Author's Notes

Guys! I was absolutely thrilled by your reviews on the last chapter! Thank you so much everyone. I'm happy you enjoyed the fight scene, I was a bit nervous since I've never written one before. Of course he was going to save her! :) And it was only fitting that all the Cartwrights (and Sport) stepped in to assist.

All right, the point we're at now was always where I intended to go with this story, and we are near what I planned would be the end of it. But for some time, I've thought about continuing with this tale, (perhaps in a sequel) and I have many ideas for that. I started writing this purely for my own enjoyment, and now, your enjoyment is just as important to me, even more so, in a way. Your supportive and heartwarming reviews have brought me such happiness and I am starting to write outside of Fanfiction too. As long as you, dear readers, have an interest in reading my portrayal of the characters in this slightly AU Bonanza version, I plan to continue writing. These characters have plenty more to tell.

Thank you for sticking with me.

Okay, on with the next chapter—the recovery begins. I hope you all enjoy this.

Chapter 32

When Madeline awoke, she had no recollection of where she was or how she had come to be there. She lay in a cocoon of warmth and softness, and that was all she knew of at first. Her sight gradually grew accustomed to the dim surroundings while her mind remained wrapped in that confused fog that very deep sleep left one stranded in. The features of the room started to emerge, and what she could see, she didn't recognize. Dark shapes, silhouettes of furniture, a window to her left that gave a peek of the star-speckled sky outside. One small oil lamp stood alone to lift the gloom of the room and fight away the shadows that hugged the walls. It turned out that her safe cocoon was actually a bed—feathery pillow under her head and covers draped over her.

She had been dreaming, she was sure of it. But as a memory-flood washed through her consciousness, she couldn't discern which images were out of her dream and which were real. She waited for the fog to clear from her senses and started to panic when it didn't. Was she still dreaming? The bed covers suddenly seemed suffocating rather than comforting and her legs kicked restlessly. Where was she? Why couldn't she wake up if she was still asleep?

All the questions froze and shattered like fine crystal in her mind when she rolled her head sideways on the pillow and saw him. He was there, nothing else mattered.

Adam was sitting in a chair beside the bed, his dark form blending in perfectly with the shadows around him. His legs were stretched out on the floor, crossed at the ankles and his right arm dangled over the armrest while the other rested across his stomach, wrapped in a white bandage. His hair was all ruffled, looking like his hands had raked through it a dozen times and his eyelids were fluttering, struggling to stay open.

If this was just a dream, it was the best she had ever had.

A smile crept over her lips when his head began to slump forwards, slowly and haltingly. The second his chin touched the top of his chest, he jolted in the chair and his head shot up again. He looked out at the room, then sighed out a breath and brought his right forearm up to rub across his eyes. She lay quietly until he moved his arm away and glanced over at her. He startled, something she didn't think she'd ever seen him do before, and the chair creaked.

"Madeline . . .?"

He quickly shifted and dragged the chair closer to the bed.

"How long have you been awake? Why didn't you say something?"

He looked so worried. So tired. The pallid tone to his skin accentuated the purple blooms by his temple, along his jaw, above his brow.

"I was afraid . . ." she whispered and couldn't continue.

He frowned and immediately abandoned the chair to sit on the side of the bed instead.

"Of what?" He took her hand. "Tell me."

"I was afraid . . . that I was dreaming . . ." She peered down at their hands. "That this . . .was just a dream."

"It's no dream, Madeline. You're safe now."

She hesitated, not quite ready to trust the words. Her voice was fragile as the first thin sheets of ice that covered lakes in winter time as she finally asked, "He is . . . gone?"

"Yes. He'll never hurt you again."

So, it hadn't been a dream. Ray was dead. She turned her face into the pillow, overwhelmed by the conflicting emotions swelling in her chest.

She had hated that man. Everything about him; his appearance, his voice, his touch, had stirred only the darkest emotions hidden within her—fear and hatred. Repulsion. But throughout the three years of their marriage, she had never once wished death upon him. It simply wasn't in her nature to wish that on any person or other living being. Now, as the reality of his death sank in, it was her compassion that rose to the surface of her emotional unrest. The sense of compassion she had been ruled by since she was just a little girl still flowed through her like a purifying force—the peace of her soul—so deep-seated within her as though it ran like a serene liquid blended in her blood. She could not thwart the feeling that crept in through the turmoil and tugged at her heart.

