FIELDS OF WHITE
by BeckyS
© September 2002 – December 2003, as allowable


PART 5

Adam was dreaming of snow.  Soft flakes drifted down to be caught on his tongue, others swirled around him in a soft spiral that teased him into dizziness.  He was standing in the middle of a white, silent field that extended to the horizon in each direction, and then he rose like a bird, except he could see himself – a small shadowy dot against an expanse of colorless flatness.  Until a thread of crimson began to creep from the blackness to stain the snow in erratic tendrils that twined around the small darkness, encircling and overwhelming it, turning the pure white a deep, spreading red.  He lifted away, embracing the frigid whiteness and allowing it to pull him back into reality, even though it meant returning to the world of pain and cold.

He could hear the sounds of someone moving around; the faint rattle of tin dishes on wood, the shuffle of boots on the floor, the thud of wood hitting the floor, and the soft swear words from a voice he knew but couldn't place.  He knew he'd been shot; he could remember the searing impact that had spun him to the ground as well as the frantic scramble for his horse, but couldn't recall the reasons for any of it.  He wondered what had been so desperately important.

"Adam?" the soft voice said, and he realized he'd been hearing it as a steady monologue for several minutes. 

"I'm gonna go outside for a few minutes to see how deep the snow is.  It's been blowing for a day and a half, now, so it might be bad."  The voice sighed.  "Sure wish you were up to a snowball fight.  There's a great field out there."

It was quiet for a few moments, and he finally pulled a name together with the voice.  'Joe.  Wanting to play in the snow.  He always knows the best places, too.'  An image came to mind of the two of them building a small structure of walls and trenches, and piling snowball after snowball into a neat mountain.

"When I finish out there, I'll check your wound; see if I can get that fever down a bit."

No answer seemed to be required – which was a good thing, he reflected, since he didn't seem to have the energy to do anything but breathe.  The voice faded in.

". . . we're gonna have to leave soon, or those men will be back.  Whatever it is you took from them, they want it real bad, and I don't wanna be here when they ride in.  You just rest up, 'cause it's gonna be a long, hard ride home."

He had something someone wanted . . . an image came to mind of a beautiful black-haired, black-eyed woman writing on a paper, writing his name, but there was something wrong with it; she was writing it wrong . . .

For services rendered and upon terms agreed to, hereby transferred to Adam Stoddard `

She hadn't finished his name.  The bullet had seen to that.  'Isabella – oh, Isabella, I'm sorry I left you, sorry I couldn't fix everything—'

The paper; where was the paper?

He finally dragged his eyes open and realized he hadn't been lying in the dark at all.  He looked around the small room, trying to figure out where he was.  A small cabin, made smaller by the presence of a . . . horse?  His horse.  Why was his horse inside the cabin?  Joe had been here, too.  Where was he now?

He looked around some more, not moving anything but his eyes – the rest of him was too tired, too heavy.  His eye fell on the saddle that was lying upended on the floor, the saddle blanket tossed haphazardly over it.  He squinted, trying to bring them into focus, and gradually realized they were his own.  There was just the slightest edge of white paper sticking out from a discreet pocket hidden in the blanket.

The deed! 

What had Joe been saying?  '. . . those men will be back . . . .'

He couldn't let them get the deed.  If they came in here, they'd see it first thing.  Where was Joe?  He had to get him to hide it . . .

He turned his head on the pillow, but couldn't find his brother.  'Oh, yeah,' Adam thought. 'Joe said he was going outside.'  He couldn't remember how long it had been.  Time seemed to be sliding by, and he couldn't latch onto it.  'Joe should be finished  by now, shouldn't he?  What if Blake and his posse are back and have him—'

He had to get up, had to hide the deed somewhere else, then he had to find his gun.

Sitting up didn't seem to be an option, so he rolled onto his side, grunting once at the sharp stabbing pain in his back that was echoed by dull throbbing in his shoulder and head.  It worked, though, and he was able to push himself upright.  The room spun, but he held tight to the cot frame until it settled.  Sliding to the floor was easy – too easy, and he wondered how he'd ever get onto the bed again.  'Later.  Get the deed, then worry about it later.'

