Author's Notes

Hello guys! I apologize to you all again for the delay... I always try to write to the best of my ability and this was a TOUGH one to get through, for the characters (poor Adam) as well as myself! When I'm describing emotions, my own mindset and personal life does tend to "touch" my writing in certain ways, so this chapter feels extra special.

Well, I really hope it works and that you enjoy it.

Your amazing reviews mean the world to me and they truly brighten up my day, thank you all so much. Knowing that some of you are eagerly awaiting more chapters is tremendously encouraging. I am actually currently in Greece on a much needed vacation, but fear not, the next chapter is well under way! :)

Thanks again everyone.

Chapter 27

When dawn broke the next day, it wasn't bright and sunny as every morning had been up until now in August. This morning was dark and gloomy. Yesterday had held a light breeze like the soft breath of summer, but today, it had picked up and become a harsh wind, blowing up the dirt, stirring the leaves on the trees. Lead-colored clouds hung like drapes above the land; hovering over every hill and valley like one huge, depressing expanse of grey without end or beginning. The sun stood no chance against those looming masses. They blocked out its brightness and warmth and kept the usually vivid hues of the countryside muted, leaving only dreariness.

At the Ponderosa ranch, the horses in the corral paused their grazing when a buggy came into the yard. The weather was making the animals a little jittery, and some snorted through their nostrils, scraping their hooves against the ground. One mount with a shiny reddish-brown coat and a white blaze running down the middle of its face strayed away from the others and approached the corral fence to get a closer look at the newcomer.

Paul parked the buggy outside the house and laid the reins down by his feet. He stretched a hand down beneath the seat to get out his black doctor's bag and glanced up at the sky above him. The foggy shroud overhead had an oppressive weight to it and the damp scent of rain hung in the air like an invisible promise. Rain was coming, and it was more than likely that he would be caught up in the impending downpour on his way back to town later. Weather and moods. It was odd how often the two seemed to go together.

The doctor tiredly climbed down from the buggy, took his bag and stepped onto the porch. He knocked on the front door and as he waited, the thought came to him that the last time he'd been in the Cartwright house was that day when Madeline had finally revealed her past. The weeks that had passed since then were now strangely timeless and he was still no closer to grasping how the current upsetting situation had come about.

It was the patriarch of the Cartwrights who opened the door, and Paul immediately frowned at his old friend's appearance.

"Paul . . . it's good to see you." A little hint of relief lightened the heaviness in Ben's eyes and he stood back, motioning for the doctor to come inside. "Come in."

"Good morning, Ben," Paul said, walking inside. "I know it's a little early, but I'm going to be busy doing house-calls the rest of the day in town and I wanted to come by and check on Adam's arm before."

"Yes, all right. I appreciate you coming out here."

The two men went to the sitting room and Paul saw that none of the Cartwright sons were around. He set his bag on the floor and dropped down into the blue chair.

"Where are the boys?"

"Hoss and Joe took a ride up to the lake." Ben grabbed the coffee pot on the table and began filling a cup with the steaming drink. "I thought it would be good for them to get out of the house for a bit."

Nodding his thanks, Paul took the proffered coffee. "And Adam . . .?"

Ben's shoulders lifted, and his neck sank lower as he refilled his own cup. "Since we came home yesterday morning he hasn't left his room. He just sits in there on his own, drinking and brooding." Ben sat down in the red chair, his features drooping. "I don't know what to do, Paul . . ."

The coffee cup hadn't quite made it to the doctor's mouth. He held it in the air, his hand frozen by his chin. ". . . Did you say he's still drinking?"

"Yes." Ben rubbed at the dark smudges under his eyes. "Yesterday when we got to town, I met up with Roy and he told me everything about the brawl at the Bucket of Blood, about Adam going to your house in the middle of the night. We got your message too and Hoss and Joe found him at the Silver Dollar." There was a little pause and Ben's dark eyes seemed to turn almost black. "Just as we were about to head home, Adam received a telegram and it was very bad news . . ." He looked straight at the doctor. "One of his good friends from the army has committed suicide."

Paul's mouth opened slightly, and he gaped at the worried father. Then he lowered the coffee cup to his lap, exhaling heavily. He'd been concerned about Adam as it was, and a tragedy like this was the last thing the young man needed to be faced with.

"I've tried to give him time and space this past week, since the whole thing with Madeline started, but he's only gotten worse and now with the news yesterday . . ." Ben shook his head. "I've never seen him like this before . . ."

A somber silence enveloped the room, broken only by the first few drops of rain hitting the window in the dining room. Suddenly, Paul put his cup down on the table with a clink—powerlessness mingled with frustration coming through in his tone. "I just don't understand what on earth has happened here while I've been away!"

"I'm at a loss too." Ben rested his chin on one fist. "The day after you left, Madeline sent a letter out here to Adam, telling him that she needed some time to herself for a while. He went to see her, and she told him not to come by again. He took her rejection very badly and I know he thinks he has done something wrong. When I talked with him, he admitted that he had been a bit preoccupied and inattentive after finding out about her marriage and husband." The creases dug deeper into Ben's forehead as he went on. "You saw the look on his face that day when it all came out . . ."

