NOW:

"The next person who takes a shot at me is going to find themselves hanging from the end of this rope."

Standing next to the finished gallows, Adam appraised the crowd of townsfolk that had congregated around to ogle it and him as his grim pronouncement seemed to hang like a thick cloud.

Pulling the collar of his jacket up, Ben fought the shiver that seemed intent on crawling up his spine. There was a bitterness in the air; the season was changing. The days had become shorter, the nights longer. Winter was coming—and so was something else. If asked to describe what this thing was, he would not be able to. It was more of a feeling than anything else, an overwhelming sentiment of wrongness that was often as elusive and mysterious as his oldest son.

The morning's display and the declaration that accompanied it were garish and gruesome. Ben could not deny that anymore than he could claim his son was ignorant to the bitter tone of the town. Adam was not stupid. He knew what he was doing. What he was asking for by putting on such a show.

Ben's eyes found those of Joe and Hoss who stood on the periphery of the crowd. Their faces were frozen with twin concern, their shoulders and backs rigid with unease. Ben wanted to nod, smile, or do something to ease their trepidation, but he did not. It was, after all, an agonizingly worrisome scene.

Murmurs of discontent rippled through the crowd, and Ben watched in horror as Adam turned and began walking in the opposite direction. What was it he had been taught long ago when first embarking into the savage wilderness, a lesson he had been careful to pass on to each of his sons: never turn your back on a bear, disgruntled or otherwise, or you might just find yourself torn apart. If this crowd was to be likened to such a formidable and wild animal, then Adam's actions were akin to a very purposeful poke. It was bad enough he employed boys to build the imposing structure, but now he was using its menacing existence as a threat.

As Adam became further away, Hoss and Joe walked closer, finally coming to a stop by their father's side. "I sure hope he knows what he's doing," Joe said as he eyed Adam from afar.

"So do I," Ben admitted grimly.

"How long do you think things can go on the way that they are?" Hoss asked.

Shaking his head, Ben did not know. "How are things at home?" he asked.

"Tense," Joe said.

Hoss nodded, his eyes widening slightly as though mere thoughts of life at the ranch house were enough to invite anxiety. "You know," he said, "I thought things between you and Adam were rough, but the way you and he handle each other ain't nothing like how Eddie and Lil deal with each other."

"Oh?" Ben asked.

"They fight," Joe said.

"A lot," Hoss added. "About dang near everything under the sun and the moon both."

"Oh," Ben repeated.

"No, sir," Hoss said, "Neither one of them ladies acts like they can stand the other. They won't make peace with each other, but they've both made peace with Hop Sing. I think maybe Lil cut a deal with him, because he allows her to use his kitchen to bake, something which I don't mind saying is a gift to all of us."

"You would think that," Joe said. It was the tiniest of quips, not quite enough to lighten the mood, or shift his brother's attention away from their father.

"Eddie doesn't do a whole lot," Hoss continued. "Not that I would expect her to, given her condition. She accepts Hop Sing's tending and eats when and what he tells her to. She doesn't talk a lot and spends a great deal of time slowly pacing outside and looking at the horizon. It's like she's waiting for something. For Adam to come back, or…" Expression pinching with confusion, he seemed to think better of what he intended to say. "I just don't understand it, Pa," he added. "If Eddie was my wife and in the condition she was in, then I would want to spend as much time with her as I possibly could. Adam's staying as far away from her as he can get."

"I'm sure he has his reasons," Ben said. "Which, given the opportunity to hear them, I'm sure all of us would understand."

"Yeah," Joe said. "It's too bad he ain't much for talking these days, not that he ever really was. Older brother always had his reasons for doing and saying what he did, sometimes you'd be lucky enough to hear them; other times you'd spend ages trying to figure them out on your own. Of course, back then his solid reputation always said a lot more about his reasoning than his words ever could. I guess maybe that's what I'm worried about now, not that Adam doesn't have good reasons but that he isn't sharing them aloud. He may not have changed his methods for dealing with difficult situations, but this town sure has."

Lips forming a tight line, Ben could neither disagree with the assessment, nor calm the feelings that had prompted Joe to voice it. What was going to become of all of this? None of them knew. Ben prayed his oldest son did.

"Well, fellas," Hoss said, "I think we've spoken enough about the bad, how about we focus on some good?"

"Like what?" Joe asked.

