Author's Notes

Here we go, the next part as promised, carrying on almost straight after the previous chapter. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter 24

Paul awoke with a jolt. He sat straight up in the bed and stared out into the darkness, trying to comprehend his surroundings. It was familiar. The layout of the room, the bed, the linen. Yes, he knew it all.

Ah . . . home again. All well and good. Now, let me sleep.

He'd just fallen back against the pillows when a thunderous pounding rattled his sleepy brain.

What in the world?

Sitting back up, he looked around himself.

Surely it isn't morning? Well no . . . everything is dark.

His whole body bounced on the bed when another loud thumping disrupted the quiet of the bedroom.

I'll be . . .

He got up off the bed, stuck his feet into his velvet slippers and started rummaging around the room in only a nightshirt as he searched for his robe. It occurred to him that lighting the lamp on his nightstand would aid him greatly in his quest, but unfortunately, he managed to stub his toe against the dresser first. His muted listing of profanities was muffled by more booming commotion from downstairs—this time accompanied by what sounded like a distorted voice.

All right, all right I'm on my way!

Holding the now lit oil lamp, he exited the bedroom while tying his robe with one hand and headed for the staircase. He halted at the top of the stairs, trying to understand what he was seeing in the foyer just below. Madeline was barefoot, dressed in a light blue robe and leaning back against the front door with both arms behind her. She looked up at him, her hair hanging about her like a veil of rich brown, her eyes huge and bulging.

"It's Adam . . ."

Her quiet words made Paul's eyebrows climb two inches up towards his receding hairline. A voice from outside the house broke his stupor.

"Hello? Madeline? It's uh, me . . . I'm . . . hello?"

The door received another healthy beating which made Madeline flinch and step away as Paul hastened down the stairs. He stopped next to his niece while she watched the door anxiously.

"May I ask . . . what is he doing here at—" The doctor squinted at the grandfather clock to his right, "— at a quarter past three o'clock at night?"

"I don't know, uncle Paul," Madeline replied in a thin voice. "I think that he . . . that he might be—"

She was interrupted by a loud crash outside which was followed by a muttered curse from the Cartwright. His voice was pitched lower when he spoke again from the other side of the door.

"Madeline? I just . . . I just want to talk. And the porch thing . . . the swing is . . . yea, that's uh . . . hello?"

He knocked again, as loud as the other times and Paul ran a hand down the side of his head.

I am too old for this sort of thing.

Handing the lamp to his niece in a terse motion, he went to the door when she suddenly gripped him by the elbow. He faced her, bewildered.

"Madeline, we can't just leave him out there to sleep it off on my front porch," Paul said, throwing his free arm out to the side. "Think of my reputation! And his own, for that matter . . ."

Her lips clamped together, and she gave him an almost pleading look before warily letting go of his arm. Unsure of what to make of that, Paul went to unlock the door—pulling it open before Adam could do any more damage to it.

The lantern hanging from the roof illuminated the porch slightly and for a moment, Paul could only gape at the young man's bedraggled appearance. Adam looked like he'd just stumbled out of an alleyway; his eyes half-lidded, beard unkept and hair standing out in all sorts of interesting directions. While Paul just stood there, frozen, Adam in turn, straightened up and nodded politely at the doctor.

"Good evening, Paul."

His face was completely deadpan as if there was nothing at all unusual about the situation and he showed not even a hint of surprise at the fact that the doctor was home six days earlier than planned.

"Adam," Paul responded dryly. "Won't you come in?"

Adam gave another nod, but as he stepped forward, he somehow managed to catch the tip of his boot on the door-frame's tiny threshold and ended up tumbling into the dimly lit foyer, or more precisely—into the doctor. Paul let out an "Ooof" when he was hit square in the diaphragm and quickly grabbed his friend to keep him on his feet.

"For God's sake, Adam," he grunted, "how much have you had?"

Some unintelligible reply was mumbled into his burgundy robe and Paul turned his face away with a disgusted grimace when he got a whiff of the whiskey stench clinging to the Cartwright. He angled his head towards Madeline who was holding a hand to her breastbone, her eyes fixed on Adam.

"My dear, could you perhaps—" Paul gritted his teeth, hoisting the practically limp body in his arms up, "—get the door?"

Her lashes fluttered a couple of times. "I . . . yes, sorry." She whisked around the two men and went to the wide-open door.