"Yes, I feared something like that might happen. And I told him then—not to let her past get between." Elbows on his knees, Paul bent forward in the chair and his eyes were bright with urgency. "But Ben, that can't be the reason why she has pushed him away. You won't find a more understanding or considerate person than that niece of mine and she has handled his moods before. It just—" The doctor massaged the back of his neck. "It makes no sense to me. No sense at all."

"How is Madeline?" Ben asked quietly. "I haven't seen her at all since that day. . ."

A shadow settled on Paul's face as his mouth curved downwards. "I'm very worried about her. She's ill, but she won't admit—she is withdrawn and quiet. I came home late on Monday and I was so busy with patients all through yesterday that I haven't gotten her to talk to me yet. But I can tell she's holding something back, I just don't understand what it is or why. At least I convinced her to take half the day off work today, so she'll be leaving the restaurant early."

Ben looked across at the doctor, and the honest sympathy was evident in the way he spoke. "I'm sorry to hear that, Paul. I've been thinking about her a lot too and I'm sure she has a lot on her mind. I guess we can only hope that she'll talk to you and tell you what has caused her this upset."

A hum of agreement vibrated from Paul's throat.

Leaning his head back against the chair's backrest, Ben's gaze wandered to the top of the staircase. "The thing that has me most worried about Adam . . . is that this depressed state he's in goes deeper than I originally thought. Whatever that something was that Madeline gave him . . . now that he doesn't have her, it's like he's gone even further into that dark place that we know he's struggled with before. And we just can't seem to pull him out of it . . ." The father's eyes became slightly glassy, as if his thoughts had climbed the stairs, taken his awareness with them.

As much as Paul wanted to, he couldn't offer words of comfort to his friend. He had none to give. The two had known each other for so long that Ben would see straight through any reassurance-act. Instead, the doctor reached out to take his coffee.

"I'll go up and see him as soon as I've finished this."

Quiet fell around the two again as they sat in each of their chairs, their faces long and pensive, listening to the light gushes of wind hitting the window.

xXXx

With determined steps, Paul strode down the hall. He was very familiar with this particular hallway, just as he was with all of the four bedrooms. Being a doctor, he did tend to get around in people's homes, but the Cartwright homestead was definitely the one he'd visited the most over the years. Those three boys seemed to have been born with a special—and equally exasperating—knack for getting into trouble. While Little Joe's room was usually the one he was called to, Adam's had always been the runner up, at least before the war.

Paul stopped outside the only closed door and without hesitating, gave it three brisk knocks. There was no response. Well aware that he would receive no more invitation than that, he grasped the door handle and pushed the door open.

The room was stuffy, and that distinctive smell of alcohol mixed with sweat prickled in the air. It was quite dark, only the faint light from the outside world of grey came in through the two windows.

Across the room over by the desk, Adam sat slumped in a chair with his left arm cradled against his side. His black shirt was buttoned down almost to his belly and he was barefooted, his head tipped back as he stared up at nothing. Despite Ben's subtle warnings, Paul found himself unprepared as he took in the state of the young man. If possible, Adam looked even worse than when he'd seen him the previous morning.

It became apparent to the doctor that his friend hadn't even noticed his arrival, so he brought a fist up to his mouth and harrumphed. The noise made Adam turn his head, and a flash of alertness entered his eyes—grew into tentative hope as he put his hands on the chair's armrests to push himself up. It was painfully clear to Paul though, the moment Adam realized that Paul had come alone, and the young man fell back in the chair, turned his face away and reached for a bottle standing on his desk.

"What do you want, Paul . . ."

Paul left the door ajar and calmly walked further into the room. "Well, it's nice to see you too, and how are you this morning?"

"I'm not in the mood. Just say what you came to say and close the door behind you."

Adam lifted the bottle to his lips, and whatever liquor was in that thing, Paul was pretty sure it wasn't meant to be consumed in such a manner.

"Naturally, I came out to take a look at your arm. It wasn't just a little nick, you know."

"Fine . . . do what you want."

Paul threw a sweeping look around the disordered room. Pieces of clothing hung across the dresser and a chair, the desk was littered with books and papers—letters it looked like—and a variety of empty bottles and more letters lay on the bed among the rumpled covers. He walked closer, carrying his black bag.

"I see you're having yourself quite the time."

Adam didn't comment on that. Not that the doctor had expected him to. Moving a few of the bottles and papers to the side, Paul created a little space for himself and took a seat on the side of the bed, facing his friend. He nodded at the bandaged arm.

"Well, I was going to ask you if it's been giving you a lot of pain, but that question seems rather irrelevant now."

Still no reply. With his good arm, Adam shoved some of the items around on his overfilled desk and uncovered a brandy glass that had been knocked over. He stood the glass up and looked over at the doctor, lifting the bottle in question.

Paul's brows knitted together. "It's a little early for me."

Adam shrugged and poured the drink. "Suit yourself."

He had gulped down the entire contents of the full glass in a matter of seconds and swallowed laboriously, gritting his teeth. Then he glanced over at the doctor.