Pity. And even a trace of sorrow. Yes, sorrow—and yes—in spite of everything Ray had done to her. Because in his own way, disturbed and deranged as it had been, he had loved her. She had always known that.

"Are you all right, honey?"

The cautious question pulled her thoughts free of her husband's fate. She turned her head and gazed up at the man next to her. Adam. She heard his name in her head. As if her heart had whispered it to her mind. He was sitting right there, holding her hand. But it wasn't enough. She needed to be closer to him, feel him. Without fully realizing what she was about to do, she very suddenly shifted to sit up—gasping in pain when all the aches on her body protested the movement. Adam also protested.

"No, you need to stay lying down, you're not—"

"But Adam, I need . . ."

When she kept wriggling on the bed, he caught her elbows to help her sit up and put his right arm around her. She leaned into him, instantly relieved, and laid the side of her head to his chest just beneath his chin. His shirt was soft, felt much better than the pillow against her cheek and she relaxed as his scent and warmth engulfed her. Oh, he was really here.

The bed covers fell down to her waist and it was then she noted that she had on a night gown. Had she put that on herself? There was a vague memory of that happening, but it stayed somewhere just outside of her mind's grasp, teasing her.

"We . . . we are at the Ponderosa, aren't we Adam? What time is it?"

She felt the vibration of his voice in his chest as he answered, "Yes. And it must be passed midnight now."

"Midnight? I slept all this time?"

"Yea. We were getting kinda worried . . ."

The fact that she'd slept for that long shocked her and she wondered if he'd been watching over her for all that time.

"How is everyone? Oh, I need to explain everything to them, to your family and my uncle, there is so much—"

"No, no, you don't need to worry about any of that right now. Try to take it easy, you're not well Madeline."

With his free hand, he rearranged the bed covers so they were more firmly tucked around her and she curled herself closer to him—basking in the feeling of safety his presence gave her. Missing him had been the greatest pain of all. She had missed him with every breath, with every beat of her heart. And now he was here with her. No dream. His body was muscular and strong as she remembered, but also slightly leaner now, she slowly realized. She hadn't noticed that when he'd held her in the kitchen at her uncle's house.

"How is Uncle Paul?" she asked into his shirt.

"He went to get some sleep a few hours ago. Aside from having a bad headache, he's his usual self. A little grumpier maybe."

She tipped her head up, feeling somewhat sluggish. "What about Joe? And Hoss? I don't remember . . ."

"They're doing fine, both asleep too. Hoss has been in worse fights and I think the kid is just relieved that some of my father's attention is off him."

It was time for her to pull back, she had to see his face now.

"And you? Are you all right?"

"Yea . . . sure I am."

The way his eyes flickered down, told her otherwise. Then it hit her. Something was wrong. Although he was holding her, he wasn't embracing her. Not the way he'd gotten used to doing when they were alone, nor the way he'd done at her uncle's house after climbing over the fence to her. While they couldn't get much closer physically than they were now, there was a distance between them. He seemed . . . uncertain.

"I think you should lie down again," he murmured. "Paul said you need all the rest you can get . . ."

"No, please . . . I just want to sit like this for a few minutes."

"All right. Just for a few minutes then."

The following silence only served to enhance the invisible void separating them. What made matters worse was the heavy tangle of knots beginning to twist in her gut.

"Is there anything you would like that I can get you?" he asked. "Some water, tea, any food?"

"No thank you."

She reached for his left hand, eyeing the white bandage that stopped by his wrist. "How is your arm? Did Uncle Paul—"

"I told you, I'm fine, Madeline."

He drew his hand away, sounding irritated. But she knew to look past that. She had witnessed him do this before. This was Adam Cartwright protecting himself, shielding his emotions. Shielding himself from her. The fact that he felt the need to do that sent a heart wrenching ache barreling through her, directly to her soul.

Along came another of those pain-filled, endless silences, which seemed to push them even further apart. His right arm stayed around her, holding her, but there was a certain tension now, stemming from him, growing around them. The low light from the lamp only let her see part of his down-turned face. But it was enough. He was hurting.

"Adam . . .?"

"Yes . . ."

His tone was wary, as was the rest of him. He had that guarded look about him, reminding her of how he had been when she'd first met him. She saw it happen, so clearly, watched him build his defenses back up and with each piece that slipped back into place, it was as if he retraced one of the little steps he had taken in opening himself up to her. But despite the effort he was putting in, he couldn't hide himself completely—not from her, not anymore. It was too late for that.