"All right, lad." Pulling Adam's dangling arm across his shoulder, the doctor braced himself. "Let's go."

Having no intention of attempting a staircase-climb with Adam in his inebriated state, Paul headed in the direction of his office, just opposite the sitting room. He half carried, half dragged the Cartwright into the dark room and luckily, it was a lot tidier in there these days—thanks to Madeline's housekeeping skills. The two men moved as if they were doing some strange-looking dance, but they made it across the room without knocking anything over. Paul paused by the door to the backroom reserved for his examinations, and he panted, considering how best to open it when Madeline appeared with the lamp in hand. She opened the door and went first into the backroom while the doctor adjusted his grip on Adam and followed.

"I gotta to . . . see . . . to see Madeline."

"Yes, yes, indeed."

Paul maneuvered his friend across the floor, right over to the tufted chaise longue where he deposited him.

So much for a good night's sleep . . .

He saw that Madeline was making her way around the room, lighting more lamps, but she kept glancing back at the slouched form on the chaise longue. Even in the faint light, the worry-lines framing her mouth were clear.

Struggling to get his mind up to speed, Paul scratched his scalp as he turned to the chaise longue again. Adam sat with his head hanging down and both hands planted firmly on either side of him. When his shoulders suddenly jerked up, the doctor feared that his handmade Indian carpet was about to be redecorated, but only a little hiccup broke the silence in the room. Shifting, Adam finally raised an unfocused gaze, and Paul had definitely not anticipated the sudden tight pressure that formed somewhere in his own chest.

"Paul, all I'm . . . I just want to see—" He broke off, roughly smearing a palm across his face as his voice became agitated. "Where's . . . where's—"

While Paul was utterly unable to look away from the young man, he sensed Madeline's hesitant approach from his left. The second she moved into Adam's line of sight, his expression underwent a complete transformation. The tension across his brow vanished and his mouth opened in a wide, almost childlike smile.

"There she is . . ."

The doctor half expected that he would attempt to stand, but instead, Adam just stretched an arm out towards her, regarding her like she was the world's greatest miracle. She wavered at first, but then stepped close enough to take his hand. His eyelids instantly closed and he breathed in deeply, as if he'd been without air for a while.

"I was . . . I needed to see you."

"Adam, I told you not to come here . . ."

The words were admonishing, yet her voice was only tender, loving.

"But I—" He peered up at her in innocent confusion. "You said for a while and it . . . I missed you."

She bit down into her bottom lip, but not before Paul saw the little quiver there.

"It's all right, Adam," she said softly.

"I'm sorry for I . . . for whatever I did to . . . to—" He dropped his chin. "You're so beautiful . . ."

"Don't be sorry . . . oh, please don't say that," she whispered, suddenly falling down to her knees in front of him. "You have nothing to be sorry for, nothing . . ."

Her eyes were shimmering pools of deep green as they drifted down to settle on Adam's hand holding hers, and Paul involuntarily swallowed in an attempt to relieve the peculiar ache in his throat. He was in the process of backing out of the room to give the two some privacy when he noted a change in Madeline's countenance.

"What is—" Her voice cut off and Paul saw that she was now looking at Adam's other hand, the one still planted beside him. "Adam, you are bleeding!"

She spun back to her uncle in panic, but Paul was already there, kneeling down beside her as he carefully took hold of Adam's left hand.

"It's not . . . I'm fine."

Paul—now in full doctor mode—ignored the young man's feeble attempt at pulling away his hand. There was a slight dark-pink shade to his palm, as though there had been blood there but it had been wiped away, not rinsed off with water. By his wrist, however, was a splotch of red and the shirt-cuff was wet—the blood difficult to detect against the black fabric. Paul huffed and began unbuttoning the cuff when his sharp eyes traced up the sleeve. The sudden gasp from his niece confirmed that she'd seen what he had. There was a long, thin tear up the underside of the sleeve, all the way to the elbow.

"Madeline, I need more light," Paul said calmly. He didn't look away from the arm and she instantly got to her feet. With the cuff undone, he made a rip at the bottom of the sleeve, letting it follow the tear up to the elbow. He rolled the damp and mangled fabric up, exposing the injury just as Madeline came back with another lamp.

"Well, of all the . . . is this from a knife, Adam?"

"Mmh, yea. I tripped."

That did make Paul raise his head, but only to drill the Cartwright with a cool glare.