"Oh, don't give me that look Paul," he said with a warning glare, replacing the glass on the desk. "I don't even know what you're doing here—I would have thought you'd be at home rejoicing! I have no part in her life anymore, it's exactly what you wanted all along, isn't it?"

Paul didn't even blink. "I'm going to disregard every word that just left your mouth." Casually, he placed his bag on the bed next to him and beckoned Adam closer with a quick hand motion. "Would you, please?"

Adam didn't move at first and the doctor sensed that there was a lot of jaw-clenching going on under that dark beard. Finally, the young man's mouth tightened into a stubborn straight line and he grabbed the liquor bottle with his right hand, half-stood and dragged the chair closer to the bed with a very unpleasant screeching sound. He sat down again and thrust his bandaged arm towards the doctor, his eyes directed out at the rest of the room. Paul was surprised at just how much Adam reminded him of a fourteen-year-old Little Joe at that instant. A lip-pout was really the only thing missing . . .

Nothing was said between them as the doctor worked. He unwrapped the bandage and he had no doubt that if Adam hadn't been numbed by the alcohol, it would be a very painful injury right about now. But it looked clean and the stitches were holding, so he carefully wrapped the arm in a fresh bandage. Adam just peered sightlessly at the window opposite him.

As Paul finished up and closed his bag, his line of sight fell to some of the letters on the bed. He realized that they all seemed to be from Adam's friends in the military and it was also then that the doctor noticed some dark-blue material lying up by the head of the bed. A dark-blue uniform. A Union captain's uniform.

"You've been reminiscing?" he asked.

"Mmh." Adam released a low chuckle, but it was empty, without humor. "Bad idea though. Only made me feel worse."

Paul watched as he took another lazy swig of the bottle, the liquid sloshing inside the glass.

"I'm sorry about your friend, lad . . ."

For a brief second, Paul saw that mask of impassiveness faulter as Adam's chin lowered to his chest. But he veiled his emotions quickly again and leaned the bottle on his thigh, clearing his throat.

"He was a good man. I should've seen it coming."

"Adam, he must have been laboring under a great deal of mental stress . . . with people like that, it's never easy to tell—"

"I still should have known," Adam said, unfeeling. "He wasn't a coward, you know. He wasn't insane. What Henry did . . . well, it wasn't anything most other soldiers I've met haven't thought about doing at one time or another."

" . . . I realize that this must be difficult." Paul studied him intently. "I know that you're no stranger to loss . . ."

Adam's lips twisted into a bitter smile. "No, it seems like whatever I do . . . loss and I . . ." He trailed off, his voice taking on a strange tone—trance-like, distant. "When I think about all that my father lost, coming out here . . . it's like it follows me too, always has. But then maybe, I brought it on myself. You join a war, you're gonna lose friends. But at least you're not alone."

He sighed, and it was the kind of tired sigh that came from somewhere deep within a person, as if torn straight from the very soul. "Sometimes I wonder if I'd be better off just going away . . ."

The words lingered, dangerously, and Paul's eyes narrowed to slits.

"I sincerely hope that by going away you don't mean something . . . permanent . . ."

"I'm . . ." Adam hesitated—looked down—and the doctor wished he could tell what his friend was thinking just then. What was it he saw in that worn face? Confusion, yes, and pain, but something else too. Shame?

Whatever it was, Adam covered it up again. "Thanks for coming, doc," he said softly. "Close the door behind you, will you?"

It was a dismissal if ever Paul had heard one and just like that, he'd been shut out. He felt incredibly old as he stood from the bed and when he picked up his bag, it seemed heavier in his hand than when he'd carried it to the room. He walked to the open door, his feet dragging along the floor.

"Paul . . . don't tell my father I said that."

Paul stopped, and his eyes closed, but he didn't turn back around.

"Don't make me live with the regret that I didn't, Adam."

Then he walked out into the hall and did as he'd been told. He closed the door behind him.

xXXx

The doctor's face was set in grim lines when he came back down the stairs to the sitting room. Ben paced around by the fireplace with his hands folded behind his back, but he stopped when he glanced up and saw the doctor.

"Well?" he asked as soon as Paul reached the bottom of the staircase.

"We need to do something, Ben. This is beyond my powers to fix."

"My God, Paul, I know, but what?! What can we do?" Ben raked a hand through his hair and took a few steps away before spinning back around. "Can't you talk to Madeline?"

"I'm going to have to," Paul said, his expression fixed and serious. "She doesn't know he's this bad. And whatever is going on with her at the moment, she's still very much in love with him, that's a fact."

"I agree. We need her to come and see him, get them talking with each other again, then I'm sure things will get better. They just have to."

"Yes . . ." Paul mumbled, "for both their sakes."

Straightening his vest, the doctor squared his shoulders and walked towards the front door with Ben beside him. "I'll try to talk to her today, so we can come out here tomorrow." A thought suddenly struck him, and he stopped by the front door, pursing his lips. "It's Thursday tomorrow, isn't it? Wasn't there supposed to be something going on in town . . .?"

