NOW:

Ben did not tell Adam about Peggy's visit to the Running D.

Who he was truly protecting, or what he was trying to achieve by omitting the information, he was not certain. He was trying his best not to become involved in his son's affairs—at least that was what he told himself on the infrequent occasion such thoughts briefly consumed him.

Peggy had been right about the land. The girl was nothing if not astute; she was aware of the tenseness between father and son, even if it was something that had not been directly discussed with her. Ben had said he would not give the land back now without Adam's consent, and she was intelligent enough to glean what he had not.

It was within the realm of possibility that Ben would never return the land to her directly. She had been born a girl, after all, and as such her destiny remained rooted to the wishes of her father—or father figure, as she had taken such care in declaring Adam was not her father—and eventual husband. To a large extent, Peggy's future was contingent upon Adam's wishes for her. If he did not want Peggy to have the land, she would not.

She could take hold of it once she reached age, of course, but it was an endeavor she could not take on alone. She would need help, a man to stand beside and in front of her when needed; it was not seemly for a woman to take on such ventures alone, the likelihood of such a thing being successful much too slim and the promise of complications and trouble too certain.

Surely, Peggy had watched her mother struggle beneath the weight of the Running D after her father had died. Laura had barely been able to keep the place up and running; she had not been able to oversee the men Frank had hired to work for him. The work was too demanding, the tasks too numerous to keep track of, and the men were too rowdy to be kept in line by a female proprietor. This example notwithstanding, Ben would not say a woman could not successfully own land without a father or a husband. Even he had heard of Victoria Barkley of San Joaquin Valley, the successful proprietor of the Hill Ranch. However, she was significantly older than Peggy would be. A widow, who had taken control over things after her husband had passed, and besides that, she had sons. Grown sons who stood beside and in front of her when need be. If Peggy took hold of the Running D at eighteen, she would not have that.

But what would she have?

It was a question Ben did not want to think much about, at least not now. Much later, maybe. When a few more years had passed and things were more settled with Adam. There was no predicting what anything was going to turn into once they moved past this strange time of in between and life became more planned out. Once there was a frequency and predictability to their interactions, the tone of them more reminiscent to what had once been, each of them able to speak freely and honestly, neither of them dodging or ignoring specific topics of conversation in effort to remain civil. For now, questions that could be interpreted as criticisms were a curse, and civility was a gift. It allotted them more time to define their relationship. Time to think about how they both wanted things to be; time to determine what they would like to change, or not change as they resigned themselves to allow things to continue the way they were forever.

A part of Ben wanted to tell Adam about Peggy's visit to the Running D in the hope that sharing the information would be enough to put him in his son's good graces. And another, much smaller and decidedly selfish, part of his heart wanted to keep it a secret.

He garnered no pleasure from knowing something about Peggy Adam did not. It was easier not to tell. To ignore and dismiss the interaction in favor of maintaining the status quo, the civility that was so important to them both. That's what he did for a while, and for a while it worked. Then he visited the Running D for a second time, and it became obvious the strategy was destined to fail, because that morning it was not Peggy who came upon him. It was he who came upon someone else.

He noticed the horse first. The familiar appaloosa had not been tied to the hitching post, rather allowed to roam and graze upon the unruly vegetation covering the ground. It was one way to handle the management of the weeds, Ben thought. Although, he suspected that was not the purpose of leaving the animal untied.

Dismounting Buck, he wrapped his reins around the post and cast his gaze upon the property, his dark eyes searching for the animal's owner. Though entry points to both the house and the barn remained boarded-up and seemingly inaccessible, Adam could not be readily seen. If it was not for his horse, there would not have been any indication of his presence at all. Ben felt an odd feeling begin to gather in the pit of his stomach, an unsettling mixture of slight annoyance and growing fear. What would lead Adam to the Running D of all places? What would lead him away from it without his horse?

Ben stalked around the property, both questions racing around his mind in a maddening loop. He was anxious to locate his oldest son, and dreading doing so at the same time. What if Adam did not want to be seen? What if he had come out here with the same intentions his father had, the same intention Peggy had voiced when she had come before: to sit alone and be reminded of how things once were and they way they were now. To consider the pain of the memories lurking inside of all of them and wonder if the wounds they had carved into each other's hearts really were too deep to heal. If the things Adam and he said to each other during the brutal fight that had driven Adam away from home were truly unforgivable.