"If that is what you have to offer—that you tripped and landed on a knife—then I'd rather you stayed quiet while I work."

It was tremendously exasperating, Adam Cartwright's ability to maintain that stoic expression even while looking like something the cat wouldn't have bothered to drag in. Paul returned his attention to the injured arm, grumbling to himself. When Madeline handed him a white cloth, he ruthlessly pressed it against the cut, but Adam didn't even twitch. After a while, her worried voice ended the tense quiet.

"Uncle Paul, look . . ."

Paul saw that she'd taken Adam's other hand again, but this time his palm was down, and the back of his hand was turned up.

"And did you also trip and fall on your knuckles?!" the doctor snapped.

Adam just blinked sluggishly, only paying mind to Madeline. Paul did a mental count to five, then addressed his niece.

"Could you get some water, clean towels and bandages, please. This will need stitching."

Her eyes flickered to him, and they were so bright with fear and unshed tears that the irritation his patient had evoked in him quickly abated.

"He'll be fine," Paul reassured her. "It's deep, but the bleeding is already slowing. Now, go get those items."

Relief lessened the anxiety on her face and after giving Adam's good arm a little stroke, she got up and headed for the doorway. The patient, however, was clearly not in favor of that development and as Madeline disappeared from his bleary sight, he shuffled uncomfortably on the chaise longue.

"No," he mumbled, "Don't . . . where's—"

"She will be back in a minute, just sit still."

Paul rearranged the red-soaked cloth, pressing the last white patch against the wound. His mouth dropped open in consternation though, when Adam suddenly bent forward, about to stand up.

"Madeline, I have to . . . come—"

"Stay where you are!"

Paul Martin prided himself on being a patient man. But there was only so much a man could take. And Paul had just about taken it. He'd spent the entire previous day and night travelling along dusty roads, returned home to an unwell niece who refused to talk to him—he'd slept barely three hours before being startled awake by a drunken Cartwright who was bleeding all over the place and too out of his head to take simple instructions. The doctor rose up and put both hands on his friend's shoulders to keep him in place.

"Stay. Where. You. Are."

Adam settled back down again, looking quite befuddled. And Paul continued stemming the lazy ooze of blood. Thankfully, it wasn't long before Madeline returned and with the patient placated by her presence, the doctor was finally able to do his work.

xXXx

Twenty minutes later, Adam was lying flat on his back on the chaise longue, a white bandage covering his left arm from his wrist to his elbow. Madeline sat in a chair next to him, running her fingers through his messy hair. Every few seconds, he'd mutter something incoherent and she'd gently hush him—whisper secret things to him that seemed to soothe him.

Paul was by his work table, putting the suture instruments and bandages away. Fortunately, the knife's blade had been sharp, and although the cut was rather deep and had bled a lot, it was clean and had been easily stitched. Adam's alcohol-self-medication had proven to be a sufficient sedative, and during the procedure, he had shown no indication of being in pain. He'd simply watched Madeline and been quiet for most of it, but occasionally, he'd given into a little lovesick babbling.

The doctor knew how much his reserved friend would hate the fact that he'd said those things out loud. The truth was, Paul hadn't ever seen Adam in such a state before and he doubted that anyone else ever had.

By the time the cut had been stitched, Adam was having trouble keeping his eyes open and it was obvious to both uncle and niece that he hadn't had proper sleep for some time, although neither of them said it. Actually, Madeline had been oddly silent throughout it all. Paul had taken advantage of the young man's sudden drowsiness and conducted a more thorough examination—finding a spreading bruise on his jawline hidden under the dark beard, and a sizable lump on the back of his head.

His worktable now back in order, Paul wiped a robe-sleeve across his brow and turned around. It was quiet now, over by the chaise longue, and he could see Adam's chest rise and fall in a steady, even rhythm. Madeline was brushing two fingers lightly down his stubbled cheek, her expression pinched and hurting.

"Oh, Adam . . . what has happened to you?"

Paul was unsure of how to respond to her soft-spoken words, but a sound from the foyer solved that problem for him.

For the love of . . . this cannot be!

He had grabbed a lamp, stormed straight from the backroom and into his office by the time Madeline caught up with him.

She pulled on his arm and held tight. "Let me, Uncle Paul, I will get it!"

Her fervent request stunned him, but only for a moment—then he continued on out into the hall, shaking his head in mounting frustration.