"Like the ray of sunshine that happens to be our nephew," Hoss said. "Noah is doing great; although he misses his pa, that's for darn sure. I've never seen a little kid more able to roll with what's happening around him."

"He's young," Ben said. "Small children tend to be endlessly forgiving." Until the fateful day when they suddenly aren't, he thought solemnly. When they finally wake and look upon their elders not with love and admiration, rather skepticism and distrust. How old had Adam been the first time he had found the courage to question his father? Too young. How old had Ben been when he realized his son's qualms originated not from a growing need to learn and understand, but from something else?

"The other good thing is you," Hoss said to Ben.

"Me?" Ben asked.

"Yes, you." Hoss nodded at the buildings surrounding him. "You're here, aren't you? Adam didn't ask Joe and me to help him; he asked you." Eyebrows raising beneath the brim of his hat, he smiled. "And I know I don't need to tell you that that is a very good thing."

With Adam's proclamation to the town resounding in his mind, Ben would not disagree. Though he had neither donned a badge nor had Adam sworn him in to serve the town in an official capacity, his enduring presence at his eldest son's side could not be ignored—nor could the strangeness of Adam's behavior, his recent declaration to the town, his odd disappearance the afternoon he had asked his father to remain in his company, or the scattered few that had come after. It was odd, the frequency with which Adam's whereabouts could not be verified and the hour at which he chose to disappear. Of course, Ben now knew that his very occasional disappearances were not the only odd habits governing Adam's current lifestyle.

No longer needing to provide any semblance of stability for his children, Adam did not return to the house on Kay Street after dark. He had taken to setting up a roaming camp beyond the outskirts of the small town, each dusk found him unrolling his bedroll in a different part of the distant wilderness. During the daylight hours, he could no longer be found behind the walls of the sheriff's office; his preferred post had become the front porch of his house on Kay Street. Whether these developments were preferences or precautions, Ben remained curiously unsure.

With a vow to attend Sunday dinner, he bid farewell to his two older sons, and set his attention on following his eldest's path through the rugged thoroughfare. Coming upon Adam's house, Ben found him sitting on the porch. Ankle hooked over his knee and arms crossed, Adam leaned back in his seat and appraised Ben indifferently as his father sank down into the neighboring chair.

Following his son's gaze, Ben looked upon the near empty street. "Well?" he quietly asked.

"Well, what?"

"Do you mind telling me what that was all about?"

Adam shook his head. "Nope."

"You employed a group of boys to build a gallows, and then when it's completed you call the townsfolk together and threaten them with it. I can't imagine you expect to make a ton of friends with a stunt like that."

"I can't imagine I need a ton of friends. After all, isn't that why you're here? The way you spoke before would lead a man to think that you were the only person I really needed in these parts."

Ben's lips curled into a small smile. Though it was the tiniest of declarations spoken in the dullest of tones, it still was bolstering to hear. "I spoke to your brothers," he said.

"And?"

"And Eddie's doing fine; Hop Sing and Lil are taking care of her."

"Good."

"Noah's doing well, too, but he misses you."

Adam's expression softened with a hint of longing. "Yeah, well, maybe I miss him, too."

Settling both his feet on the porch, Adam uncrossed his arms, and shifted in his seat. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his knees, and clenched his hands into fist on which he rested his chin.

Ben wanted nothing more than to reach out and settle a comforting palm upon his son's back. He did not, because he was not certain how such a thing would be received. It was, after all, a substantial accomplishment to even be allowed to sit where he was. He would not do anything that could jeopardize that—with expression of physical reassurances, at least. He thought about the gallows and his son's declaration, the abhorrent photograph of the corpse Adam was hiding in his bottom desk drawer, the way he had been shot, and the accusation someone had penned in his blood.

You are at somewhat of a disadvantage in the current circumstances, the memory of Lil's words sprung to the forefront of his mind to instill within him a maddening sense of doubt. A person could write a book compiling all the information you don't know about your son. I don't know how much Adam intends to share with you, or what his intentions are for keeping you so close when I know he prefers all of us to remain so far away.

Why did Adam keep his family so far away? And why had Ben suddenly been allowed to remain so close? He did not know, but he longed to.

"Adam," Ben began, then stopped as he struggled to find the appropriate thing to say. "Son," he tried again a few moments later, his tone as soft as his laggard words, "now I don't want to meddle where I have no business to, and if you want me to mind my own business, then I want you to just say so outright, but I would be lying if I said I wasn't worried. That declaration you just made in front of the town worries me greatly. What are you up against? What's really going on here?"