"Thursday . . ." Ben stroked his chin. "The annual rodeo is tomorrow . . . I completely forgot. The boys had planned on going to it, at least Hoss and Joe had." He glimpsed back at the stairs. "I doubt Adam will want to though."

"Yes, all right, we'll have to see. If I can convince Madeline, we'll come out here sometime tomorrow afternoon."

"Thanks, Paul."

With one hand on the brass door handle, Ben pulled the door open but both men stayed standing in the doorway, astonished by the sight that met them. Because just then, the sky seemed to burst with a thundering crack, and the clouds finally dropped their loads as a thick sheet of rain poured down.

Ben shifted and put a hand on the doctor's back. "You better wait here until the worst is over . . . you can't ride home in this."

"No, I suppose you're right," Paul said, his posture deflating. This day just couldn't get any worse. "I hope it doesn't last too long, I have a lot of patients to see today on top of everything else . . ." He frowned. "What about Hoss and Joe?"

"I'm sure they've found somewhere to hold up, there's a cabin up by the lake . . ." Ben went back to take his hat from the hook on the wall. "If you go in and get another pot of coffee going, I'll put the buggy in the barn."

"Yes . . . all right."

Paul remained in the doorway as Ben walked out onto the porch.

Out across the yard, the rain lashed against the ground with such force that the drops bounced up again and carried on the gusting wind to some unknown destination. A coldness crept down from the dark layer above, giving off a din of sorrow and all other noises drowned out as Mother Nature exploded.

Weather and moods . . .

As he stood there watching the heavens rupturing, Paul was suddenly reminded of something Adam had said about rain many years ago. It was about a week after Marie had died and it had been raining steadily for three whole days. Everyone was sick of it. Adam had been sixteen at the time; just a boy himself, yet responsible for two grieving younger brothers aged eleven and five, in the midst of tragedy. Soaking wet, the young man had shown up on the doctor's front porch because he was worried about his deeply depressed father. They had talked, Paul had given him a mild sedative to give to Ben and they'd then stood together, stared out at the rain as it whipped down onto Virginia City's C Street. Paul had made some comment about the continuous, dreadful downpour—he didn't even remember what it was now. But he would never forget Adam's muted response.

"When rain falls like that, it's as if it intends to wash us all away, doc. It keeps pounding down . . . relentlessly, as though it's trying to beat people down just like it beats plants into the soil. Rain like that . . . it'll leave a person drenched in their own misery."

Madeline sat in the dim kitchen with yet another cup of tea-gone-cold between her hands. She knew she should be lying down, sleeping or resting at least, but the very idea of moving threatened to rob her of the little energy she had left. She sat motionless at the kitchen table, lost in the dark pit that had become her world.

It had stopped raining a couple of hours ago, but the cloudy veil lingered outside, keeping out the brightness of day and while it was only a few minutes past one o'clock, it looked more like late afternoon.

Her uncle had left early that morning to go out to the Ponderosa, to see Adam. He had asked her once more if she would go with him and she'd simply replied that she couldn't. She had been standing on the steps of the porch, watching the buggy disappear down the street through her blurring sight, when her voice almost betrayed her, almost called out to him again. If it hadn't been for the shadowed figure lurking across the street, she probably would have done just that. But she didn't. She stayed in Virginia City even though there was no place on earth she would rather be than with Adam.

The urgent need to see him was devouring her, inside and out, and she had never known such anguish in all her life. She knew he was hurting. She felt his suffering like a constant ache in her own heart and for the whole previous day and night, she had been unable to stop thinking about him. That image of him lying in her uncle's examination room, wounded and haggard, had been burned into her brain and even now, she could see the turmoil, the vulnerability in his eyes. Knowing that the man she loved was in pain and that she couldn't go to him . . . was slowly tearing her apart. By staying away from him, she was hurting him. But by getting too close, she might end up causing far more damage and just the thought of taking such a risk was enough to make her breathing speed up. And the thought of him getting injured or killed seemed enough to drain the air from her lungs completely.

But God, she missed him so . . . his crooked half-smile, his strong arms around her, those soulful hazel eyes. Everything about him. She missed that feeling he gave her—the purest, most intricate feeling she'd ever experienced. Like something out of a dream. They had spent so much time together over the last almost two months and now, she couldn't imagine an existence without him.

On the night before her wedding to Ray, she remembered her mother telling her that a woman didn't have to be in love with a man to marry him. Marriage wasn't a matter of love, but a question of securing one's status and place in society—that was what she had been brought up to believe.

Adam had set her free from all that, and at the same time, he'd kept her anchored to him through his love, his strength and steady presence. Before him, she had been one lonely person, now she was just one half—incomplete without him—yet much more somehow than she had ever been on her own. He had her heart, wholly and truly, and she could never love anyone else as she did him.

A sudden wetness on her wrist made her look down at her hands clasping the tea cup. By the time she'd realized what it was, another lonely drop fell from her cheek and landed in the almost exact same spot.