The opening in the blanket was well-hidden in the woven pattern.  He pulled the paper out slowly, carefully.  He looked around the room and finally recognized it as one of the line shacks they'd built last summer.  He remembered that he'd been particularly pleased with them – he didn't get to use his architectural skills very often, so had made an exercise out of the project.  His brothers had laughed at how much time and effort he'd spent on the drawings, but his father had encouraged him, perhaps realizing that Adam had to use his skills or they'd atrophy like a broken leg that was never exercised. 

He'd been exacting in his requirements for the planks they'd cut at their mill, to the point where the men had rolled their eyes behind his back.  He didn't care, and once the hands had seen how easily the building went up and how snug it was inside, he'd received more than one apologetic grin.  After all, they'd be the ones sleeping there during cold and rain.  The old-timers had been told about the secret box under the cot—

The box!  That was it.  He could hide the paper in the box.

He dragged himself over to the cot and stared at it.  There was a rope attached to the frame.  He followed it upward and discovered it was looped over one of the rafters.  Too foggy to try to figure out why it was there, he nonetheless took immediate advantage and hauled on it.  His shoulder complained viciously and the sharp pain in his back narrowed his vision, but the edge of the cot lifted so he ignored the pain and tied the rope off.  He scooted close enough to drop the paper in, then heard the sound of boots on the front step.  He hurriedly undid the slip knot, the cot settled into place, and he was leaning against it, breathing hard, when the door opened.

"Adam!"  Joe slammed the door shut and in two long strides was kneeling next to him.  "What are you doing out of bed?"

"Bed?"  Actually, that sounded kind of nice.  His warm, soft bed; big enough to accommodate his long frame, two plump pillows instead of one hard, flat one, Hop Sing bringing a hot cup of coffee – he felt a cool hand on his forehead and realized Joe was still talking to him.

". . . can't leave you alone for more than two minutes.  Well, if you're awake enough to get up, then we'd better head home, let Pa deal with you."

"Pa?"  He looked around.  "Is Pa here?  Need him to—"  He tried to stand, but only succeeded in getting to one knee before wobbling dizzily. 

Joe helped him sit on the bed while admonishing, "Now, stay put, willya?  I gotta get Sport saddled.  The weather's clearing up, and we gotta get home before those men get Roy to show them the way to the house.  Maybe we could even make it by lunch," he added wistfully.

Adam didn't really notice Joe's comment about food.  His mind grabbed onto his mention of the sheriff.  'Roy can validate the deed . . . Roy's an officer of the law and knows me. Pa can show him the family Bible . . .' but he was forgetting something.  It was just within his grasp when Joe distracted him by bundling him up in shirt and coat.  He felt his little brother's slim strength under his arm, helping him to his feet.  It took all his energy and attention pulled together to get across the room, and then to climb up the mountain to his saddle.  Why had he wanted such a tall horse?  There must have been a reason . . .

"Hang on, brother.  I'll get up behind you in just a minute."

Hunched over the saddle horn to the point he was nearly lying on his horse's neck, he managed to stay put as Joe led Sport through the doorway, down a lurching step, and out into the bright sunshine, but it was more by instinct than intent.  Joe's brilliantly white snowfield hurt his eyes, so he shut them tight.  He sat there, alone, for what seemed an age until he suddenly felt his brother arrive behind him.  A strong arm around his waist pulled him somewhat upright.  His hat appeared on his head, which was better, but it was still too bright.  He groaned and tried to shade his eyes with his hand.  He was so tired.

Then he felt a cloth brush his face and blessed darkness descended.  He felt something being tied around his head, and when he touched his face, he discovered Joe had blindfolded him.  "Smart kid," he murmured.  "Thanks."

He could hear in Joe's voice the grin he must be wearing.  "So you finally admit it, huh?  Your little brother is good for something."