Ben could let the things Adam had said go; he had resigned himself to do that. But there was a cruelness to the things he had said to Adam about his relationship with and intentions toward Laura Dayton. He had attacked his son's character, tearing him down bit by bit. He had accused him of a list of things. Hideous, vile, and unseemly things, all of them untrue.

Adam said he did not want an apology; he had said he did not want to speak of the conversation. And he had said something else. Something that did not sit easily on Ben's heart or mind. You have no idea, Adam had said, 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.

What were these events? What were these things? Ben did not know, but he longed to. He longed for other things, too. To have his family—all his sons—close to him the way they once were. To know Adam, not as the man he was before but to become familiar with who he was now. To gather as a full family for meals and enjoy the ease of each other's company, something that seemed unlikely to happen, even if things between him and Adam changed. There was, after all, a very specific rivalry brewing among two arrogated members of the Cartwright clan.

Jamie had taken to Adam swiftly, and his dislike for Peggy had been established just as quickly. It was a feeling that was mutual; Peggy did not care for him either. Whether their joint aversion to each other extended past their seemingly competitive fondness for Adam remained to be seen. There could be more to it than that, Ben theorized, less too. Teenagers were endlessly impulsive and emotional; sometimes their beliefs surrounding something could swing as swiftly and unpredictably as their moods. That's what made rearing them so damn frightening. You could teach them, instill in them good values and shepherd them toward correct paths; still, there would always exist an air of variability and unpredictability courtesy of their blazing hormones and underdeveloped reasoning skills. And with all the ways in which Peggy seemed to be mature for her age, she was still a teenager. Impulsivity and over-emotionality were a pair of bullets she would not dodge, and Adam would be forced to endure them alongside her. That is, if he were ever found.

Stopping in front of the derelict corral, Ben planted his hands on his hips and frowned. He did not know if he should stay and wait for his son to turn up, or leave. His intentions for the morning—the reason he had returned to the Running D at all, to think about the past and the future—were not compatible with either thing. He would think about Adam's current whereabouts either way, the strangeness of his presence at the Running D and his unattended horse.

Looking at the appaloosa, a creature named Bingo of all things, Ben snorted. He had trouble picturing his son owning a horse with a name like that. Of course, he had trouble picturing a lot of things. Adam had stated he had not named the horse, so who did? Was it Peggy? A name like that seemed indicative of a young child's choosing. It would have been like Adam to allow a little girl to name his horse; he was thoughtful like that. He would not care what anyone had to say about the selected name either; he was the impregnable sort.

There was a thudding in the farmhouse, an ominous stomping that tore Ben's attention away from horses and names. Brows knitting, he approached the house as the noise continued, muffled yet echoing around the hollow inside. It sounded like someone was slowly pacing in the sitting room, the bottoms of their shoes scraping against the worn floorboards. Was Adam inside of the house? If so, how had he gotten there without leaving any evidence of his entry?

Standing outside of the boarded front window, Ben tilted his head and placed his ear close to the wood barring the outside world from looking in. The pacing continued, albeit slowly, heavy footsteps that seemed to move back and forth at a glacial pace. They sounded so strange from his position, so uncustomary when comparing them to the person to which he believed they belonged. Why would Adam break into the house to pace? Why would he enter the house at all?

"Pa?"

Turning abruptly, Ben blinked dumbly as he found Adam standing in the ranch yard just beyond the front porch. He had not been in the house. Nobody had.

Casting him a wary look, Adam did not appear jovial or amused. "What are you doing?"

Ben felt overcome by a strange feeling, embarrassment combined with shock and agitation as he tried to reconcile what he was seeing with what he had heard. "Um, nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing."

"It was."

"What are you doing here?"

Shaking his head, Ben dismissed the question as he stepped off the porch and moved to stand in front of his son. "Where did you come from?" he asked.

Pursing his lips, Adam appraised Ben momentarily. "You know," he said, his voice low and deep, "if I were a certain kind of lawman then I might just believe you were listening to something, eavesdropping, perhaps?"

"Eavesdropping."

