PART ONE:

NOW:

The main level of the house was bustling with activity.

The fireplace stood tall, the flames it contained burning high and bright. The constant heat in combination with the seemingly ceaseless moment of the couples dancing warmed the room a little too much, making it feel a little too small. It was not, of course. Nothing about the house or the land which surrounded it could be characterized as such. Not even in its earliest days had the Ponderosa ever been accused of being small. This was not something to be taken for granted, overlooked, or dismissed. Ben Cartwright knew he should be grateful for his successes, and most days he was.

This, however, was not most days.

Standing alone, dressed in his Sunday best, Ben held a glass of whiskey and appraised the crowd as he lazily sipped. It was his third glass of such alcohol; the type was a glaring departure from what he normally favored. He was not and never would be accused of being a whiskey man. He was drinking it because it was what his close friend, Sheriff Roy Coffee, had insisted upon.

Roy had shown up with the bottle in hand and frowned when Ben quickly declined taking part.

"If you don't want to do it for yourself, then do it for me," Roy had said. It was surprising such a weak response had worked—especially given the fact that it was the second time Roy had said the statement in effort to convince Ben to do something he did not want to do. It was a different discussion the first time it had been voiced. An easy conversation between two old friends that was suddenly complicated by the asking of an inevitable question.

"You have a birthday coming up," Roy had said. "When do you think you'll be announcing the date of the party?"

"No party," Ben had been quick to reply. "Not this year."

"Well, why not? You run out of things to celebrate?"

Ben shook his head. "I've just grown a little old for the whole to-do."

"Ah, ain't nobody ever too old for that. Think of it, Ben, a gathering of people to celebrate the life you've lived."

"I'd prefer not to, at least not this year."

Roy had looked at him then, his eyes sparkling with the hint of something undefinable. "Alright," he drawled, "if you don't want to have a party for yourself, then have one for me."

At the time, Ben could not have explained the motivation behind his friend's words any more than he could have explained why they had worked. Now, as he stood in the periphery of a party he had not wanted to throw, drinking yet another drink he had not wanted to consume, it was a little too clear.

The whiskey in his glass was extravagant and expensive; it was the kind of drink a man bought young and opened old, the cracking of its cork meant as a marker of sorts, a celebration of a beginning or ending. Taking another sip, Ben was unaware of any new beginnings. But watching Roy Coffee intermingle with various guests as he slowly made his way from one end of the room to the other, Ben was taken aback by an ending that was so glaring and impending that he nearly missed it completely.

In all the years they had known each other, Roy had never accepted an invitation to any of the numerous parties hosted by Ben at the Ponderosa. In fact, Ben was not certain Roy had ever attended so much as a church service or dance. He was not the type to be at home in a crowd, and he was not the kind to be caught up in small talk, at least not in closed surroundings such as this. A quick minute conversation in the middle of town, sure, but not in a room full of people. Not at an event which required him to dress more formally than his daily garb.

Tonight, Roy had donned a black jacket and dark pants that were too rigid to have been previously worn. Both served to highlight the stark white shirt upon his torso, a color Ben was certain his friend had never had any use for before.

During the conversation they had shared weeks earlier, about Ben's impending birthday and the slight tug of war over the celebration, they had spoken about a great many things: the fleeting essence of youth, the eventual unforgiving nature of old age, and when it was time for man to surrender his duties and entrust them to a new generation. Ben had been so against the thought of another birthday party, a celebration inadvertently marking the steepness of his age. It was Roy who had advocated against this point of view. It was he who had wanted the gathering; he had insisted upon it, in fact, a detail that was so odd and glaring now because Roy had never advocated for celebration in any aspect of his life.

He had become sheriff of Virginia City decades ago. If he were pressed to explain the motivations behind the decision, he would admit youth had played a huge part. When eventually asked to explain the decision to resign his prominent position, Ben had little doubt Roy would cite the opposite.

