CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

HEALING SOULS

"Adam! Adam!" Ben cried, his voice gruff, his throat swollen. "Adam, my son! Please, p . . . please come back." Ben pitched in his bed, his legs bending wildly beneath the sheets as he tramped across unseen ground, searching for his eldest son. "Joe and Hoss, they need you. I need you, Adam!"

"Pa!" Adam said, grasping at his father's shoulders. "I'm here, Pa. I'm right here!" Adam sunk against the bed, his hip pressed against his father's thigh; his arms stretched as he struggled to control Ben's thrashing. "Pa, please, I'm right here!"

"Adam!" Amanda pleaded, her delicate hands resting on Adam's back. "I know you want to answer him, but hearing your voice may be making matters worse!"

Adam pushed her hands away and continued his efforts to subdue his delirious father. "How can assuring my father that I'm alive and right here in his room be making matters worse?"

Ben wrenched against Adam's grip, the sound of his son's voice sparking another wave of pleas. "Adam! Where are you?" he implored, tears trickling from his wild, searching eyes. "Hoss is gone, Adam! I can't lose you, too!"

"Pa, you're not going to lose me!" Adam promised.

"Adam," Joe shouted, the quiver in his single word slicing into Adam's heart. "Let Amanda try!"

"Joe?" Ben whispered, pressing against Adam's hold as his eyes darted about the room. "Joseph, is that you, son? Where are you?"

Gently, Adam urged his father's shoulders back against the fever-dampened pillow. He twisted, his eyes boring into Amanda's soul. He nodded, the simple gesture flooding Amanda with emotion.

Quickly, Amanda lifted the cloth from the bowl, wringing it as she did. As she swiped its comforting coolness across Ben's brow, she leaned down, her soothing voice lulling Ben's torment. "Easy, Mr. Cartwright," Amanda said. "Please, try and relax."

Ben moaned, the cold chill of the cloth caressing his neck. ". . . have to . . . find . . . my sons!"

Amanda leaned closer. "You will, Mr. Cartwright," she assured, her tender hand caressing his brow. "I promise. First thing in the morning, we'll find them. But first, you need to sleep, gather your strength. Do you think you can do that, Mr. Cartwright?"

Ben's thrashing slowed, his breath coming rapidly, his desperate heart racing.

"Just relax," Amanda crooned softly. "Doctor Martin said you need to rest, and I'm going to make sure you follow the good doctor's orders." After cooling the cloth yet again, Amanda slid the sheet to Ben's waist and gently dabbed his skin, his mumbling and groaning growing weaker with every gentle touch.

"Ad . . .am," Ben muttered, "I can't . . . find Hhhoss."

Amanda's heart ached at the sound of Ben's anguished plea. She raised the sheet and tucked it lightly beneath Ben's shoulders.

"C . . . can't find . . . Hhh . . ." Ben murmered, his eyes drifting closed. "Find my . . . sons."

Amanda's lip quivered. "Shh," she said, caressing his cheek with her fingertips. "Shh."

When Ben's body stilled, Amanda released the breath she'd been holding. Her eyes, heavy with salty tears, stung as she stared at Ben's sheet-covered chest, grateful as it rose and fell in an even, calmed rhythm. She dropped her head in brief, silent prayer, and when she moved to leave the side of the bed, it was Joe who offered a steadying hand of support.

"You did it," Joe whispered. "Thanks."

"Yeah," Adam added sincerely, "Thank you. Now if he can just stay asleep long enough to gain some strength to fight this fever."

"He will," Amanda promised. "I just know he will."

Standing in the doorway, Randall Binghamton shook his head and smiled. Since he'd arrived at the Ponderosa some seven hours earlier, he'd reunited with his long-time friend, listened as she'd conveyed the details of her awkward arrival at the Ponderosa and, after a futile attempt to reassure her that her abusive, murdering conman of a husband would never again share the same air she breathed, he found himself witness to Amanda's future; a future that included Hoss Cartwright's family; a future that, thanks in a large part to those same Cartwrights, had already lightened Amanda's spirit and filled her heart with promise and the sense of belonging Amanda had long ago abandoned.

The early morning hour with its starry, coal-black sky and the occasional rustling of pre-dawn dwellers was shattered by the pounding hooves of a single horse approaching the cabin. Guns drawn and pulses racing, Jackson and his men dashed about the small cabin, each one slipping into sentry position. Shrouded in the shadows, they listened carefully, each one privately predicting the riders' distance from the cabin, and when a familiar whistle signaled openly into the stillness of the night, the men quickly relaxed as Tom rose and unbolted the cabin door.

"It's about time!" Jackson complained as Hiller crossed the threshold. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to leave our little group."

"Pioche is bustlin' tonight, Mr. Findley," Hiller explained, expecting the need to account for his time. "Wouldn't've been smart ta draw attention to myself, now would it? Jist had ta act natural, like I weren't in no hurry atoll."

"What difference does it make," Flint added, his eyes fixed on the whiskey in Hiller's hands. "The whiskey's here now!"

Jackson holstered his gun and swiftly shoved an unsuspecting Flint to the floor. "That's right, Flint!" Jackson yelled. "The whiskey's here and I get the first drink!"

Hiller plunked the bottles atop the warped, splintered table and casually disappeared into the background of the alcohol frenzy. By the time the third bottle was opened, Tom and Hall, hunkered in the corner of the cabin, were engaged in a drunken debate over the difference between a saloon gal and a prostitute. Brothers Jarvis and Flint, weary from their travels and plied with the alcohol, lay unconscious on the bunks at the rear of the room. And thanks to Hiller's continuous pouring, Jackson, even more intoxicated than the rest, sat directly across from Hiller on the floor of the bedroom, the two discussing the finer points of marriage as told by Jackson Findley. Disgusted by his boss's comments, Hiller filled yet another glass and slipped it easily into Jackson's waiting fingers.

"Never let a wo . . . woman get the upper hand," Jackson slurred. "One wrong thought 'n' it's up to the man ta knock some ss . . . sense into her head."

Hiller nodded, raised the same glass he'd been nursing all night to his lips, and pretended to take another slurp of whiskey. "Whatever you say, Mr. Findley."

"Women were put here on this earth ta be used as a man ss . . . sees fit," Jackson said, leaning heavily against the bedroom wall as he drained his glass and held it forward for a refill. "And if I see fit ta whip that bitch I married until ss . . . she can't remember the name Hoss Cartwright, then that's wh . . . what I aim ta do!"

Hiller complied again, and Jackson rushed to bleed the glass dry. Hiller smiled, pleased with the outcome of the first step of his plan: keeping Jackson and his men from taking Hoss away from Pioche until the telegram reached Virginia City and the men of the Ponderosa.