"Madeline, I am old, I am tired, it will be dawn soon and whoever this next visitor is,"—he paused by the front door, grasping the door handle—"they will be told to go on their merry way!"

He flung the door open, only to find himself face to face with a concerned-looking Roy Coffee. Roy squinted at him, perplexed, and the doctor's vexation dispersed.

Paul sighed. "He is here."

"He's—" The sheriff snapped his mouth closed and puffed out air through his clenched teeth.

"That stubborn—I told 'im to stay put! I want a word with him, just wait 'till I—"

"Roy, I'm afraid that no words would make sense to him right now," Paul said, waving a hand wearily. "He is passed out in the backroom."

Roy's fury faded as swiftly as it had come and he went back to being worried. "Passed out? Is he all right?"

"Yes. Apparently, he took a dreadful fall."

A little movement from beside him made Paul look left. Madeline was standing there, her arms wrapped around herself as she stared at Roy. The sheriff took his hat off.

"Uh, Miss Madeline, sorry about the ah . . . early hour."

Paul frowned when she didn't say anything and he placed a hand on her shivering back, thinking that the whole situation was sending her into some kind of shocked state. Seeing her like that flared his simmering anger again and he swung back to Roy.
"What on earth did he do?! And why is he even in town at this time?!"

"He caused a ruckus at the Bucket of Blood," Roy said, his eyes turning hard again, "by the time I got there, the place was a shambles and Sam and some of the other guys had hauled him outside. I told him to stay where he was while I went in to break up the fighting that was still goin' on. From what I can gather, Adam got into it with Fred Clayton and that's what started the whole mess."

Madeline made an exclamation of shock and Paul moved closer to her.

"I wasn't expectin' you to be home yet doc," Roy continued, "but when I couldn't find Adam and his horse was still at the saloon, I thought maybe . . ." He inclined his head at Madeline.

"Well, you were right, Roy." Paul's tone became grim. "He came here about half an hour ago—out of his head and with a knife wound in his arm."

The whites of Roy's eyes enlarged in the dim light. "What?! I didn't know he was hurt, I just assumed he was plain drunk! He didn't seem to be in pain . . ."

Smacking his hat against his thigh, the sheriff paced around a little on the porch.

"Mr. Coffee," Madeline suddenly said, "I-I'm—"

"Just a minute, Miss," Roy said, holding up a hand. "I know this must be real upsettin' for you to hear about but I gotta get to the bottom of this thing."

Roy waved at a man standing by the foot of the porch stairs. "Hey, Mr. could ya come up here for a second?"

"Yes, sir."

When Roy faced Paul again, the doctor watched him curiously.

"He was at the saloon when it all happened," Roy explained, "one of the only witnesses there who was half sober out of the bunch, so he's gonna give me a statement. He offered to go with me here, look for Adam. I reckon he knows him."

"Yes, sheriff?" the man said when he came up next to Roy.

"Doc here says that Adam Cartwright was struck in the arm with a knife. Did you see that happen?"

The man's eyes went round with surprise. "No, I admit I didn't. I did see him trip and fall over when the other man . . . Clayton, is it? Well, when Mr. Clayton jumped at him. And now that you say it, Mr. Clayton did seem to have something in his hand, it could very well have been a knife, yes."

"Well, that little . . . this just gets better and better, don't it," Roy said, rubbing his neck.

"As I and plenty of other witnesses saw—Mr. Clayton also had several companions with him and Adam Cartwright was only one man. It hardly seemed like a fair fight, sir."

While Paul was half-listening to the two men's conversation, his attention kept going to Madeline, and she had the strangest, frightened look on her face.

"Madeline?" he said, bending down as he tried to see what she was gazing at. "Fred Clayton isn't out there, you don't have to worry . . ." He glanced out at the empty street. "There's no one out there."

Roy cut in, clearly concerned for her too. "He's right, Ma'am. I got Clayton over at the jail, there ain't nothin' for you to worry over, he won't be getting out of there for a while. I heard about the trouble he's been causing you and I guess it explains why Adam and 'im got to fightin'."

"I hope he isn't too badly hurt?" the witness asked.

"He's all right," Paul said with confidence, knowing how badly Roy felt about it all. "The cut is stitched up and though he will definitely feel it when he wakes up, it should heal just fine."

