hurtcha while I was out?"

Astonished that his first thought was of her condition, Mercy's heart warmed to the man Adam proudly called brother. "No, Hoss. He didn't," she assured. "He's been in that room for quite a while now. I don't know how much longer it'll be before he comes back in here. What can we do?"

Hoss tested the ropes binding his ankles. Mercy watched as he wiggled his feet against one another, hoping to loosen the hold. The sound of footsteps, heavy and erratic, filled them both with dread.

"Mercy!" Hoss whispered quickly. "Whatever happens, you run when ya can, ya hear me? Git ta my horse. He's out in the front, 'bout twenty yards from the house."

"But, Hoss . . ."

"Do as I say! Git to my horse, his name's Chubb. Git in the saddle and tell him ta go home! And don't look back."

"But . . ."

"JIST DO IT!"

"Well, lookie here," Stu slurred as he wobbled into the room, tossing the trophy aside. "Fat Hoss is all finished with his nap! Now maybe ole Stu can have a little fun."

Mercy stared, fearful eyes glistening with tears, as he slithered across the room, bumping against the small table. He fumbled with the knob on the lamp, turning it up before falling against the bed. Mercy shrieked as he landed alongside her, his stench lending to the bile already rising in her throat.

"Well, now, Miss Mercy Kinkead," he muttered, "let's have a little kiss."

As he leaned against her, she yanked with astounding strength at the handcuffs trapping her. She shuddered as his lips pressed against hers while his hands roamed her neck and bared shoulders. She cried at his assault, shrinking back against the wall as he leaned against her.

Hoss's breaths came in heaving gusts, puffing his cheeks. I gotta git him away from her. I gotta find a . . . Hoss grinned. "Adam wouldn't need handcuffs ta take a woman," he yelled.

"SHUT UP, HOSS!"

"Mercy, you know Adam. Tell old Stu here that Adam likes his women ta touch him back," Hoss ordered, the words stinging as they flowed from his mouth. Please, Mercy. Play along. It could be our only chance.

"HOSS!" she shouted, appalled by his declaration.

A strong, gusty breeze from the opened back door weaved its way through the room, encouraging the cracked lamp to flare in a burst of light that filled the room for mere seconds - seconds that allowed unspoken signals from Hoss's eyes to Mercy's.

"Tell him, Mercy! Adam would NEVER have his way with a gal who couldn't . . . return the pleasure," Hoss said, spitting the words from his mouth.

Mercy's nod was imperceptible to Stu as he kissed her neck, his hot breath attacking her skin.

"That's right, Stu," she whispered, her voice quivering and broken. "Adam would let me loose so I could . . . please him the way . . . he was pleasing me." Mercy swallowed bile, nearly choking as she did.

Stu raised himself to his knees, a sick grin covering his face. He reached into his pocket for the key and hurriedly unlocked the cuffs, letting Mercy's numbed hands fall, her wrists bleeding and swollen.

"Now you behave, little lady," Stu said, "and we'll have ourselves a real nice time while Fat Hoss watches!" Stu snickered at the thought. "Bet Adam never letcha watch, did he?"

Hoss gagged as his stomach roiled. "No, he didn't. But I can't see real good from here, Stu," Hoss said. "I really wanna see, Stu. So's I kin tell Adam whatcha did to his girl. You want me ta tell Adam, don'tcha Stu?"

Mercy, rubbing her wrists, willed herself to look at Hoss. She saw the loathing on his face, the desperation in his eyes and the tension in his body as he readied himself to make a move.

"All I need is ta move over a bit, Stu. Just ta move this here chair a little to the left. Then I kin see all you're gonna do to that gal, Stu. 'N' I'll be shore ta tell Adam ev'ry last detail."

Stu pushed himself off the bed, grabbing Mercy by the wrist as he did. She cried out as his fingers squeezed the cuts and gashed along her skin. He stepped toward Hoss and locked his ankle behind one of the chair's legs, pulling in vain to drag it and Hoss to the left.

"NOW!" Hoss shouted as he tilted with all of his weight, taking Stu, himself and the chair to the floor.

Mercy ran for the front door, flung it open and dashed across the yard toward the figure of a horse in the brush. Behind her, she could hear the scuffle - moaning, grunting and vulgar words. She swung herself into Hoss's saddle and opened her mouth to speak. Hesitating, she looked back at the house and at the shadows dancing in the curtained window as the fracas continued. "Git to my horse . . . Git in the saddle and tell him ta go home! Don't look back." The words resonated painfully in her mind. Tears fell, their warmth cooling in streaks down her face as the breeze blew across her body. "I can't leave him," she whispered. "What if I can't get help in time?" Mercy dismounted, tossing her instructions aside, hoping to save Adam's brother. "I have to . . ."

A gunshot echoed in the sudden stillness. Chubb twitched, pulling the rein out of her hand.

"Hoss!" Mercy raced toward the silent house, her mind reeling with fear. Her body lurched, nearly toppling over when a shadowed figure appeared in the doorway and fell forward, catching himself on the porch post.

"NO!" Mercy cried.