PART THREE:

NOW:

Ben Cartwright did not know what to think—or do.

"Eddie," he repeated dumbly, staring at the woman who had appeared out of seemingly nowhere, manifesting herself in front of him in what she could not have known was a very precarious moment in time. "The sheriff's wife."

Sitting atop her horse, she peered down at him, her blue eyes squinting through the darkness of the night. "Yes," she said.

"He's not here."

"I know. You said that already. Where is he?"

"He went back to town."

"Alone?"

"No…" Ben hesitated, unsure if she was aware of his identity, or those of the men who had accompanied her husband into Virginia City. If she was not, then she would be soon enough. There was little point in keeping such details secret and no purpose in lying to her. "His brothers followed him after a time; your mother did, too."

Eddie was visibly surprised. "My mother is here?"

"Yes."

Where were you? Ben wanted to ask. Where have you been all this time? While your husband, children, and mother were here, trying their best to overcome their grief without you. And what specifically was this grief? He had believed Eddie's death had been included in the list of things his son's family was grieving, but that assumption was obviously untrue. Still reeling from his conversation with his son, he sadly realized all his assumptions were destined to be untrue.

Though Adam did not care about Ohio, he was unwilling to forgive his father for the past. Rightfully so, Ben thought. It was liberating in a barmy way, so oddly relieving. All this time, his fear and anger had prevented him from communicating directly and clearly about anything regarding his oldest son; he had always needed to control the conversations, always so afraid they would unfold in an unkind way, leading him to say or hear things he was not prepared to. This was an affliction he no longer suffered.

"I'm the sheriff's father," he said bluntly, a clumsy introduction. "I'm Ben Cartwright."

"I know." Eddie casually appraised him. "Although we have never met, I think I would recognize you anywhere. You are Adam's father. There is simply no one else in the world you could ever be."

"And you're his wife," Ben said, repeating the pronouncement for the second time. He wondered how many times he would have to utter it before he grew used to it. Adam had not said anything about a living wife. In fact, he had not said anything about a wife at all. He had had one, of course, if Noah's presence was not proof of that, then Lil's statements about her daughter were. Strangely, the woman had spoken about Eddie as though she was deceased. Adam had not spoken of her at all.

"That makes us family, I suppose," Eddie said.

"It does."

"So, tell me, what do you intend to do?"

"Do?"

"With me, now that I'm here."

Ben shrugged. "What do you intend to do?" He looked skyward, his dark eyes appraising the blackened sky. "It's a little too late to ride into Virginia City. A little too dangerous, given the circumstances."

She nodded as though she understood, and he wondered how that could be. How much did she know about the struggles Adam was facing and how had she become privy to them? Where had she been? What had led her to the Ponderosa now, on horseback in the middle of the night, no less, a development that was as peculiar as it was troublesome. Why was she here? Why had she come alone in the dark? Why was she wearing Adam's hat and coat?

"You're welcome to stay," he added.

"For the night," she said evenly.

"For as long as you want. You are family, after all, and your children are here. Adam left them in my care when he returned to his post. I'm sure you're anxious to see them—"

"No," she said tersely. Expression becoming laden with an obscure emotion, she seemed to think better of her response. "No," she added softly. "I-I… I'm sure they're asleep by now. I'd prefer not to wake them. Like you said, it's late."

The explanation was more than a little odd, the conversation and her sudden appearance more than a little confounding. Ben had exchanged a brutal conversation with his son for an awkward one with his daughter-in-law. He had a fleeting notion that now that she had finally arrived he could not allow her to leave. There were too many dreadful things that could happen to a woman who was traveling alone in the dark.

"Well, whatever you prefer," he said. "I am afraid I must insist you stay for the night, at least."

She smiled in an amused manner. "Don't be afraid," she said. "I'll stay."

Taking a step forward, he extended his arms and offered her his hands so she could dismount. He was certain it was assistance that was not needed, but it was, after all, the polite thing to do. Eddie looked at them momentarily before accepting his help; she did not hold onto him any longer than necessary.

Feet planted firmly on the ground, she pulled her hands away and cast him a tired glance. "Thank you."

"Of course." He nodded at the house. "Why don't you go inside? If Hop Sing is still awake, he will greet and help you acquire whatever you need for a peaceful night. I'll tend to your horse and join you shortly."