Her uncle had implored her to leave the restaurant early today, but this was exactly what she hadn't wanted. To be alone in the house, with only her worries and fears to keep her company. She'd been over the situation so many times in her head, hoping to find some way out of this living nightmare—a way where no one would get hurt. Over and over, she'd pictured herself walking to the sheriff's office. Going straight in there, blurting everything out, asking for help. But every time she imagined that particular scenario, one moment would flash through her mind, and replay before her open eyes. That moment—Ray shaking her uncle's hand on the front porch.

Ray or Mr. Barns as he'd called himself . . .

He had been so calm, and barely even spared her a glance as he addressed her uncle and the sheriff. And he had spoken differently, not with his Southern accent which she had come to despise, but with a polite and neutral cadence that was hard to place. She knew exactly what he had done and why. It had utterly terrified her at the time, but now when she thought back on it, the fact that he'd actually had the nerve to do such a thing, slowly stirred her naturally mild temper.

So deep in her thoughts, Madeline startled in the chair when she heard someone at the front door. Her uncle was the only person other than herself who had a house key, so logically she knew it could only be him. It still took her a few seconds to calm her galloping heart though.

She stood up, tried to ignore the dizzy wave that swept over her and walked out into the hallway. She saw her uncle close the front door and set his bag down in the foyer.

"Uncle Paul . . . I was worried that you had gotten caught up in the weather."

"No, I hadn't yet left the ranch when it all began, so I stuck around until the worst had passed . . ." He swiftly shrugged out of his jacket. "I almost wish I hadn't now though, I don't know how I'm going to see all those patients today . . ."

He seemed very stressed, so Madeline went over to take the jacket from him and it was sodden, heavy in her hands. "Widow Brenner and Mr. Olsen came by, but I told them you would be over to see them as soon as possible."

"All right, let me just . . . gather myself."

Tugging at the little chain dangling down by his vest pocket, he pulled out his pocket-watch. He checked the time, nodded curtly at the little clock and then put the item back in its place before focusing his attention on her.

Madeline fought to keep her composure when he put his hands on her shoulders, his eyes trailing across her face in an assessing manner, just like when he was checking one of his patients. "How are you feeling? I'm glad to see that you're home early."

"Sally insisted that I left early too . . . I do feel better today, I'm just quite tired still."

"Just tired, are you sure that's all?" he pressed. "Have you eaten anything today?"

"Yes, I had a little something earlier . . ." Her lips formed a small smile. It was a poor excuse for one and she knew it, but it was the best she could do. "As I said, I do feel better, Uncle." She gingerly removed his hands from her shoulders. "I better hang this up, so it can dry . . ."

She made it halfway to the hall-stand when he spoke to her back.

"You can't keep avoiding this. He's in a bad way, Madeline . . ."

Her stomach clenched, and she immediately wheeled around. "How do you mean? His arm—"

"His friend committed suicide."

The blunt words seemed to reverberate between them. Madeline's face went ashen, and for a moment it felt as if every wisp of air had been smacked out of her where she stood, her countenance paralyzed by disbelief.

". . . What?" she whispered.

"His friend Henry killed himself." Her uncle walked towards her. "Adam found out about it yesterday."

The news sank in and almost dropped her to the hallway floor. She put one hand to her heart, struggling to speak as the weight in her chest locked her throat. "Oh, uncle Paul, he must be . . . he must—"

She pressed her lips together, and the little muscles in her chin vibrated. Weighed down by tears, her lashes blinked, releasing the tiny drops. She didn't resist when her uncle pulled her to him in a hug. Squashing the damp jacket between them.

"Yes, he . . . he's very unwell."

She heard his voice, but she couldn't understand what he said. Her ears heard, her eyes saw through the blur, but her mind was too full to take anything more in. There was only room for Adam.

What must he be going through right now? He had been so eager to see his friend again, how would he cope with this now? She needed to go to him, there was no way she couldn't . . . oh, but how? How could she go without putting him at risk? Without putting her uncle at risk? As each second went by, despair ripped through her, wave after wave. It gulped her up and pulled her down with it, leaving her brain cobwebbed and her desperate thoughts tangled in it all.

The shiny pendulum of the grandfather clock in the foyer ticked each second away. It kept ticking in that constant, regular rhythm because time stopped for nothing and no one—not even shock or grief or heartbreak.

When her uncle eventually drew back, Madeline ducked her head, hugging the jacket to her front.

"I shouldn't have told you yet." He sounded almost angry with himself. "I'm sorry but . . . I can't stay here with you, I have to see these patients today."

When she heard that note of worry which had become a constant in his voice lately, she forced herself to meet his gaze. "I know . . . it's all right . . ." Her fingers clutched the jacket harder. "I'll be all right, Uncle."

He didn't look convinced, but she had nothing more to give. "We'll talk about this later . . . when I get home. I want you to get some rest until then. Will you please do that, my Belle? For me?"

His whole face was pleading, not just his eyes.

"Yes, I'll try," she said.

There wasn't time for anything more, they were both aware of that and with a regretful look, he took his bag and went to the front door. On his way out, he stopped with one foot out on the porch and half-turned back. "He needs you, Madeline."