Feelings welled up, almost overcoming him – love for this most precious child, gratitude for the strength he hadn't known the boy had, strength of mind, body, and heart.  But not a boy.  Not anymore.  "Not my little brother," he mumbled.

"What?" Joe exclaimed in his ear.  "Of course I'm your brother.  You feelin' all right?"

"Not what I meant.  Not a boy – a man.  You grew up on me sometime.  Didn't notice.  Sorry."  And as he sank down into the comfort of sleep, he thought he felt a tightening of the grip around his waist, and a faint smile graced his lips.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A man.  Tears pricked at his eyes at the treasured words.  Did Adam know, could he know how much they meant to him?  The same comment from Hoss wouldn't have meant near as much.  Hoss was his friend, his equal, always had been and always would be.  If Hoss was a man, well, then, Joe must be, too.

His father's view was more complicated.  Sometimes Joe thought Pa didn't believe any of them were grown up. "Just wait till he sees what kinda shape you've got yourself into," he grinned.  "He'll send you off to bed, just like you were six years old."  A chuckle bubbled up in his chest at the image.  He'd seen it before – his fully-grown, college-educated businessman of a brother reduced to school-boy status by a single glare from their father's deep brown eyes. 

Pa knew his boys; knew what it took to grow into a man.  He knew Joe was working on it, and he expected just as much as what someone of Joe's age could reasonably give.  He didn't look for Hoss' strength or Adam's sharp mind – he knew Joe's gifts would become apparent, and he was patient enough to wait for them to develop.  Even though Joe sometimes chafed under his father's view, he was grateful for his understanding.

But Adam . . .

His brother muttered something in his sleep, and Joe readjusted his hold around his waist, distracted from his musings by practicalities.  He was uncomfortable, riding on Sport's rump, but at least he was warm.  It was hard to see over Adam's shoulder, even though he was slumped, but that also meant he made a wonderful windbreak.  Joe's arms were beginning to ache with the strain of holding him, though, and they were only about half-way home.  He kicked himself mentally for leaving the rope in the cabin and tried to think of something he could use instead.  He couldn't figure out a way to use their belts – neither of them had enough extra length to make looping them together feasible.  The leather thongs that hung from everyone's saddles weren't long enough or strong enough – but maybe he could use them to tie their belts together. 

Sport continued to amble his way home as Joe tried to pull the rope-like lengths of leather from their holes in the pommel. It was awkward, since he couldn't really see what he was doing, and his gloves made his fingers clumsy.  In frustration, he jerked them off with his teeth and tucked them in the front of his jacket for now, then went back to work.  He pulled on one end of the string, lengthening it but careful not to pull it all the way out; he didn't need their saddle coming apart.  When he figured he had enough length, he fished out his pocketknife and sliced off what he needed.  He repeated the process on the strings on the other side of the pommel, and by the time he finished, his fingers were numb with cold.  He fumbled closing the knife, and what with trying to hang on to his brother and the precious strips of leather, he almost dropped the knife. 

He caught his breath at the near-loss.  It was a beautiful knife – the handle had an inlaid silver shield engraved with the Ponderosa brand, flanked by his initials.  It was one of the finest things he'd ever owned, and the trust implicit in the gift lifted his heart every time he used it.  He tucked it safely into his pocket.

He tied the front of Adam's belt to the saddlehorn, then pulled a second string to connect the back of it to his own.  He slipped his gloves on, grateful for the body-warmth they held, and shook his arms out.  He'd go beyond his strength to help his brother, but knew this wouldn't end when he got home.  He had to be ready for anything, and exhausting himself now might be fatal for Adam later.  He had to protect him.