"Of course, we both know a man like you wouldn't dare do a thing like that. Nevermind that there isn't anyone in that house to eavesdrop on. It certainly looked strange, though. You standing with your ear pressed up to the window like that."

Ben had endured enough of this torture. "Where did you come from?" he asked again.

Adam's eyebrows rose beneath the rim of his hat. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, you weren't around when I rode up, and now suddenly you're here, watching me from afar." Who was the eavesdropper now? "Where did you come from?"

Adam looked at the house, then at his father, and then at the house again. "You didn't think I was in the house, did you?"

"Of course, I didn't—"

"Nothing to be ashamed of." Looking at his father, Adam's eyes flickered knowingly. "It's a strange house. If you said you heard something, I'd believe you."

"You would."

"Sure, I would. You wouldn't be the first to hear things."

"You've heard things?" Ben asked.

Adam shrugged. "Not lately," he said.

"Then when—?"

"You asked me why I came out here," Adam deflected. "Well, I didn't intend to. I was headed out to see you. I guess I was curious about the state of things here, and that made me want to see it again. God only knows why," he scoffed, his gaze finding the broken corral. "It's funny, I swore I'd never come back here, and, yet, here I am. I guess sometimes we even surprise ourselves."

Ben wondered if Adam was referring to the Running D, or the territory in general. "You said you were coming to see me," he said.

"I did."

"About what?"

"I had a question to ask."

Ben nearly sighed. Why couldn't Adam just be forthright? "Okay," he said carefully. "And what's that?"

Inhaling a deep breath, Adam did sigh. "I've been thinking."

"About?"

"Roy Coffee."

"Roy Coffee?" Ben repeated flatly. He could not help feeling disappointed. He wanted Adam to seek out his company because he was his father, not because he was the longest standing member of the town council.

"He's my deputy now," Adam said as though it was not something Ben was already privy to. "He's a bit old to be a deputy. It wasn't something I thought a lot about at first, because, well, things were quiet at first. I didn't have kids to think about, and I certainly didn't think about Roy Coffee. Or, I don't know, maybe I did. He's experienced and trustworthy, and I don't mean to make it sound like I don't appreciate his help, because I do. He's a great help, and I couldn't ask for a better man to serve in the position beside me."

"Then what's the problem?"

"I lean on him too much."

"Isn't that what a deputy is for?" Ben asked. "To watch your back and help cover the post."

"I didn't mean in a professional capacity."

"What other one is there?"

"A personal one." Adam's expression became guarded. "Look, I had a sitter. A nice little gal, Penelope Withers. Penny is what she likes to be called, which you probably know, seeing as she's Bill and Agatha Wither's daughter and has spent her entire life in Virginia City. I hired her to sit with the kids in the afternoons when too much was going on to have them around, and in the evenings when I couldn't get back to the house at a reasonable hour. She's a nice girl. Quiet but smart, and available at the drop of a hat. She's great with Noah." He smiled. "And even Peggy likes her, and she doesn't like anybody."

"Then I don't see the problem. It sounds like you have it all sorted out."

"I sure did. Penny Withers is a great girl. So great, in fact, that Billy Atkins took note and set his sights on courting her, and now Penny doesn't want to spend her free time watching my kids; she wants to spend it with the man who she hopes will someday be the father of her own."

"I fail to see how Roy Coffee fits into all of this."

"Billy and Penny started courting two weeks ago. Things have been a little rough without her; I can't be in two places at once. There's only so much of what I do for a living that I'd like my kids to see. Like I said, I've been leaning on Roy more than I'd like to, and he's doing more than his fair share considering I'm the one who's supposed to be in charge."

Ben's hope was renewed. Maybe Adam had been seeking him for personal reasons after all. He almost could not contain his smile. He did, though, of course. It was not seemly to be expressing joy over Adam's difficulties. Still, it was difficult to contain. This was the moment he had been waiting for; Adam was clearly in need of help, and he had come to him to ask a question. "I see," he said with forced indifference. "And you were coming to talk to me about… recommendations for another girl, or?"

Adam stared at him for a moment, his jaw setting stubbornly, his eyes gleaming with annoyance as he seemed to take note of his father's gleeful suspicion. "Not exactly," he said.

"What then?"

