NOW:

The Saturday before the stage arrived was quiet.

Ben enjoyed an amiable breakfast with his three sons. Joe and Hoss discussed the details of an upcoming cattle drive that would lead them across the state line and away from home for weeks, and Jamie spoke vivaciously and vaguely about Adam. His fondness for the oldest Cartwright brother was clear; his all-encompassing exuberance had quickly spanned the distance between respect and glaring hero worship.

"What do the two of you have to talk about, exactly?" Joe asked Jamie, casting his little brother a curious look.

Jamie shrugged nonchalantly. "We don't talk."

"What does that mean?" Joe pressed.

"We don't talk with our voices," Jamie said. "We talk with our hands."

Hoss grinned knowingly. "What you mean to say is that our older brother has been putting you to work."

Jamie's brows furrowed. "I mean, I guess you could say that; although, that's not really what it is. I'm helping him."

Hoss and Joe traded a glance, neither of them daring to press the conversation for fear of dissolving the spell Adam's influence had cast on their younger brother.

Jamie was doing better—there was no denying it. Once so fearful of Jamie spending any amount of time in Adam's company, even Ben had to admit his agitation, as warranted as it had seemed, had been proven injudicious in time. Jamie was improving in every definition of the word. His school attendance and grades had gotten better, and, having traded the company of the problematic band of boys for that of his eldest brother in the afternoons after schools, his attitude had shifted. He was easier to instruct and speak with—though this was something Ben was sure could not be completely attributed to Adam, rather a predictable result of the shift of his own attitude as well.

Both his conversation with Joe and his subsequent visit with Adam had impacted Ben greatly; the day when both had taken place seemed so successful in comparison to all the others which had passed as of late. Just as he observed a shift in Jamie, he felt something inside of himself shift, too. In the presence of his oldest son, a person whose very name had once prompted so much anger and pain, he had managed to be both quiet and kind. Though it was the smallest of successes, it seemed destined to become another moment that would come to mark a mammoth change.

Ben had bent a little, making it easier for Adam to bend too, as evidenced by his sudden appearance in the yard outside of the ranch house on Saturday afternoon. Hoss and Joe greeted him first, their attention shifting from the broken wagon wheel on the buckboard parked just outside of the barn to their oldest brother.

Sitting at the chair of the small table placed on the side of the house, Ben looked up from the papers spread in front of him and watched his sons interact as he was overcome by the nature of another moment and choice, a simple one made with little foresight or thought.

It was such a beautiful day, the warmth of which had led him to work in the calm, clean tepid afternoon air and positioned him where he currently was. He was removed from where his sons were congregated, but not outside of earshot or view. When he would look back at this moment later, he would find himself wondering what would have happened if he had not decided to sit outside. If he would have been hidden behind the daunting walls of the house would the rest of the day unfolded as it had? Would Adam have bothered speaking to him at all?

"Heya, Adam." Hoss grinned as he looked at his eldest brother's horse. "Never thought of you as the Appaloosa type." Though he was bound to have seen it before, this seemed to be the first occasion he had a moment to truly appraise the docile, speckled animal. "As a matter of fact, I thought you weren't fond of black and white horses."

Unbuckling one of his saddlebags, Adam pulled out a small stack of books tightly tethered together by a strap and shrugged. "I didn't really pick him," he said. "We just kind of ended up together, I guess. Preferences aside, I can't say I'm upset about it. Bingo has turned out to be a dependable ride."

"Bingo?" Joe snorted.

"I take no credit for that," Adam said. "I wasn't the one who named him."

"Well," Hoss said, "speaking of things you did name." He nodded at the corral sitting in the distance behind where Adam stood. "I think somebody is eager to see you again."

Adam turned, his eyes narrowing to identify what his brother was indicating, then they widened with surprise. Standing next to the wooden railing containing him, Sport was watching them from afar. He bobbed his head and kicked his front foot against the ground in anticipation as, awestruck, Adam began to close the gap between them, his brothers following close on his heels.

"Hey, buddy," he softly said as he reached the corral gate. Extending his free hand, he fondly stroked Sport's forehead. It was a motion that was accepted by the horse and spurred on further by the nodding of his head. "How are you, huh?"

"We had a heck of a time rounding him up," Joe said.

"Rounding him up?" Adam asked. "Where've you been keeping him?"

"We put him out to pasture after you left," Hoss explained. "It was the only thing we could do seeing as none of us was you, making old Sport look upon us unkindly."

"Unkindly," Adam snorted. "Brother, is that your way of saying you tried to ride this animal and he threw you?"

"Landed right on my behind," Hoss said. "Couldn't sit right for days."