She never managed to reply because suddenly the door closed, and her uncle was gone. And she was alone in the house again. Out of all the things he had just said to her, it was the last four words that kept going around in her head. He was right, and she knew it.

xXXx

Joe walked across the yard, his feet aiming for the little patches of ground in between the numerous puddles. Hoss had offered to take care of the horses and Joe was more than happy to be free of that chore today. Reaching a hand up to the back of his head, he gave the brown locks a vigorous shake, sending tiny droplets flying in every direction. He hated how his hair got all frizzy after rain. It seemed to double in size, got to looking wild and untamable like a jungle.

He remembered back when he was a kid and Adam used to ride with him and Hoss to town to make sure they got to school—there had been one morning when it rained. Of course, his hair had reached new heights of disorganization, but it hadn't really bothered him much. That is, it hadn't bothered him until he got into the classroom and the other kids started teasing and making fun of him. Inevitably, it had ended with him getting into a fight, or well, it wasn't much of a fight really, because Joe was small for his age and the kid he poked in the mouth had one big group of friends. It was the first walloping he'd ever gotten in school and things probably would have gone a whole lot worse if Hoss hadn't shown up when he did.

A few weeks later, it had rained again on their way to school and Joe remembered Adam stopping just outside of town and keeping him back—telling Hoss to go on ahead without them. Joe had been sure that he was about to get a talking-to for something he'd done, but instead, his oldest brother simply spent a couple of silent minutes bringing his unruly chestnut-mop back in order before sending him off to school. And Adam had done the same thing again and again the next many times it rained.

He'd never commented on it, he just did it. That was older brother's way. Sometimes, Joe had complained about the fussing but secretly, he appreciated it. He had just never gotten around to telling Adam that.

The childhood memory stayed with him when Joe got to the porch and carried on towards the front door. He wondered if Adam even remembered doing that all those years ago. There had been plenty of opportunities for his oldest sibling to tease him about it since then, yet Adam never had. But then again, deep down, Joe knew why.

He opened the front door and walked inside the house, glad to leave the bleak outside behind. Halfway out of his soaked, green jacket, he sensed another presence in the room and spotted his oldest brother standing over by the drinks cabinet next to the dining room table—as if his own mind had conjured him up and put him there.

"Hi, Adam . . ."

Adam tossed a glance over his shoulder as he rummaged through the brandy glasses. "Hey, Joe."

After dropping his jacket across the backrest of the settee, Joe approached the dining room.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking for something to drink," he mumbled and opened the lower cabinet doors.

Joe noticed the new bandage covering his arm. "Did the doc come by to see your arm?"

"Mmhh."

"Is it all right?"

It didn't seem like his sibling heard the question and Joe edged closer to him. "Adam?"

Adam raised his head and squinted at him. "Huh?"

"I asked if your arm was all right . . ."

"Oh . . . sure." He turned back to the cabinet. "Don't we have anything drinkable in here anymore?"

Bending down a little, Joe hoped to catch his attention, speaking patiently. "Adam, don't you think you should—"

"No. I don't."

The response was curt, uncompromising, and Adam kept ransacking the cupboard. Glass clinking and clanking against glass.

Haltingly, Joe straightened up and the strength seemed to ooze out of every single muscle in his body, all at once. A deep helplessness spread through him, numbing him, as a sense of impending futility reached around his throat, cutting off air. He stayed still, watching.

Adam looked like hell—he didn't even look like Adam anymore. Eyes rimmed red, pasty skin, hair and beard standing out every which way. His shirt, the same one from yesterday, hung loose and open and yes, he'd lost weight again. He wasn't supposed to look this way.

Although Joe wanted desperately to leave the room—leave the house even and go for another long ride—he was unable to move. The situation was suffocating him, and all he could do was stand as a helpless witness in the face of his brother's suffering.

"Finally . . ." Adam mumbled to himself and pulled out a small, crystal decanter from the cabinet. There was a healthy dose left in it, golden-brown in color. Whiskey.

But that proved too much for Joe. He felt that familiar heat start to crawl up his neck, the numbness in his body ebbed away and frustration took its place instead. He couldn't just stand there and watch this happen—this thing that Adam was doing to himself. He couldn't, and he wouldn't.

So, just as his brother had removed the stopper from the decanter to pour himself a drink, Joe whipped an arm out and snatched the carafe from his hand. He drew in a breath and tried to imitate the authority their father's voice always held. "No, Adam. You've had enough."

For a couple of seconds, Adam's hand stayed extended out in the air in front of him even though the decanter was no longer there. When his initial surprise died away, he gave Joe what was presumably supposed to be one of his renowned cold stares, but the fact that his eyes couldn't stay focused for more than half a second sincerely lessened its usual effect.

"Mind your own business, Joe."

He made a pathetic attempt at grabbing the carafe back, but Joe easily avoided the sluggish movement and held decanter away. Clearly irked, Adam poked a finger in his general direction.

"I'm only going to tell you once, now give me—"

"Hey, what are you fellas up to?"