With despair gripping her, she asked, "What is wrong? Please look at me . . .?"

He didn't.

She would have given anything to hear what he was thinking. To know what he had gone through during their time apart because she believed that whatever it was, it must be the reason why he was holding back now. That night when he'd showed up at her uncle's house after fighting at the saloon, she had seen his confusion and pain. From what her uncle and Joe had told her in the days after, his state had only worsened, and she knew about his loss. She wanted him to talk to her, but he wasn't even looking at her. Was he still in doubt about how she felt? Even after she'd explained everything and said that she loved him? Rejecting him had been her only means of protecting him—she had known of no other way. Had that choice doomed her to lose him after all?

No, she couldn't . . . she couldn't bear it.

Oh, my love, don't shut me out now. Not now.

"Look at me, Adam."

She edged closer to him, placing a hand on his chest. An advance he clearly hadn't expected her to make because his muscles jumped under her palm. That tiny movement changed something. She felt it at once and she knew he did too. The tension between them seemed to grow thicker, heavy with a strange, warm undercurrent. A warmth that suddenly flared up and became a scorching heat, burning her hand. Simply through touching him.

Very slowly, he straightened his back and raised his head. His eyes were half-lidded as he looked down at her and he was painstakingly deliberate about keeping them fixed below hers, skillfully avoiding her forest-green capture.

"I'm gonna get you some water . . ." he mumbled, his voice rough and husky, and a tantalizing pull arose somewhere deep in her belly.

He didn't move and inch.

"I don't want any water."

Her line of sight fell to his mouth and stayed there, making it clear to him, and herself, what she did want. Such boldness, such improper behavior for the respectable lady she was supposed to be. And she wasn't the least bit concerned about it. His Adam's apple bobbed up, then down as he swallowed.

"Madeline . . ."

He closed his eyes with a harsh intake of breath when she lifted her fingers to his jaw. She kept her touch soft, like a breeze grazing his skin as she caressed him. Gently, letting her love reach him through her fingertips since he refused to take it in from her gaze. She slid her hand along the stubble on his jawline up to the short, dark side-burn in front of his ear. Careful not to brush over the bruise by his temple. He neither leaned forwards to meet her, nor did he draw backwards to avoid her. But she sensed his chest go completely still as she angled her head upwards, bringing her mouth to his.

It was probably the lightest kiss ever given. She did little more than ghost over his lips with hers. And yet, his brows pinched tightly together as if she were causing him great pain. She pressed the side of her face against him, her velvety cheek against his scruff. Hot tears took her by surprise and she quickly squeezed her eyelids shut to contain them—felt the determined drops push through her lashes.

"I love you," she whispered.

He was at war with himself. She felt it raging within him, the confusion and the turmoil. As she blinked her lashes free, she saw it written into every tense line on his face. He looked half like he wanted to bolt from the room and half like . . . she couldn't identify what the other half was. Whatever was going on in his mind and heart, she needed to comfort him. She just hoped that he would let her. And if not, she hoped that she knew him well enough to reach him.

"My uncle told me about Henry . . ." she ventured.

That got a response. A stiffening of his spine.

"I am so sorry, Adam . . ."

"Don't, Madeline."

His tone was low. Hoarse and warning. But she went on, regardless.

"I can't imagine how hard it all must have been for you . . ." He turned away from her and she continued. "You must have felt terribly confused and hurt by the way I acted—"

"Stop, just . . . don't."

"I am so very sorry for everything you went through—"

"Don't say that!" he exclaimed, suddenly yanking his arm free from around her. "Don't say you're sorry, not after—" He ran his hand through his hair, pushing it into a new stage of disorder. "I should be apologizing to you."

She stared at him in bafflement. "I don't understand . . . apologize for what?"

In a heartbeat, he gripped her hand and pulled the sleeve of her nightgown up, stunning her.

"For this . . ." He gazed down at her bruises, his jaw clenching. Without giving her time to speak, he moved his hand up, delicately tracing her neck through the collar of her nightgown. "For this . . ."

The light of the lamp reflected like golden flecks in his smoldering orbs as he peered straight at her. "For everything he did to you when I should have been there to prevent it from happening."

She raised her hand to circle his wrist. "You cannot seriously be blaming yourself for any of this, you didn't know . . ."