Chuckling, Adam's gaze set on the pony lingering behind Sport and his smile faltered, his hand falling away from the horse's forehead to hang at his side. "Traveler," he said.

"They stick together," Joe said.

"They do," Adam said.

"They didn't really give us a choice to keep them apart," Hoss said. "Sport came back the night after we let him go, and broke Traveler out of the barn."

"He did," Adam said.

"Sure did," Hoss said. "There really didn't seem to be much point in rounding the pony back up just so Sport could bust him out again, so we let them be. The two of them have been running wild and free ever since."

"Then why are they in the corral?" Adam asked.

"We thought maybe you'd want to see them again." Hoss shoved his hands in his front pockets. "I thought maybe Peggy would, too."

Taking a step back, Adam cast his brother a preoccupied gaze. "You should let them go," he said. "There's no point in keeping them here, if that's not what they're used to."

Joe and Hoss traded a glance, both visibly taken aback by the instruction. Watching from afar, Ben was taken aback too. Though he had not expected Adam to take kindly to the mention of Peggy, he had not expected him to react so strangely either.

"Let them go," Adam repeated firmly. Turning away from the corral, he looked at his brothers, lifted the books he had obtained from his saddlebags and nodded. "Jamie forgot his schoolbooks yesterday," he said, his tone shifting along with the conversation. It was not as warm as it had been; it sounded as guarded as his expression now looked.

"I'll take them," Ben said, finally drawing attention to himself. When Adam's eyes found his own, he was almost certain he saw a glimmer of relief rising in their hazel depths. It could not be, he thought, immediately dismissing what he was sure he had seen as Adam walked toward him, leaving his brothers to stand by the corral.

"Thank you for finding the time to bring them out," Ben said as he stood and took the books from Adam's outstretched hand. "I'm sure Jamie will not appreciate you returning them, but I do."

"It's not a big deal," Adam said. "I was in the mood for a ride."

"Thank you, anyhow. I'll make sure Jamie knows you're the reason he is able to turn in his assignment on Monday. Dusty took him fishing this afternoon; he will be very disappointed he missed you."

"You can tell him he sees me often enough these days."

"Not often enough according to him."

Clearing his throat, Adam rubbed his hand thoughtfully over his beard. "Like I said, I'm in the mood for a ride," he repeated, his tone softening ever-so-slightly. He planted his hands on his hips and cast Ben a careful gaze, the silver star pinned prominently on his vest glistening beneath the sun, highlighting the strange flicker of emotion in his eyes. "How about it, Pa? Do you think it's about time we took a ride?"

The offer was as welcome as it was unexpected. Ben did not have to press his son further to distinguish its importance, and he did not hesitate with his response. "Yes," he said.

He made quick work of saddling Buck; mounting the animal, he urged him forward to fall in behind Adam's lead. He did not have to ask where they were going; he already knew.

They rode in silence. The trail was rugged and steep, as onerous that afternoon as it had been the morning Ben and Jamie had traveled it. He could not help thinking of that trip and how a journey that had been born from such good intentions could have turned out so bad. He hoped this day was destined to be different than that one, and that his journey could bestow upon him and Adam the silent forgiveness and understanding it had once provided.

That was the purpose of the ride, wasn't it? For he and Adam to travel this familiar path so they could both let go of all they were destined to never make peace with, silently agreeing to not agree with their respective views of the past in exchange for a promise of a more peaceful future.

They reached the crest of the trail just as the sun began to dip in the horizon, its rays quickly disappearing, darkness settling into the crevasses of the canyon below. Remaining seated in their respective saddles, the pair watched the shadows of dusk chase away what was left of the daylight, neither of them venturing a word until hints of stars began to break through the steadily deepening sky.

"I'm never going to apologize for what I did, you know," Adam said softly. "Because despite what some people in these parts might still believe, yourself included, I don't think what I did was entirely wrong."

Sucking his bottom lip in between his teeth, Ben bit down and resigned himself not to reply. It was better to wait than speak out of impulse. Better to hear all of what Adam had brought him here to finally say before responding.

"Of course," Adam continued, "I won't say it was entirely right either, because it wasn't. There were other ways I could have gone about doing what I did."

He appraised Ben out of the corners of his eyes, seemingly gauging whether he should continue or brace for an inevitable response. Ben held tight to his lip and his determination. He would not speak until his son had been heard.

"I've arrested men for less," Adam said. He tilted his head, his eyes drifting to the landscape below. "And more," he added. "I think you believe the decisions I made back then sat easily on my heart. They did not. That's all you're ever going to get out of me about what happened back then. I'm not going to apologize and I don't expect an apology from you either. We are who we are, even after all this time. You're entitled to your opinion about me and I can have mine about you, neither of those things have to change, but how we deal with each other does."