The brewing altercation was hindered by Hoss who had just come into the house and thrown the door shut. He had a hopeful smile on his face, probably there because of seeing Adam up and about and outside of his room. But when Hoss noted the hostile stances his brothers had taken opposite each other and the crystal decanter in Joe's hand, his forehead scrunched up.

Adam rolled his eyes. "Not you too . . ."

Hoss looked to Joe and their gazes locked in shared understanding.

"Listen, Adam, we don't mean no harm or nothin', we only—"

"Then just back off, okay? Both of you."

He made another grab for the decanter, but Joe saw it coming a mile off and sidestepped him, then had to swiftly seize his good arm to keep him from losing his balance. Adam grumbled something unflattering and swung back to the drinks cabinet, apparently intent on starting a new hunt now that his bounty had been taken from him.

"Adam, will you stop being such a selfish, bullheaded—"

Joe's biting words were cut off when he felt a big hand on his shoulder. Like a steadying weight pressing the tension down.

Hoss gave him a little squeeze, then addressed their brother in a gentler manner. "I reckon you should come with us in the kitchen and have a sit down, Adam. Some fresh coffee is gonna be much better for ya than anythin' ya might find in there."

Adam's expression remained steadfast while he continued going through the shelves and compartments, checking each carafe and flask for any leftover splashes. Evidently, his one-armed search wasn't going fast enough, so he started using his bandaged arm too and both Hoss and Joe saw the pain lines that appeared by the corners of his eyes as his brow lowered.

"Come on now, brother, you're just gonna go 'n hurt yurself."

Hoss moved forward and very calmly put his powerful forearm out between Adam and the ravaged cabinet. Surprisingly, Adam didn't protest, and his whole upper-body abruptly sagged as he perceived the mess he'd created.

Joe put the decanter down on the dining room table. "Look, I understand how you must feel, but this has to stop . . ."

". . . You understand?" Adam slowly faced him. "Did you say . . . YOU understand?"

Feeling a little thrown by the question, Joe wavered at first but then nodded faintly. He was completely taken aback though, when Adam suddenly laughed. A short laugh, ridiculing and mocking, as sparks of bitterness, raw agony flared up in his eyes like amber fire-storms.

"YOU understand? You're just a kid, Joe, you don't know—BELIEVE me—you've got NO idea how I—"

"ADAM! That's enough."

All three brothers stiffened at the sound of the bellow coming from the top of the staircase. While Hoss and Adam turned to watch their father's descent, Joe could only focus on his oldest sibling.

"All right," Ben said, his eyebrows slammed together in a scowl when he came over to them, "what's going on here?"

Adam very clearly stated his agitation by doing a terse hand-wave at his brothers.

"Ask those two . . ."

Hands in his pockets, Hoss inclined his head the decanter on the table. "We just figured that some coffee would be a mite better for Adam than that stuff, Pa . . ."

Ben glanced first at Hoss, then at his youngest son. Joe sensed his father watching him, but he still couldn't pull his sight away from Adam.

A few tense moments passed before Ben finally looked Adam up and down and folded his arms across his chest.

"Well, I agree with them. You've had enough."

Adam's head jerked towards him and his half-lidded eyes went fractionally wider. Then, he shot a glower at Hoss and Joe, the muscles in his jaw tightening.

"Fine then."

Next thing, he marched down to the sitting room and on towards the front door with a somewhat erratic gait. Uncrossing his arms, Ben stomped after him.

"And just where do you think you're off to?"

"Since I can't even have a drink in my own home, I'll just have to go into town."

Unsure of what to do, Joe and Hoss traded looks of mutual worry before following after their father and brother. Adam had stopped by the dresser near the front door to get his gun belt when Ben came to a looming standstill right next to him.

"Son. You are not going into town."

"It's my choice, Pa," Adam said impatiently, just discovering that his shirt needed to be buttoned up before he could leave. "I'm a grown man, after all . . ."

"That may be true, but I'm still your father, and right now, it's my judgement that you aren't fit to make your own decisions."

Heedless of his pa's words, Adam started doing up the shirt. He'd resumed his habitual impassive attitude, but Joe caught onto the tremble in his fingers as he fumbled with each button. It gave him away.

"Adam, I mean it," Ben said, his voice dropping down to that place, where any person of a sound mind would stop and listen. "This has gone too far already. You're not leaving this house while you're in such a state."

Without even noticing it, Joe and Hoss tensed up and waited for an eruption, either from their father or brother. But Adam was oblivious of it all and when he'd finished with his shirt, he reached for his gun belt lying on the dresser. At that point, an air of resignation fell over Ben and he backed away, raising his chin.

"Hoss . . ." he commanded.

Hoss winced, and Joe was glad that he wasn't him at that instant. Complying with their father's one-worded order, Hoss lumbered across the floor and took a position by the front door. He assumed a strong posture, trying to appear firm and assured but his inner-turmoil was so easy to read on his telling face.

Joe saw that Adam had just finished buckling his gun belt which seemed to have been quite an ordeal in his condition. He turned without looking where he was going and nearly planted his face into their brother's, expansive chest. Tilting his head up a little, Adam blinked as if he was confused that there was now a Hoss where the front door had been just before. Then, when he realized what was going on, his eyes grew dark with menace and he rose up to his full height, a dark cloud of warning taking over over his features.