He was never more grateful for a menial task in his life. He bedded the horse down slowly, taking his time as though if enough of it passed he would find his immediate situation changed. Hop Sing was sure to get Eddie settled inside; maybe if he spent enough time in the barn, then Eddie would have gone to bed and their inevitable conversation would be delayed until morning. Everything always looked better in the morning. Isn't that what he had always told his children? The dawn of a new day always had a way of casting new light on difficult situations, somehow granting an individual the wisdom to deal with them.

Was this a difficult situation? Or was it one to be celebrated?

Ben did not know, but he would find out. Sooner rather than later, it seemed, as finally entering the ranch house, he found Eddie standing in front of the fireplace. Having placed Adam's black hat on the table next to the door, she still wore his coat, the confines of it dwarfing her slender form. Or Ben assumed it was slender, at least, as he could not see any line of her frame. He was immediately overcome by regret for leaving her unattended for so long.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I should not have taken so long. I really thought that Hop Sing would have—"

"Oh, he did," Eddie said. "He offered me every comfort available, food, a bath, tea, and then guided me to a room upstairs in which I am to sleep."

"Good." With a room at her disposal, Ben wondered why she had remained downstairs, and why she was so averse to removing Adam's coat. Was it sentimentality that was causing her to cling to it? Or something else?

Turning around, Eddie followed his gaze, and appraised the jacket. "You're wondering why I didn't remove it."

"No," Ben said, not really knowing why. Was he being polite? Or was he avoiding becoming privy to more information. In the light of the house, he could see what had gone unnoticed outside. The familiar yellow jacket was faded and well-worn; it had been mended in two places. Singular holes in both the chest and one side had been stitched up, the dull copper staining surrounding the repairs declaring them as the entry points of bullets. He could not help thinking of Adam's scars, the one on his side and the other on his chest. Adam had been shot in the jacket, sustaining at least one wound that should have killed him.

"Yes," Eddie said. "You are. It is quite strange, I know. Why wouldn't I remove a dirty old jacket when presented with the warmth and comfort of something like this." Indicating at the fireplace, she turned back around. "I suppose you're wondering where I've been, what I've been doing, and what kind of woman I am considering I abandoned my husband and children, only to show up at your home in the middle of the night?"

"Maybe I am," Ben said softly. He felt a surge of fondness for the woman in front of him. Neither tall nor short, she was an understated beauty, this woman who had given Noah his brilliant blue eyes. She was well-spoken, determined, and direct; he could see how all those qualities had been found appealing by his oldest son. For a single moment, Ben was overcome by a gratitude powerful enough to render him speechless. Eddie was Adam's wife, and she was alive. What a blessing this was for Peggy and Noah—and Adam, too.

"I don't really have a reasonable explanation for any of these things," Eddie said. "Well, except for maybe my desire not to remove the jacket. I suppose it was grief and fear that ignited my need to run away from the life that I knew and the people I loved; I suppose it is the same emotions that have led me back to them now." Looking over her shoulder, she cast him a regretful gaze. "I love your son and my children; I want you to know that. I have a lot to make up for, you should know that, too."

"So do I," Ben admitted, taken aback by her unfettered statements.

She stared at him, then nodded. "I hope we are both allowed the opportunity to do so."

"Why wouldn't we?"

"You know Adam."

Shaking his head, Ben was not sure he did—not anymore, at least.

"He's as loyal as they come," Eddie said. "He pretends he can't be hurt. That he's much too strong to ever really break, but like the rest of us he does, even if he chooses to do his mourning in private. The problem with Adam is that if you really hurt him, he'll never let you know. He masks his pain with strength; he does not talk about it, because he cannot bear to think about it himself. The smaller hurts he can let go of, and most of the big ones he can, too, given time. The deep ones are the ones you must worry about. The wounds that promise never to heal, but can fester if not tended to immediately and correctly. An apology is usually enough, some kind of acknowledgement that the misdeed was done and a vow to learn from it rather than repeat it. The scars may remain but the wound is allowed to heal over. But the wounds can never heal if there is no resolution."

"And which ones did you inflict?" Ben had not meant to ask the question; he was stunned into a chastised silence as soon as it left his mouth.

Eddie was not bothered. "I left when I should have stayed," she said simply. "What about you?"

"Don't you know? You're his wife. I'm sure he shared with you his opinion of me."

"He did."

"Then why are you asking?"

"Because I would like to hear your opinion of your past actions, so that I can form my own opinion of you in the hope that you will show me the same kindness."