Ben would not disagree.

"Enough of the bullshit, Pa," Adam continued. "Of you and me avoiding each other, of you seeking me out when I ask you to leave me be, forcing both of us to be careful about what we say. The only predictable aspect of our conversations is their unpredictability. I suppose things have always been that way between you and me; one of us is always pushing and the other pulling back, each of us wanting so badly for the other's opinion to bend enough to break. You want things your way and I want them mine, and if those two points of view aren't obliging then brace yourself, dig your heels into the ground, and double-down on your opinion, because you're in for one hell of a fight." He shook his head disgustedly. "I didn't come back here to live like that. I don't have to agree with you, and you don't have to like me."

"Who ever said I didn't like you?" Ben asked softly, his silent determination vanishing to make room for a mixture of sadness and shock.

Taking a deep breath, Adam held and then expelled it, his eyes set on the horizon as his lips began to form a cynical smile. "Like I said, I'm done with the bullshit. You can lie to yourself all you want, but you can't lie to me. You can't hide yourself from me. Not anymore. You don't do what I do for a living without honing the ability to see right through people. I see you, Pa, even if you don't want to see yourself."

There was a threat lingering behind the quiet words. Ben had a fleeting thought that he should have pressed his son to continue and elaborate on the statement. But he did not. His fear would not allow him to. There was something chilling about Adam's expression, and the viciousness of his eyes. Push me, those eyes seem to taunt. Push me to speak further and I will, and then it will be you who will be forced to contend with my anger for once. My frustration over who you are and who you should have been.

With his words and expression, it was Adam who was pulling for a fight, and Ben knew the only thing he could do was step back and refuse to push forward. He did not want to fight. Not here. Not now. Not ever again. Maybe at one time their disagreements served a purpose, highlighting their weakness to correct and strengthen them, but it was not that way now. Their quarrels were aimless and futile, eroding their already diminished relationship.

"I received your letter," Adam said, drawing attention to the forgotten detail seemingly to further the fight. "The one you wrote years ago and sent to Grandfather back East in the hope that I would find myself back there and it would find its way to me. It did, but I did not read it. So, whatever it is that you think you said to me, just know that you didn't. Now, I'm not saying that in the hopes that you repeat whatever you wrote, because, honestly, I don't care. Your opinion isn't a priority to me. Maybe it once was, but it isn't anymore."

"Because of the last conversation we shared," Ben said. It was an obvious deduction; still, he prayed he was wrong. Let them abandon the topic before it was found. Let them turn back and travel a less laborious verbal path before they had gone too far down this one.

"Among other things. You know, Pa, we're not that different. I wish we were, but we're not. As a man I understand why you said what you did. As your son I never will. You have no idea the weight those words carried, or the events they set into motion. If I were a lesser man, there's a whole host of things I would be blaming you for now. But that's not who I am. After all, a man must take responsibility for himself and ownership of his choices, good or bad; he can't blame anyone else for the decisions he made. You may have pushed me out the door with your words, but I'm the one that left."

"I hurt you," Ben admitted freely, words that seemed to take Adam by genuine surprise.

It was a fact that neither one of them could deny, and it cast a damning light on the truth Ben had tried so hard to ignore. It was not Adam's actions or his son's words he struggled to forget and forgive. It was not Adam's explanation or apology that would never be enough for what had been said or done. It was his own. It was his words that had been vile, his summation of his son's actions and character so grotesque and unforgivable. It was not Adam who had made the decision to walk away; it was his father's words that had pushed him to leave.

"You're not the only one who must take responsibility for himself, Adam," Ben said. "You're not the only one whose past words and actions were not entirely defensible or correct. I know you don't expect an apology, but I would be remiss not to apologize for that."

"I told you I didn't want one," Adam said gruffly. The statement was not said with anger; it did not need to be. His resentment was made clear by his eyes; in them lurked another truth his father had been slow to note. It was not Ben's anger that had kept Adam away for so many years. It was his own. "I don't want to talk about the past. Ever. Or at all."

"Then what do you want?"

"The stage is coming tomorrow."

"So, I've heard."

"I don't want there to be any tension between us when it does."

Ben stared at his son blankly, the explanation seeming a little too simplistic and incongruous. How could it be that easy? How could the threat of the past linger so close, only to be abruptly buried again? "You don't want there to be any tension between us," he repeated. "But you don't want an apology, and you don't want to talk about the past."