It was the perfect predicament. Losing the sitter for his children, Adam needed a new one. The answer seemed so obvious and easy. Adam just needed to open his mouth and ask for help. That was all he needed to do, and Ben would arrange whatever assistance was necessary. He would give his son anything he asked for. But as a silence settled between them it became apparent that the solution within itself was a problem. Asking for help was the problem; accepting assistance from a father Adam had sworn he did not need was seemingly worse.

"You know what?" Adam forced a smile as he seemed to rethink the moment they were sharing and the one that had brought them together in the first place. "Forget it." he said. "It's not important. It was a stupid idea for me to entertain."

"What was?"

"Nevermind."

"No." This interaction was an opportunity Ben did not want to waste. Extending his hand, he grasped Adam's forearm, holding him in place as he began to try to step away. "Please, son," he said softly, "just ask me what you originally intended to."

"No. Like I said, I've thought better of my original idea. It won't work. It'll just make things worse."

"Worse than what?"

"Don't do that." Adam pulled his arm from his father's grip. "Don't act like you don't know. Don't make me explain things we both understand."

"I understand, Adam, believe me, I do. You don't want to speak of the past, so I won't try to, but just know I understand why you feel the way you do."

"Oh, I doubt that. You never change, Pa. Do you know that? Everyone else is growing and evolving, but not you. Never you. You remain the same as you ever were, falsely believing you already know everything about anything."

"I never said I knew everything," Ben said calmly. He could have been upset over his son's words or tone of voice; he would have had good reason to be. He was not, however, because he could not deny Adam's frustration anymore than he could deny him the opportunity to express it.

"Then what are you saying?"

"I'm saying I understand this particular problem. I know what it's like to raise a young child without the help of his mother. I know what it's like to have to choose between your responsibilities to your young son and making money to support him."

Ben was talking about them now—in the loosest of terms—their travels west way back when and the sacrifices they both had made.

As a young boy, Adam had spent a great deal of time alone and unsupervised, anxiously waiting in the small bedroom of one boarding house after another while his father worked long hours required by yet another odd job. It was not a good way to rear a small child. In fact, it was one of the worst. It made them grow up too quickly, leaving them self-reliant at too young of an age and giving rise to all sorts of complications.

As a youth, Adam had always been too quiet, more inclined to keep his feelings to himself, intent on solving his adolescent problems alone. The only time Ben had ever heard of any difficulties his son was having was through his own observations or those of someone else. The only time Adam ever sought out help—not advice, but real, having his father intervene in a distressing situation help—was when things had already escalated and gone too far.

Even after they had settled in the Nevada territory, Adam struggled with predictable daily life. The transition from endless traveling to having a steady, permanent home was difficult. He always seemed to be waiting for something, searching for something. He was antsy and eager for new experiences and journeys. He always longed for what could be lingering just beyond the horizon of the vast land his family owned.

Though independent spirits and adventurous hearts were both perfectly fine attributes of a man, Ben would always wonder how different things would have been, how different Adam would have been had he had a stable home from the very beginning of his life. Would father and son have fought the way they eventually did? Would things have gotten as bad between them as they had. How much of Adam—his persona, personality, habits, needs, and desires—had been predestined and innate? How much had been reactionary, developed over time?

Suddenly, Ben was thinking of Ohio again, how similar Adam and Will had seemed as little boys, how different they had been as grown men. Their respective fathers had been similar once, too, and then they were different. John and Ben had both bore scars created by their father's poor decisions. Adam and Will both bore scars of the same. How many of Adam's difficult choices would come to affect his son? What kind of scars would Noah sustain because of the choices his father was forced to make? As few as possible if Ben had any say. He did not, of course, but that did not mean he could not try to encourage Adam to change his mind.

"Listen to me," Ben implored gently. "Listen to yourself. You told me you didn't want to come back to Virginia City. When you said it, I didn't understand, but after seeing Noah, I did. I do," he qualified. "Coming back was a choice that for whatever reason you were forced to make. It didn't have anything to do with what you wanted and everything to do with what your children needed. You knew what was here. You knew we were here, and despite what happened between you and I years ago, you knew your brothers and I would do whatever we could to help. That's why you became the sheriff, setting aside your career as a marshal, a job you chose."