Protecting a town with a badge and gun was dangerous and demanding; it required stamina and energy; it was a young man's job. And though he may have had more than a few years left to live, Roy was no longer a young man. He was old—this was a fact Ben was careful to keep to himself for fear of what other revelations would have to be admitted if he dared say it aloud.

He was no longer a young man either, a fact that was hard to ignore amidst the collection of people crowding the house. This was a delayed birthday celebration. The actual day of his birth had come and gone nearly three weeks ago. With the help of Hop Sing, his sons had quietly acknowledged it and that had been enough for Ben. But it had not been enough for someone else.

And so, the townsfolk had gathered for a celebration, Ben thought ruefully. It was a shame they'd never know who it was truly for.

"You could have told me outright you were planning on stepping away from your role as sheriff," he said as Roy finally stood beside him. "You could have just asked for a party to commemorate the time you served this town."

Roy shook his head, his lips curling into a small smile. "Didn't seem appropriate. You know how I feel about parties, and besides that, I ain't going nowhere, just resigning my duties."

"With all the years you gave this town they could give you a night in return."

"I ain't looking for recognition."

"That's funny, neither was I."

"Nothing wrong with a night among friends."

"No, there isn't. Are you planning on making the announcement tonight?"

"Wouldn't be seemly. This is your party, old friend."

"That I didn't want. That you tricked me into having."

"You had to have a birthday party." Roy grinned. "How else was I supposed to give you your gift?"

Ben snorted, his mouth curling around the lip of his glass as he took another sip. Gifts were neither needed nor expected. At his age, he wanted for little; the very few things his heart longed for were not easily procured. They were not tangible, rather things that just were or were not: happiness for those around him, the enduring good health of his sons, and unspoken forgiveness for all he had done wrong.

There was something sobering about becoming old; age had a way of casting light on a man's faults and illuminating his mistakes. There was something about a room full of people that made the absence of one so glaring. And there was something about drinking whiskey that forced a man to think unkindly.

There was no point in thinking about it, he reminded himself. There was no purpose in recalling what had been done. Or what had not been done rather.

"I've watched over Virginia City for a long time," Roy said as he cast a satisfied gaze upon the crowd. "I looked after it while it grew over the years, transforming from a tiny mining camp into a legitimate town. I've known you for a long time, Ben. I watched while you grew your empire and raised your sons. You taught them how to be strong men who would someday follow in your footsteps, caring for the land and such. You don't have to worry about what's going to happen to the things you care about when you're gone; your boys will take care of it for you."

Brow furrowing, Ben took another sip from his glass. In all their years of friendship, he had never known Roy to be sentimental or so long-winded. Something strange was afoot.

"I don't have any sons," Roy said. "I suppose this town is the closest thing I have to a child. Making the decision to hand it over to someone else was not an easy one. I needed to make sure the man was up to the job."

"It's an elected position."

"I have a year left on my term, which means I get to choose who completes it, with the town council's approval, of course. You're on that council, Ben; I do hope when my chosen man stands before you to declare his qualifications, you don't allow your own personal desires to discolor what you will come to realize is best for everyone."

"I never allowed my personal convictions to interfere with town business. I've always chosen the best interest of many over my own."

"In the future, I want you to remember what you just said to me." Roy cast Ben a careful look. "You and I are friends; I hope you remember that, too."

"Why would I forget?"

Shaking his head, Roy dismissed the question. "I didn't have any sons," he said. "As a father of so many I hope you forgive me for what I'm about to do."

Lifting his glass in a silent toast, Roy walked away from Ben and reentered the crowd. It was just as well, because with an empty whiskey glass in hand, Ben was too taken by his thoughts to give his friend's odd request any consideration. He was too consumed by thoughts of his sons, specifically two: his oldest and his youngest. The former had been lost long ago and the latter was recently gained.

Scanning the room, Ben easily found his two elder sons; Jamie, however, was nowhere to be seen. It was a slightly bothersome notion, although not completely unexpected. Jamie was still struggling to find his place among them, trying to define the purpose of family after being alone in the world for so long.