Adam nodded at the inactivity of the people in the street. "Nothing, apparently," he deflected. His tone was even, giving little indication on how his father's statements were being perceived.

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

Opening his mouth, Ben found himself without a proper rebuttal and closed it again. Why was it so hard to ask the questions lurking on the tip of his tongue? Because he was dreading the answers, the conversation they would invite and the things that would follow. How could he press his son for answers about anything without changing things between them, dissolving and destroying the steady albeit superficial rapport they had found? He could not, because Adam was the one governing the nature of their relationship now; he was in charge of everything—from the topics they discussed to the gallows now standing forebodingly in the center of town. He was the sheriff; the law of the land; a man who, with the exception of his father and brothers, stood alone in this business of protecting those around him.

"You're not alone in this, Adam," Ben tried. "I don't want you to feel like you are. Our past notwithstanding, I would hope that you would interpret me as a trustworthy confidante. There was once a time when you and I could speak about nearly anything. A time when you didn't try to hide your struggles or intentions from me."

"I think you might be misremembering." Adam's tone was even, his attention rooted on the thoroughfare. "From the very beginning you and I fought, and even as a boy, I hid things from you. Of course, you hid things from me, too."

Ben wondered if Adam was referencing the truth about Ohio—or the truth about something else. Then he wondered what difference it made. As a man, his son had learned what his father had hid from him as a boy; the only real tragedy behind the revelation was that it was information that had been shared with his son by someone else. Did Captain Abel Stoddard tell Adam the truth? Or had Will? And what did it matter either way? The truth did not change depending on the person who had the courage to share it; it remained as painful and stagnate as it ever was.

"I should not have hid anything from you," Ben admitted. "I should have trusted you enough to understand that sometimes life does not work the way we wish it would. You were always such an intelligent boy; you grew into a compassionate man. If I could do it again, Adam, I would have set you down and told you everything myself. The truth about my father and the family I ran away from. The truth about Ohio and why I left you in John's care. I thought I was protecting you, but now I know I was only trying to protect myself. I was frightened of you learning about the past. I was afraid that the truth would change our relationship. That it would change the way you saw me."

"Telling the truth back then wouldn't have changed anything," Adam said. "Things were always going to be the way they ended up. Maybe you don't believe that, but I do. I always would have left. If it wouldn't have been Will that drove a wedge between us and me away, then it would have been something else. Like I said, I hid things from you, too. After Laura married Will, I was unhappy. I was dissatisfied. Life around here had ceased to appease me. One way or another, I would have walked away from this town and your home. I can't imagine the truth about the past would have changed that much."

Adam's voice was so monotone, so disinterested that Ben wanted to change his own. Maybe if he was firmer with his words then his son would understand them better. He could take heed of the awful correlations between the past and the present. How could Adam not see it? How could he not understand? It was Ben's secrets that had once destroyed his own family, and now it was Adam's presumed secrets that would do the same to his own. The oddness between he and Eddie, leaving his wife and children at his father's home, the bullet he had taken while sheriff of Virginia City, the gallows he had built, and the terrible photograph, the details of Ben's past and Adam's present may have been different, but Ben was certain the end result would be the same. Harboring secrets and telling lies never helped anything; all it ever did was make things so much worse than they ever had to be.

"Telling the truth would have changed everything, for the better, I think," Ben said, taking great care to maintain an even tone. "After all, we both know it wasn't what I said that changed things between us, but the things I didn't. I chose protecting my secrets over protecting you. I chose my own interests over those of my family, my sons—which is something I promised myself I would never do. But I did, because I thought it was the best decision at the time. It took years for me to understand that it wasn't; it took you coming back here knowing all the things I should have told you myself to make me realize my mistakes. Watching you, seeing how you've decided to deal with your own family, I'm…" He hesitated, his mouth closing as he refrained from completing what he worried would be perceived as an overly-judgmental assumption.

"You're worried that I'm repeating your mistakes," Adam finished indifferently. "That the choices I'm making now are going to destroy my family the way yours did ours."

"Yes."

"I know what I'm doing, and I know what it's going to cost me in the end. But the thing is, you can't break what's already been destroyed. You can't pretend things are different than they are just because you want them to be. Shit, go have another conversation with Roy Coffee, I'm sure he'll tell you that. He wouldn't have said it before, but he'll say it now."