"That's right." Adam nodded at their surroundings. "That's why we're here. This is what we do—did. This is where we come when we can't agree, when we know we never will. I assure you, you and I will never see eye to eye on the past. That's why it's better left alone. It is what it is. We can't change it now. The only thing we can shape is the future, and, like it or not, the future is on that stage."

"Peggy is on that stage."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Adam's frustration was obvious. "Like the only conceivable way I could ever have something of my own is if I took it from somebody else?"

"It isn't Peggy?" Ben asked.

Adam opened his mouth only to immediately close it again. He took a deep breath through his nose, held it, and then expelled it, his nostrils flaring. "That's the other purpose of this ride," he said. "It would be nice if you allowed Jamie to come and await the arrival of the stage in the morning."

"Just Jamie?"

"I'm asking for permission for Jamie specifically, seeing as how he isn't old enough to grant it to himself."

"You don't want the rest of us there? Just Jamie, the one brother that knows you the least?"

"I've already asked Joe and Hoss to come, and if you'd stop trying to put words in my mouth then maybe I'd be able to ask you, too. Jesus, Pa, why does every single conversation have to unfold the way you think it does? You're always so busy anticipating underlying motives and outcomes that you never allow a man an opportunity to simply speak."

"And why must you talk in circles before saying what it is that you truly want to?" Ben countered. This was a dangerous game; each move had the potential to tear them further apart. "Don't answer that," he swiftly added. "Please, ignore my question and ask your own."

Adam stared at him. If he was struggling to believe the offer or summon the desire to ask the question, Ben was not sure. "If I ask you to come," Adam said eventually, his tone as serious as his expression, "then I need to have your word on something."

"Fine."

"I mean it."

"So do I. Just make the request, Adam, so I can give you my word."

"Fine. If you come then you need to promise that no matter what the day prompts you to feel you'll remain calm and kind. You need to smile and hold yourself in a friendly manner, and if you can't do that then I expect you to walk away. Don't look at me or talk to me when you do, just take your leave peacefully and quietly."

It was by far the most ludicrous request Ben had ever heard his eldest son make. It did not seem feasible to hold himself to such a thing. It was not seemly that, after the terseness of what he had previously said, Adam would request such a defeatist thing. Did he really think his father was capable of so little control? Did he really feel that the opinion of his character held by whomever was arriving on stage was so finite and variable that an adverse reaction by his father would irrevocably detrimentally shift it? How could a man who had always stood so tall and firm in the face of adversity suddenly seem so insecure about how he could be perceived? And who was this person whose opinion seemed to matter so much?

"Promise me," Adam repeated.

His tone was so insistent, the statement pleading. Ben did not have any other choice but to agree. "I promise," he said. Lost in confusion that felt like something akin to worry, they were the last words he would allow himself to say.

They sat in silence as darkness quickly chased away what light the dusk had allotted; the night sky became dark around them, hiding their expressions from view.

"Just so you know, I wanted things to be different," Adam whispered, the admission nearly too soft to be heard among the chorus of chirping crickets and coyotes howling in the distance. "Before I came back, I hoped your reaction would be different than what it turned out to be. But it was what it was, and now here we are, two men, each trying to define the value of the other if neither of us can be what the other needs us to be. There was a time in my life when I didn't seem to exist without you or you without me, and now that we've been existing without each other for so long, it's as difficult for me to know what to do with you as it is for you to know what to do with me. And then there's the past, something that can't ever be fixed, forgotten, or changed. You can't apologize to me for what you did back then because I can't apologize to you for what I did either. You don't think I was right, and I don't think you were right, but we both know what drove our own actions. I don't need your apology to justify my actions; and you don't need my forgiveness to justify yours. Neither one of us can admit wrong, because from our own perspectives we both know we were right."

Ben shook his head, a motion that was destined to remain unnoticed in the dark. He bit his tongue, holding tightly to a precipitous and tormenting notion. He was not right; he had never been right. All along, he had been wrong. But with Adam refusing to speak further about the events there was nothing left to say. Nothing left to do. It was time to leave the past alone. Time to stop forsaking the present at the cost of the future and embrace whatever it was. Whatever it could be.

"Why did you come back?" Ben could not help asking the question, though he wished it could have remained unvoiced. One way or another, he had to know. "Why return at all if you aren't seeking closure, or a resolution?"

Adam did not immediately answer. "I didn't come back because I wanted to," he said finally. "If I had been given a choice I would not have returned."

"What would you have done?"

"Anything other than what I did."

Shifting in his saddle, Adam directed his horse to turn around and begin descending down the dark, calamitous trail.

TBC