Nobody ever said taking on a teenage boy would be easy. It was a difficult endeavor—Ben knew that from the start. If Jamie's age did not promise complications then Ben's own did. Rearing a rebellious, teenage son was a task for a younger man. Someone who had the energy to keep up with their hijinks and the seemingly constant variability of their moods. Ben was not certain how he found the energy most days, and others he was thankful for that of his two older sons.

He could not have taken on Jamie without the help of both Hoss and Joe; he would not have wanted to. Sometimes he still wondered what it was that had prompted him to do such a thing, having reached an age when most men were embracing the arrival of grandchildren, not more of their own. There was just something about Jamie that demanded he take him in. There was just something about the boy that had taken Ben by utter surprise.

In Jamie he had seen a glimpse of all of his sons when they had been his age. Jamie's quick frustration and anger reminded him of Joe; his inherently kind nature reminded Ben of Hoss; and Jamie's fierce independence streak reminded him of someone else.

No, Ben thought looking at the empty glass in his hand. This is not the time to be thinking of him. What he could and could not have done differently.

His determination was futile. He could no more cease his thoughts from turning to his eldest son than he could bear to voice his name aloud.

Adam, he thought. He may not have known where he was or what he was doing, but at least he knew his name.

He was not sure when he began avoiding saying it. He could not look back and define a moment when he had stopped including his eldest son in his count when asked how many children he had. He was certain he had not meant to omit that prior to Jamie he was the father of three sons, not two. It was just too difficult to talk about; the events leading to Adam's sudden departure were too private and painful to fully explain. Of course, at first, he had been forced to give some explanation.

Adam had been well-known in town, nearly as prominent as his father was. When he had left, his absence had not gone unnoticed. At the time, Ben could not fault people for their curiosity any more than he could have told them the truth.

The truth was Adam was as stubborn as a god-damn mule—a trait he had not asked to inherit—and he had difficulty asking for help when it was most needed. People always knew his opinions on things because they were so readily shared, but they could never know what was being felt, because it was always so carefully hidden. With all his education and the vast vocabulary he could so easily implore to explain nearly anything, Adam always faltered when it came time to give words to his emotions, because of this Ben knew he had always been destined to fail him in one way or another.

Adam's absence was proof of this failure. They had failed each other, really.

Adam's lack of words and Ben's lack of action had coalesced in such a perfect way, constructing a horrible moment. That moment still haunted Ben deeply. Sometimes he could not help wondering if it haunted Adam, too. Or, if still captivated by frustration and anger—perhaps there were more behaviors Jamie displayed that reminded him of Adam than originally thought—Adam was content not thinking about what had taken place between them.

Though he had not seen or heard from his son in over six years, it did not seem likely Adam would have made peace with the past. Contentment and peace were two things he had so visibly struggled to find during the last year he spent on the Ponderosa. Things that, despite his numerous successes, his father had always fallen short in providing him. Things that, Ben's pride would never allow himself to provide.

Pride had always been such a stubborn thing, especially where he and Adam's relationship was concerned. They were more alike than they were different, both so set in their respective convictions. So steadfast and stern when they needed to be. Always so willing to stand up and tall in an impending fight. They did not back down. They did not cower when it came to confrontation. They always pushed forward, with or without the help of others. Neither of them had ever needed anyone else to validate their opinions, behavior, or beliefs. And maybe that was what doomed their relationship in the end, what had led their once impenetrable bond to fracture and break. Not the ways in which they were different but the ways in which they were the same.

Enough, Ben thought as he strode through the crowd of people intent on pouring himself another drink. Enough now. You've thought of him. Let that be enough, for now.

But it was not enough. It would never be quite enough.

With the addition of Jamie, most people thought Ben now had three sons. There were few who knew the truth. If they did, they did not dare voice it. Ben Cartwright did not have three sons; he had four. His youngest was Jamie, a teenage orphan who had joined the family only recently; Hoss and Little Joe were the middle brothers, their names as known as their father's in the surrounding territories; and the oldest was Adam, who had left home one day and never came back. That was what those who had fond memories of Ben's oldest son believed, but it was not the truth. The truth was more difficult and painful to think of and impossible to admit.

