Notes:
-- I was posting this story in sections on a list that has gone inactive, so I'll try to continue it here. It is definitely a work-in-progress, and chapters aren't going to show up on any kind of a regular basis. Sorry about that, but I have several other stories I'm trying to complete as well, and then there's Real Life, LOL. Hope you can hang in on this one – I'll move along on it as fast as I can.
-- As is common for me, as I progress through writing a story, I end up going back and changing little things here and there so that the story runs more smoothly. I'll post the revision dates at the top of any chapter I rework. Generally, they won't be big changes, maybe the addition of a paragraph here, changing a sentence there. If there are any major revisions, I'll let you know. Thanks for your patience . . . here's a bit more . . .
-- Chapter 1, revised 10 Oct 04
ahem Sorry, but I've decided there were only two men killed in the cave-in. This number may change in the future, so if you get into the story a ways and discover that the number has changed again – well, I'll settle it when I get to the final version, LOL.
-- A few more changes 15 Nov 04. I'll get all of the sections changed out to their new version soon.

Whispers in Silence -- 1
by BeckyS
15 Nov 2004

Coma. Such a small word to so thoroughly destroy their lives. It was what the doctor called this immobile silence that had persisted since Adam Cartwright had been pulled, limp and bloody, from the mine cave-in seven days ago. Everyone had slapped his father on the back and called him lucky since his eldest was still breathing and the other two men who'd been with him weren't, but now Ben wasn't so sure.

This morning, as he had for so many days and nights, he sat at his son's bedside. For the first few days he'd hardly left this room, but once Paul Martin had managed to convince him that there would be no quick recovery – that he would soon ruin his own health and so be useless to Adam or his other two boys – he'd consented to getting proper rest and meals. He brought his work upstairs and took over his son's desk; the normally neat and organized surface now littered with papers and ledgers as he reviewed contracts and answered correspondence. He'd flatly refused to do anything that took him out of the vicinity of the ranch house, and even when his family managed to get him outside for some fresh air, he found his gaze returning, over and over, to the window of Adam's room where his son grew thinner and paler as time passed and their hopes gradually withered.

He was grateful that Hoss and Joe never pushed him to go to town, and was mildly amused at how they'd discovered a multitude of jobs that needed doing around the house, barn, and home corral. What he didn't find amusing at all, but that touched his heart, was how – like their father – they frequently stopped whatever they were doing to gaze at the same window.

A light spring breeze fluttered the lace curtains as Ben rose from his wooden chair and stretched. He fingered the delicate fabric, musing on how it had exposed a thereto-unknown aspect of his son's personality. Marie had made the first set of the soft draperies, and although Adam had raised an eyebrow, he'd let them stay . . . and when they wore out, went to considerable trouble to have them reproduced.

He returned the ledger he'd been studying to the pile on Adam's desk. Funny, he mused, how quickly you get used to a new routine. As the days passed with no change in his son's condition, he'd started bringing the ranch books upstairs every morning, often talking out loud about various problems. It had started as simple frustration when he couldn't get two columns to balance. He'd glanced at Adam and could almost hear the humorous baritone say, It's only mathematics, Pa. The answer's there, you just have to give it a chance to turn up. He'd smiled at the memory, and when he pulled out a fresh piece of scrap paper for his figuring, the columns had almost magically matched.

Now he found himself holding one-sided discussions with him. When he talked about moving certain groups of cattle to new pastures, he remembered Adam saying that the special grass seed he'd ordered from St. Louis was due in to the Feed and Grain in a few days. While worrying at the pros and cons of various locations to dig new wells, his thoughts were punctuated by several barbed comments on the value of windmills. As he reviewed the possibilities for investing the profits from the lumber operation, he vividly remembered Adam pacing back and forth in front of his desk, trying to convince him to buy a second blade for the sawmill. Each time, Ben had known exactly what questions, observations and solid advice his son would offer.

He'd heard Hoss and Joe doing the same thing when they took their turns watching over their brother. Hoss talked about one of the mares that was about to foal, going over a new balance of ingredients for the warm mash he planned to make for her. He considered the different measurements out loud and asked what Adam thought. There was no response, of course – he expected none – so he argued the question from both sides, one half of his conversation sounding eerily like his older brother.

Joe told Adam about the calves he'd had to pull from the spring bogs and wondered if the grass at Spooner Lake was ready for grazing. He'd paused as if Adam had actually spoken, then answered, All right, all right, I'll go look at it again . . . yeah, I'll check the color and thickness of the blades along with the height, just like you taught me.

All of them acted as if Adam was only resting his eyes instead of dying a slow death one day at a time in the bedroom at the top of the stairs.

Paul Martin, the family doctor, had held out little hope. He'd taught them how to care for Adam, how to cautiously turn his body so he wouldn't get bedsores, how to get water and broth into him so that thirst and starvation wouldn't help kill him, but they all knew that the longer the coma lasted, the less likely he was to ever come out of it. And even if he did . . .

Ben shuddered. It wasn't a conversation he'd had with Paul, but he'd overheard when the boys cornered the family doctor one evening. They'd asked to know the worst, expecting Paul to say that Adam would die. Ben had strained to hear his friend's answer, and when it came the horror had knocked the strength from his body. How could they survive, what would it do to Hoss and Joe, if Adam came back to them – but without his mind?

A skull fracture – a broken bone. It sounded so simple. Adam's fractured right wrist and the small bones that had been broken in his right hand would be back to normal in a few weeks; the ribs that had been cracked by the rocks that had nearly buried him were probably well on their way to healing. When Joe had broken his leg last spring, it had taken only a couple of months for him to get back to riding. But the bones of the head, when broken, could press against the brain, could damage it beyond repair. Ben had been the first to see the blood coming from Adam's ear, the first to notice the soft sponginess at his left temple under the blood-soaked hair.

He still felt ill at the memory.

He pulled out a solicitation for a bid on a lumber deal with one of the mines in Gold Hill from the pile of papers on the desk and tried to lose himself in determining schedules, costs and payroll. He took notes, jotting down questions he'd have to send his men to find out, well aware that Adam had known the answers. He sighed and put his pencil down, then rubbed at his forehead. "How long?" he found himself murmuring. "How long do we go on in this . . . this limbo?"

The answer came back immediately. As long as it takes. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was no other option. He wouldn't give up; he couldn't. He had to believe that Adam would come back to them, would come back and be his old self. He lowered his hand to gaze at his son again.

Who was looking straight back at him.