"Get out of my way, Hoss."

Hoss shifted uncomfortably, holding up his hands. "Please don't do this Adam, I don't wanna hurt ya none, yur arm might—"

"I said . . . get out of my way."

"Adam let's just—"

"Step . . . aside," Adam said hoarsely, his shoulders starting to shake.

"Please, we only wanna—"

"MOVE THE HELL AWAY!"

The roaring outburst gave way to shocked silence. But out of the four Cartwrights, the one who looked most stunned was Adam himself. Staring at Hoss, he took one stumbling step backwards. He put a hand to his head and it was as if something seeped out of him, right before their eyes, like some long-overdue reaction was finally breaking free.

In Joe's dazed mind he knew that this was it; his brother's knees were about to buckle under him, he was about to keel over, he might hurt his arm, or shatter completely—might not be able to get up again at all. But Adam didn't fall. Because their father was by his side within a second. Holding onto him, keeping him upright . . . as he covered the upper half of his face with the palm of his hand.

"You're all right, boy."

"I . . . Pa, I need . . ." His voice cracked and when it did, something inside Joe broke too. That was just a thing that Adam's voice wasn't supposed to do. Never had done before, never should. The whole scene was utterly surreal and in the middle of it all was their father, looking oddly composed.

"I know, Adam," he said, "Let's go upstairs." He turned Adam in the direction of the staircase. "Come on, let's go."

Adam lowered the hand from his face and used it to carefully hug his injured arm to himself instead. His head hanging down, he walked with his father—rickety on his feet like a newborn foal just learning to walk. Joe was watching their silent trek across the sitting room when his father addressed him.

"The brandy in my desk drawer, Joe. Bring up a glass, half-full. No more."

Joe swallowed thickly. "Yes, sir."

Back to being just a witness again, he stayed in the same spot, looking on as his pa helped Adam up the stairs. But he wasn't alone this time—Hoss was standing just behind him, he could feel it. Like so many other times over the years, Joe felt grateful to his other brother for always being there. Even now, when it felt like their family was being ripped apart, Hoss was there, always the same, reliable and constant.

"You had no choice, Joe, you did what ya had to. We couldn't let 'im . . . we just couldn't."

Whether he'd done right or not, there was one thing Joe was sure of. That look in Adam's eyes would stay with him for a long time after today. He would never have dreamed that Adam was even capable of losing control like that. It had seemed like someone else was using his voice, his body. Thinking about it started to make Joe angry again because right now he was just a little boy who wanted his older brother back. He knew it was selfish of him, but he just wanted his brother, his hero to get up and fight this thing and beat it. Like Adam had always done no matter what came his way.

"Joe?"

Joe turned around to Hoss, feeling exhausted to the bone. "Yea . . . I hope you're right, Hoss. I really hope you're right."

xXXx

Half an hour later, Joe stopped in the hall outside Adam's room. The door was left ajar and he tentatively opened it further, peeking inside.

The first thing he saw was Adam lying on the bed, asleep. He was on his back, and his good arm was thrown out to his side. The brandy glass that Joe had brought up a while ago was now empty, lying on the bed-covers next to him. Their pa was sitting in a chair by the night stand, leaning forward and stroking Adam's hair back from his forehead. The way his hand moved back and forth was so tender, full of love.

For some reason the sight of them like that made Joe's chest contract. He couldn't remember ever seeing his pa be that way with his older brother. There had been a couple of times when Adam was very sick, where Pa had sat up with him, but this was different somehow. It suddenly felt wrong, watching them and Joe felt almost like he was intruding. He was just backing out of the room again but apparently, his father knew he was there, because he suddenly spoke without taking his eyes off Adam.

"Joseph. I want you to gather all the liquor we have in the house. Just set everything on the dining room table. I'll see to it in a bit."

"Yes, Pa . . ."

His father resumed brushing the messy, black strands away from Adam's brow and Joe couldn't stay there a second longer. He left the room and fled down the hall. By the time he got to the landing on the stairs, he knew what he needed to do. He walked straight past Hoss sitting on the settee and paused by the dresser, gripping his gun belt.

Hoss came over, wearing a wary expression. "Where are ya goin'?"

"I'm going into town."

"Dadburnit Joe, ain't it enough with one brother in trouble? I don't think I can handle the both of you—"

"I'm going to see Madeline. I'll talk to her, explain about Adam and maybe she'll come out here." He secured the belt-buckle and looked Hoss dead in the eye. "We need to try something, Hoss. He can't . . . none of us can do this anymore."

It was hard to tell whether Hoss actually agreed with the plan or whether he just recognized that there was no way of dissuading Joe. In either case, he held his palms up and groaned. "All right, dang it . . . just don't be too long, you hear? Pa needs us both here."

"I know. I'll be back soon. He asked me to gather up all the alcohol in the house and put it in the dining room, could you—"

"I'll take care of it."

"Thanks . . ."

Taking his hat, Joe reached the front door with just a couple of long-legged strides and he exited the house without looking back.

xXXx