It was a strange twist in their relationship.  As long as he could remember, he'd sought his big brother's notice and approval.  He'd delighted in Adam's rare playfulness, soaked up his tender touch with scrapes and bruises, learned everything his oldest brother could teach him, and tested his strength against him, both physical and mental.  He'd nagged to learn every dirty fighting technique Adam knew, and dragged him into mock fistfights.  He pestered Adam constantly and always felt a shiver of victory when he could pull him from his work.  He used every weapon he had – grins, sad eyes, giggles, sharp words – to catch Adam's attention.  He'd wondered on occasion why it was so important to him, but until just this minute, he'd never realized.  Adam saw life clearly.  He viewed people without prejudice, making his judgments based on their actions and what he could determine of their motivations.  He might love someone, but how he felt would never blind him to their behavior. 

If Adam saw him as a man, then he was – or at least he would be.  Oh, he knew he still had a lot of growing to do, a lot of wisdom to gain, but a knot of tension somewhere deep inside, a gnawing he hadn't realized was there, began to ease.  He would get there.  Adam had said so.  "And," Joe grinned, "we all know that you're never wrong.  After all, you've told us so often enough."

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Joe approached the ranch house cautiously.  Sure enough, even from a distance he could see the buckskin that Blake had been riding was tied at the hitching post, along with the horses belonging to Jesse and the other three members of the posse.  He was thankful to see Roy Coffee's horse as well.  He'd argued with himself the whole way about what he'd do if Blake and Jesse beat him home, wondering briefly if he should take Adam somewhere else, but he could feel the fever heat rising from his brother's body.  He knew Adam needed shelter and decent care, or it wouldn't matter what those two had told the sheriff.  He trusted Pa and Hoss and Roy to keep the situation under control, so he'd kept heading home.

He pulled Sport to a halt while he was still far enough away that no one in the house would have heard him.  "Adam?"  He shifted his grip on his brother.  "Adam, we're just about home."

There was no response.

"Adam, if you can hear me, we're about five minutes from home.  I'm not gonna tell them who you are, and I won't let Pa or Hoss either, but I sure wish you'd tell me what's going on."  He pulled his brother up close to his chest and called his name again, this time sharply and practically in his ear.  He was rewarded with a faint grunt that he could feel more than hear.  "That's it, brother.  It'd be a whole lot better if you were awake for this."

"Huh?"  Adam tried to lift his head, but it fell forward again.

"C'mon, Adam . . . wake up and tell me what's going on before we go on in."

". . . deed . . ."

Now Joe was the one to mutter, "Huh?"

"Get th' deed.  Get to Pa . . . he can prove . . ."

"What deed?"  Sport shifted restlessly under them and pulled at the reins, wanting to get to the barn.  "Adam, tell me what you want me to do.  We don't have much time."

"Paper . . . in my saddle blanket."  He raised a hand to his head and groaned.

"In that little pocket you put in?"

"Damn . . . took it out.  Joe . . . gotta get it.  Get it to Roy . . ."

"Get what paper?  A deed to what?  And take it to Pa or Roy?  What are you talking about?"  Adam didn't answer, but Joe couldn't stop asking.  "Is it in your saddle blanket or not?  C'mon, Adam where is it?  What do I do with it?" 

Sport whinnied angrily and shook his head.  Joe heard the faint answer from Cochise, coming from the barn.  As grateful as he was to know that his beloved pinto had gotten home, he could have done without the announcement. 

"Not much time," he muttered.  Anyone in the house would have heard Cochise, and they'd be out in the yard in a moment.  He might have to move fast.  He fumbled with the knots, but they'd tightened during the ride.  He berated himself for not thinking ahead and pulled his pocketknife out again.  He quickly sliced through the leather thongs holding Adam in place, but this time it was nerves, not cold, that made him fumble the knife as he snapped it shut.  It flew from his hands and he started to make a wild snatch for it, but Adam began to topple and he grabbed his brother instead.  His heart sank at the loss, but there was no choice, really – much as he cared about the knife and what it stood for, Adam's safety overrode everything else.  He set the loss aside and set his mind to the upcoming confrontation.  He loosened his gun in its holster, swallowed once, took a deep breath, and then nudged Sport forward.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~
to be continued