Standing in front of the collection of liquor bottles beside the punchbowl, he hesitated refilling his glass. His hatred for whiskey was suddenly renewed as he stared at the bottle. Damn this dark liquid for all the terrible thoughts it had awoken; damn himself for what he did all those years ago—or what he did not do rather; and damn Adam, too. For doing what he did. For leaving how he had. For staying gone all these years without even bothering to write his fathers a single letter.

"Are you gonna pour yourself a drink from that bottle or take it outside and shoot it?" Roy asked.

"I haven't decided yet," Ben said gruffly. Though his mood had soured, he was grateful for the distraction. Looking at his friend, he wondered if Roy could provide another. "You said something about a gift."

"I did." Nodding, Roy's expression shifted, his eyes shining with slight regret. "I do believe it's been delayed. It should have been here already. Might take a little more time than what I previously anticipated."

"What is it?"

"Now, why would you want to ruin the surprise?"

"I'm feeling a little too old for surprises. I'd prefer if my friends just told me things outright."

"Alright," Roy said as he looked between the whiskey and Ben's empty glass. "I would suggest you give that bottle a rest for the remainder of the evening. You always had a particular aversion to whiskey. Not for the way it tasted but for the thoughts it made circle in your head."

"If you knew that then why did you bring it? Why did you ask me to drink it with you?"

"I know you don't like whiskey; I'm just surprised with everything else you probably thought of that you didn't find yourself recalling who does. The bottle was meant as a celebratory kind of thing. I was hoping the three of us would share it as we closed the door on the past and set our sights on the future."

"Well, I'll be dad-burned!"

Hoss's sudden exclamation was loud enough to steal the attention of all the guests. A ripple of excitement and confusion moved through the crowd as everyone seemed to look at the front door in unison, watching as Hoss and Joe took turns hugging a sudden newcomer.

Dressed a little too casually given the event of the night, the man was dark haired and tall. His skin was tanned, hinting at the extended hours he spent outside; he bore slight wrinkles by his eyes that were made more prominent when he smiled; and on his cheeks, around his mouth and chin he wore a beard that had only begun to turn slightly gray. He could neither be described as old nor young; he was somewhere in-between. To most in the room this person was a stranger. Ben would have recognized him anywhere.

"Adam," he whispered. For a moment, he almost felt too shocked to breathe, his focus remaining frozen on his sons by the door.

There were still only three of them.

Jamie was nowhere to be seen. Having given into adolescent foolhardiness or teenage angst, he was off somewhere, doing something he should not be doing or moping over feelings that would pass by tomorrow. Though Jamie had been a part of the family for only a brief time, Ben was certain he knew the boy well enough to easily discern his location—maybe not the specifics of his current behavior or the emotions driving it but he would at least be able to glean where he was and a general idea as to why. And looking at Adam, Ben immediately realized he did not know why his eldest son had appeared. He didn not know how his son could have dared walk through the door, tonight of all nights, as nothing had ever happened. As though the last six years had not existed at all.

Adam's appearance was nearly as surprising as the anger Ben felt gather in the pit of his chest. He thought he had moved past it; he thought he had resigned himself not to allow the feeling to take hold of him again and impact his judgment and behavior. It simply could not be prevented.

Abandoning his empty glass next to the punchbowl, Ben strode away from Roy and stalked toward the front door. There were so many things he could have said or done when he came upon his trio of sons: Adam, Hoss, and Little Joe, a sight that was once so familiar and comforting but now seemed so foreign and wrong. He did not look at any of them as he walked past and out the door. He did not utter so much as a word. There was nothing for him to say or do, because there was nothing Adam could ever say or do that would be enough for what he had done and how he had left, those horrible last words that had been said.

Nothing would ever be enough.

TBC