"But why? What does he know that the rest of us don't? What made him think differently about the arrangement and change his mind?"

"Why?" Adam repeated. "Isn't that just the most prevalent question in all of this? Why did Eddie leave, and why is she back? Why did Roy Coffee bring me here, and why did he change his mind? Why did I get shot, and who did it? And if I knew then why on earth would I not tell the truth about such a thing? A man reaches a certain age and he begins to realize he's always had reasons for everything he's done, even if he doesn't want to own up to them. Some choices lead us to make others, but sometimes decisions just stand on their own. I may not want to elaborate on my own motivations but I can tell you why Roy Coffee changed his mind. I didn't want to come back here, that you already know. Coffee brought me back, you know that, too. What you don't know is why he recruited me to take over this town or why he's so afraid now that I have. He saw me at my weakest, so he thought he was helping me. What he didn't know then is what he wishes he didn't know now. There is no helping me. Not anymore. Things have gone way too far for such things now. Don't be mistaken, Pa, Roy Coffee isn't afraid for me; he's afraid of me."

"Why?"

"Because I am dangerous." Looking at him, Adam's eyes glimmered with a glint of something not easily identifiable. Was it viciousness? Or disappointment and malaise? "Even if you don't want to see that, it doesn't change the fact that Roy Coffee does. When he convinced me to come back here, he thought he was getting the old Adam Cartwright. What he didn't know is that I've changed. You think the people of this town have poor opinions of me because of how things unfolded between Laura, Will, and me. Those are nothing in comparison to what they'd say if they knew the truth."

"The truth about what?"

"About me. Where I've been and what I've done. What I will do when the time comes."

Uneasiness gathering in the pit of his stomach, Ben wished his son would stop talking in circles and say whatever he meant outright. Nothing he was sharing seemed to be of great value. None of it was new information, or anything that could cast a new light on anything. Lord knew, he wanted to keep quiet, allow his son the ability to share at his own pace, but he just could not do that anymore.

"And what exactly is that?" Ben asked. "What is this thing that you're waiting for?" The image of the woman in the photograph sprung to the forefront of his mind, clenching his heart with a combination of agony and dread. Please, he thought, please, please don't tell me you had anything to do with that. No matter what it is you feel responsible for you could not have, you would not have been involved in something like that. "Just where have you been, Adam? Just what have you done?"

Inhaling a breath, Adam held it, then expelled it in a hearty sigh. His gaze wandered, eventually setting on the grass just beyond the porch. "Hell," he said, his voice soft but deep. "I've been in hell. I used to think that was a place that only existed to the unrighteous dead, but now I know it exists to the living, too. Every time I think I come a little closer to making my way out, I realize I'm only slipping further and further in. Every time I think things can't get worse than they already are, they do. I tried to keep Peggy away from here; I brought Noah with me because I was trying to give him an opportunity for a better future, but all folks are interested in doing is clinging to the gruesome details of a past they can't begin to understand. Eddie is carrying a child that doesn't have a place in either one of our lives; my oldest son is dead; my remaining one can't talk; and if my daughter doesn't truly hate me now, in time she will." He shook his head forlornly. "I'm not that different from you; I wanted to be, but I'm not. I've kept secrets; I've told lies; and I've had my moments of misplaced loyalty. The day Peggy realizes all those things I will lose her, just like you lost me. Here you are trying to give me advice so that I can avoid repeating your mistakes, not knowing it is too late for that kind of talk, because I already have. So many things in life just happen, and we react to them. In the moment, we believe we're doing the right thing, only to realize later that we were terribly wrong, our actions had implications and consequences that can't be avoided or ignored. There's a price to the things we choose to do, or not do. All our actions matter, even if we don't want them to."

Well, Ben thought sadly, that explained everything and nothing at all. Even so, suddenly he was not so concerned with what Adam had done, rather what he felt responsible for—too much it seemed at this moment, at least. No longer able to restrain himself, he extended his hand, placed it on Adam's shoulder and squeezed in what he hoped would be interpreted as a reassuring action. He was relieved and surprised when his son did not try to dislodge his touch or pull away from it. It was the first physical contact that had been extended or allowed since Adam's return. The brief touches that Ben had provided during his son's recuperation simply had not counted for anything; they did not matter in comparison to this: a moment when both parties were fully able and aware, a touch extended and allowed not from necessity but from want. Ben wanted to supply his son this simple comfort, and Adam, it seemed, did not want to pull away. Though they still had their differences and Ben still had his questions, at that moment none of them were important enough to pay mind to. Ben was hard pressed to think of anything more important than his hand lingering on his son's shoulder, or the companionable silence they had been allowed to share. Then, as quickly as the moment had arrived it was gone.