Ben was grateful for the opportunity. He thought back to his conversation with Adam, and the things his son had said. "In some instances, I coddled him too much," he said, repeating his son's earlier words. "And in others, I left him on his own when he really needed help. I stood beside him in nearly everything, except the fights he truly needed me to. And when I found my nephew, Will, alive, I protected him in order to preserve a lie I told my sons about my life. I knew Will had problems; I knew what kind of man he had grown into. I failed to protect Laura and Peggy properly because I was afraid of what Will knew about my past. I made a choice to value lies over all else; I made a choice to treat my oldest son as though he was the one doing wrong. I pretended it was Adam's frustration, obstinance, and dislike of Will that made him take Peggy away from Will, and when he finally returned home afterward, with my words, I destroyed him. I wanted to protect him, but I failed him instead."

If she was surprised by the declarations, Eddie gave no indication. "That's all very bad," she said evenly. "Even so, I have you beat."

Ben looked at her questioningly.

"I blamed him for the death of our son," she said. "Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I could have kept my feelings private, if I had not left, but I did not stay quiet and I did leave. I looked at him, the grief-stricken man I am supposed to honor and love and blamed him for everything that had happened. I cast blame on him knowing damn-well that he was already drowning in it. He blamed himself, I knew that, and I said what I said anyway, because I was hurting. Because I was scared. Because I was—"

Voice wavering with emotion, she shut her mouth, turned, and stared at the fire. She was quiet for a time, and when she finally spoke again, her voice was a hushed whisper.

"Our beautiful, beloved Charlie was gone, taken from us in the most horrific way, and if the pain a man feels when he loses a son was not enough, I had to add to it. I had to validate Adam's worst fears, the things he already thought but could not find the words to say. I found and said them all; then I left; and then I waited. And my husband, the man who spends his life tracking and finding the most secretive and volatile of men, could not be bothered to come after me."

If this had been another time then maybe Ben would have been compelled to sit in judgement of her for what she had done. Maybe he could have been angry at her, his love and loyalty to his son demanding such a thing. He simply could not do that, because it was not another time. It was right now, and right now he was deeply grieved, overcome by sadness for his son, his daughter-in-law, and himself.

Something terrible had happened—he knew this now, although he realized he should have known it long before. It was always there lurking beneath everything everyone had said, and all the things Adam refused to.

Adam had lost a son, the death of whom he felt responsible for.

"Now, you're here, because you decided to stop waiting for him to find you in order to make things right," he softly provided. "You came after him."

"I came here because of a lot of things. If there is one thing in this life that I do not lack, it is reasons that govern my behavior. I suppose you think I'm as flighty and fickle as my late cousin, Laura. I suppose, given what Adam, my mother, or Peggy had to say about me, you think I am as terrible of a mother and wife as she was."

Ben did not have the heart to share with her that her family had not spoken of her in great detail. They had acted as though she had died. "I don't think that at all."

"If you don't now, later you will. And you do think it's odd that I won't remove this silly jacket. You're just too kind to say it outright. I'll take it off, I promise, I will, but I need to speak to Adam first."

"Do you want me to send for him?"

Eddie shook her head. "At this hour?" she whispered. "No. Not tonight. It's late, and I'm tired. I'm sure he's tired, too, and busy, like he always is. Lord knows that man knows how to find a purpose. If there is anything in this life he does not lack it is that." Arms hanging limply at her sides, her hands hidden beneath the long jacket sleeves, she shook her head again. "No. Let us both have one more night of whatever this is, because tomorrow we will all wake and find everything so changed. I'll take this jacket off when I see Adam. In the meantime, it's the only piece of him I have to cling to. I can wrap it around myself and pretend it's him who's holding me close and keeping me warm. It's him who's with me now instead of…" Closing her mouth, she tilted her head and did not utter another word.

Ben thought her to be more than a little exhausted, her determination slightly nonsensical and governed by fatigue. Even so, he would not deny her wishes. He would shepherd her to a bedroom upstairs, leave her to sleep, wait until dawn, and send for Adam in the morning.

Lying awake in bed, sleep refused to take him that night. He could not help the emotions gathering in an abrasive clump in his chest: relief, apprehension, and a great deal of dread. Something was wrong with the way Adam had left the protection of his family's home for the variability of town. Something was wrong with the way Eddie had suddenly appeared. Something was inherently wrong about everything.

Somewhere in the distant darkness beyond the safe confines of the ranch house, a singular wolf began to howl. The animal was obviously alone, trying its best to communicate with more of its kind. Alerting of positions of prey, warning about predators, or trying to share its location for others to join. It was a persistent, incessant sound that seemed intent on driving Ben into madness a little more each time it ceased and then renewed. Even when it stopped completely, it remained in his mind, echoing until dawn's early light.

TBC