Something about Ben's words did not sit right with Adam. "You think you know everything, don't you? I can promise you, you don't. I didn't choose to become a marshal," he scoffed. "I was chosen." As soon as he said the impulsive statement, it was obvious he regretted it. Eyes widening, he closed his mouth and pursed his lips, his brow wrinkling with disgust.

"Okay," Ben said carefully. "Maybe you didn't choose that, but you chose this. You said yourself you can't be in two places at once. You need help; let me help you."

Crossing his arms, Adam shifted in place, then turned away from his father and expelled a deep breath. His internal conflict was clear. It was the first thing Ben realized he understood without explanation. It was funny how distracting anger could be. If this were a conversation he and Adam had shared weeks ago, he would not have understood then what was so clear to him now. What his son wanted and needed were very different and conflicting things. Not taking the help would appease his pride but harm his children, and taking it would help his children but harm his pride.

Watching his son consider the options, Ben was almost certain he knew what Adam would eventually say. It was what he himself would have said. His son was not going to accept help. The cycle of Cartwright sons bearing the pain of their father's choices would continue.

Turning back around, Adam looked at Ben once more. "If I were to accept help from you, then that doesn't change things between us."

Ben hoped he neither appeared as surprised nor hopeful as he felt. "Of course not."

"After all, it wouldn't really be me you were helping. It'd be Noah."

"I understand. One thing hardly has anything to do with the other." Ben wanted to ask about Peggy and the things she needed, but he did not dare.

Adam surveyed their surroundings, the overgrown vegetation, dilapidated corral, and boarded-up house and barn. "I don't want Peggy out here," he said.

How the statement fit into the conversation, Ben was not sure. As Adam eyed him warily, he could not help wondering if his son knew the girl had already been to the Running D. If he knew about the conversation she had shared with Ben prior to her visit, or the one that took place during it.

"If you see her come out here," Adam continued, "I want you to send her back to town, and I want you to tell me if you do."

"Of course," Ben agreed. He wanted to ask what Adam already knew; he wanted to tell him what had already taken place. He should have asked; he should have told. But he did not. He avoided saying anything that would affect a decision Adam seemed to have already made.

"Peggy doesn't need much in the way of looking after," Adam said. "She knows what she's supposed to do and when. If there's a problem or she needs to be corrected then it needs to be brought to my attention, so I can handle it appropriately. I don't take kindly to people taking it upon themselves to discipline her."

Although it was an odd assertion, it was not a complete surprise. Ben had once made the same proclamation to others about his own teenage sons and more recently about Jamie. He was nothing if not fiercely protective over the treatment of his boys before they were fully grown men, able to stand on their own and speak for themselves. It was a personal mandate that had been established in the wake of the time he and Adam had spent in Ohio, a lesson that had come at a high cost. He never let anyone, no matter how trusted, punish any of his children after that, because sometimes the best of intentions had a way of cloaking and disguising vicious behavior. Sometimes others had no qualms crossing lines one could not begin to conceive of.

"Unless there's something bad afoot, Noah spends the morning with Roy and me at the office," Adam continued. "I want to keep it that way. What's really needed is someone to be around in the afternoons. The arrangement needs to be flexible, though. Sometimes Noah can't be in the office at all, and sometimes I don't make it home at night."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Adam asked, his eyes seeming to declare that such a thing could not be true.

"I do," Ben assured. "Do you have a preference?"

"On what?"

"What kind of woman would you like me to employ?"

Adam was visibly taken aback, the first solid proof that there had been a misunderstanding. Ben struggled to discern what it had been.

"I don't want you to employ anyone," Adam said. "If I wanted another sitter, I would have found one. Noah doesn't need another stranger looking after him, and Peggy isn't going to accept another girl the way she did Penny. I don't need your money. My kids need your time."

Mouth hanging slightly agape, Ben could only stare at his son. It had not occurred to him it was his own presence Adam was requesting. Although, it should have. That was what had made the solicitation so hard. What made hearing it so achingly bitter-sweet as the realization came that what Adam was asking for was not a request at all, rather a gift.

Despite everything, the way things had been years ago and how they were now, Adam was going to entrust him with his children. If they would have been on better terms, Ben might have pulled him into an impulsive embrace. But he could not do that, so he did the only thing he could do. The only thing he wanted to do.

He agreed to help.

TBC