Standing abruptly, Adam frowned, his attention frozen on something in the distant, dusty thoroughfare; his distress, it seemed, had been pushed away by the requirements of the torment of someone else. Following his son's gaze, Ben found a familiar teenage girl quickly approaching the house. Frizzy and entangled, her long blonde hair had become undone, cascading down her back in an uncontrolled and unkempt manner. Her plaid button up shirt was wrinkled and had come untucked from the front waistband of her jeans. Arms crossed protectively in front of her chest, her cheeks were red, raw, and streaked with tears. Her violent sniffling became more prevalent the closer she came, filling the air between them, auditable proof that something was very wrong.

"Peggy," Adam said, his voice laced with worry as the girl pushed through the front gate. Brows narrowing with concern, he quickly strode down the porch stairs and met the distraught girl up the walkway. "What happened?"

"You should have told me!" Peggy roared.

"Told you what?"

"Like you don't know!"

"I really don't."

"Yes, you do!"

Adam reached for her only to have the youth step out of his grasp.

"Get away from me!" Peggy exclaimed. "I don't want anything to do with you!"

Stepping further away from Adam, she rushed up to the porch and slipped inside the house, slamming the door behind her. Both Ben and Adam stood, stunned into silence and frozen in place by the girl's confounding behaviour and the severity of her mood. They looked at each other briefly before their attention was stolen by the inevitable appearance of someone else.

Slipping through the front gate, Jamie looked at Adam uneasily. "We went to the Running D," he said. The teen did not pause to volunteer further information. Walking toward the house, he nodded at Ben and then followed Peggy inside, leaving his father and older brother to stare at each other.

"What was that about?" Ben asked.

Shaking his head, Adam did not answer as he too strode into the house. Ben had no other option but to follow.

"Peggy," Adam said as he ascended the staircase, with Ben following close on his heels.

Making their way to the hallway upstairs, they found Jamie standing on the outside of a closed bedroom door. Arms crossed in front of him, the teenager stepped away from his brother and stood at his father's side.

"Peggy," Adam said sternly. "Come out, and talk to me."

"No!"

"Then unlock the door so that I can come in and talk to you."

"No!"

"Peggy."

"Go away!"

"I'm not going to do that."

"I wish you would!"

"No, you don't," Adam countered.

"Yes, I do!" Peggy shouted. "I hate you! I never want to see you again!"

Looking at Jamie, Ben tilted his head at the staircase. There was little point in the two of them remaining spectators to the teenage girl's tantrum—or how her father chose to deal with it. "Come on," he quietly said. "You and I need to have a talk of our own."

Jamie followed him down the stairs and out the front door without comment or criticism. They settled on the porch, taking up residence in the chairs Ben and Adam had occupied mere minutes before.

"What happened?" Ben asked.

"We went to the Running D."

"So you said. What happened? Why is Peggy so upset?"

"She saw someone in the house," Jamie said uneasily.

"A squatter?" Ben asked.

"I don't know. I didn't see them."

"Only Peggy did."

Nodding, Jamie's eyes widened, his expression becoming pinched with distress. "You should have heard the way she screamed. I've never heard anyone scream like that. She was mad, but terrified, too."

Ben did not have time to react to the news.

Emerging from the house in a flurry, Adam's strides were quick and purposeful as he pointed an authoritative index finger at Jamie and gave the boy an instruction he did not pause to deliver. "Go inside," he said firmly. "Sit with Peggy. When she calms down enough, take her back to the Ponderosa and keep her there. Tell Eddie and Lil I told her to stay put. Tie her up, lock her in a bedroom if you have to. She goes nowhere until you see me again, do you understand?"

"Um, okay," Jamie agreed weakly as he looked at Ben to confirm the direction.

"Just do what your brother asked." Squeezing the teen's knee reassuringly, Ben stood and walked purposefully after his eldest son.

"But what are you going to do?" Jamie called after them.

Following Adam, Ben did not answer the question. He could not say what he did not know.

TBC