"I guess that's something at least." Roy looked back and forth between uncle and niece. "Well, I better get going. Doc Higgins is takin' a look at Clayton over at the jail." He then addressed the man by his side. "You better come with me then, so I can take that statement from ya. I appreciate your help, I'm sorry that your night got interrupted . . ."

"That's quite all right, Sheriff." The man smiled agreeably. "I am frankly not used to being up at this hour, but I was joining some friends in a celebration. I'll just find them afterwards, they're close by, I'm sure."

The exchange between the two made Paul acknowledge the stranger's presence properly for the first time and he said, "Sorry, I didn't quite catch your name, Mr. . . ?"

"Ah, please excuse me, doctor." The man stretched out his hand. "My name is Barns. Chris Barns."

Watching him closely, Paul shook his hand. He hadn't seen him around before. "And are you a friend of Adam's, Mr. Barns?"

"Oh, I don't know him all that well yet, no. But we do seem to have some common interests. Perhaps, while I'm in town, I will run into him again under more pleasant circumstances, when he is feeling better."

Paul let go of the man's hand, but continued to study him—until he felt Madeline lean against his side. He held her closer to support her when she wobbled slightly and he realized she was standing on the porch in bare feet.

"Madeline, you shouldn't be out here like this, you aren't well, dear . . ." He glanced at the two men. "I'm sorry, but she is a little under the weather, we should—"

"I'm real sorry for bringin' ya all this upsettin' news Ma'am," Roy said, clutching his hat to his front. "We'll be on our way now. Just uh, send for me when Adam wakes up, will ya doc?"

"Yes, of course."

Mr. Barns tipped his bowler hat to them with another smile and headed down the stairs. Roy was about to follow him when a thought came to Paul's mind.

"Oh, ah, Roy . . . what shall we do about Ben?"

The sheriff stiffened, his mouth twisting to the side. "I reckon we hold off a bit with sending a message out there. Like you said, Adam ain't that badly hurt. We'll see when he wakes up. Then again . . . Ben might come looking for 'im before we get the chance to do anything."

Paul agreed, then spoke to Madeline. "Would you go inside and check on him? I'll be right behind you."

The utter despair and vulnerability in her eyes almost overwhelmed the doctor. "Please, my Belle, do as I say. I will be right there."

She blinked and a single tear trickled down her porcelain cheek. She turned and he helped her back inside the house, and though she was a bit unsteady, she seemed able to walk on her own. Paul stepped outside again to his friend and lowered his voice.

"Roy, when you came here . . . surely, you didn't mean to take Adam into jail as well?"

"No, doc. Like my witness just said, Clayton had some friends and he was the one who drew a knife."

"Good . . ." The doctor's stance relaxed.

"But I'll tell you somethin' else," Roy said, his demeanor severe. "People also say that although Fred Clayton came looking for a fight, Adam was more than willin' to give it to him. He took the first swing."

Paul's lips became a tight line. The friends shared a last, meaningful look before the sheriff went down the porch stairs to his witness and the two men disappeared in the silvery mist that covered the darkish street.

Paul retreated into the foyer and listened as Madeline padded through his office. He closed the front door and followed her. When he came into the backroom, she was sitting in the chair beside Adam again. He lay exactly as they'd left him, sleeping peacefully it seemed.

Watching the couple at that instant, Paul would have given anything to know what had gone on while he'd been away. It made no sense. And the thing that puzzled him the most, was his niece's behavior. She clearly loved the lad. Very deeply.

Gathering himself, Paul moved over beside the chaise longue.

"Madeline, we have to talk."

To his surprise, she stood from the chair. "Not now I'm afraid. It will be dawn soon and I have some things to sort before I need to get ready. Sally needs me at the restaurant very early."

Paul looked down at Adam, then back at her. " . . . You're leaving?"

He stared at her, but her eyes were locked on Adam, her fingertips tracing his shoulder. She slowly pulled her hand back and all of her small frame seemed to lift with a breath.

"I will bring you some coffee in a little while."

She went around him and walked towards the doorway without meeting his gaze. Paul fell into the chair she'd vacated and folded his hands, resting them beside Adam's limp arm. When he sensed that she was about to exit the room, he spoke up, his voice quiet but deliberate.

"Madeline. You are my family and I love you more than anything in the world. I will always support you and side with you for that reason." He looked down at the battered man before him, knowing that she was listening. "But I do not understand. I don't understand why you would leave him now."

His words gave way to silence. Followed by the sound of her disappearing foot-steps.