"I should have found out what was going on sooner."

Her mouth fell open. "But . . . but you couldn't . . . there was no way you could—"

"There's always a way Madeline," he snapped, "I should've found a way."

"But you—"

"I should have stopped him!"

"You did stop him!"

Her words were like a breathy explosion, shocking them both into momentary silence.

"You did . . ." she repeated, voice cracked. "And you came to get me just as you said you would . . ."

He shook his head, dropped his chin and she felt herself collapsing on the inside at the sight.

Why are you doing this to yourself?

"There was nothing you could have done to help me before," she said, "I didn't give you a chance to . . ."

It wasn't working. She wasn't getting through to him. It almost numbed her vocal chords, the fear of saying the wrong thing, the word or sentence that would make him jump up and leave the room. The tense set of his jaw, the way his knees vibrated—told her how close he was to doing that.

"Listen to me," she pleaded, her fingers brushing the anguished creases across his forehead. "I was so frightened that something would happen to you . . . I only pushed you away because I couldn't bear the thought of you getting hurt. It was the hardest thing I have ever done because I missed you so terribly and I . . ." She looked at him with her heart in her eyes, even though his face was turned down and he couldn't see it. "I love you so much. With all my heart."

His head jerked up as if something in him snapped and it would have taken more than a lifetime for her to grasp the depth of emotion his faced showed at that moment.

"I love you too . . . my God, I can't even . . . I don't even know how to be without you anymore, Madeline."

She hadn't heard his voice anywhere near such a state before. Strangled and helpless like that.

His eyes met hers, and as they locked together, she could almost hear the heart-stopping click go off in her mind. Their faces so close to touching—a tiny head tilt from him would manage it—they silently spoke their love in the simplest, most profound way.

And then finally, his mouth came down over hers.

It was as though a burst of aching relief and heat ignited inside her. She had yearned for this, for him, and she didn't hesitate to show it as she kissed him back. His mouth moved back and forth over hers, like a tide pulling her out with him and she went willingly. So willingly. Prepared to drown in him. With every sweep of his lips, he became more demanding and she was helpless in his hold, her whole body flushed and burning. Already short of breath, she parted her lips just a fraction and in the same instant, he plunged his tongue into her mouth.

The kiss was anything but gentle after that. It was a kiss driven by the culmination of being apart, of desperate longing for one another. Of the fear and agony they had both suffered under without the other. It was raw. It was pure. Everything he gave, she gave back. Through their joined lips, she urged him to give in to her, begged him to accept the same comfort that he bestowed on her so selflessly.

As if the emotion of it all wasn't enough, she was soon consumed by the physical aspect of what was happening between them. The feel of his stubble scratching her cheek and chin made her gasp as his arms encircled her. Powerful, safe arms. He had her. She grabbed tight handfuls of his shirt—unfamiliar, blazing need driving her body to respond to him. In the most wonderful, alarming ways. He kept pushing her further and further into that dizzy haze and she reveled in the taste of him, the tiny noises he drew out of her. The slide of his tongue against hers as he licked his way around, exploring like this was their first kiss. All of a sudden, his hands were on her hips and before she knew it, he had pulled her up onto his lap. Another distance closed. Her soft curves melted into his solid frame and she was senseless. Senseless in it all. She could not formulate a word or thought because he had her lips, her mind, and he had everything. Her arms slid up around his shoulders where shaking fingers found their way to the hair by his nape—tangled the tiny black curls there. He released a low groan into her mouth and she shivered. That sound, she knew, would stay with her. For many days and nights after this. His arms tightened around her to the point where the bruises along her back made themselves known, but she didn't care. She pressed herself against him, and she should be shocked at herself, but she didn't care. Because she was so utterly lost in her love for him and the things he did to her. All the incredible things he was showing her, the reactions he brought out of her that were still so new. She was drowning in him.

Just as her exhilaration was at its highest, he pulled away, breaking the kiss. He did so very abruptly, and she recognized that it was the only way a kiss so intense could be broken.

The gap of air between their faces filled with their hot, shallow breaths. She placed the palm of her hand to his chest, feeling the erratic thudding and he covered her hand with his own, leaning his brow against hers. They stayed just like that, both taking in what had just happened.

She was sitting in the exact same spot on his lap when a sudden dizzy spell overcame her, and she had to lean against him for support.

"Madeline? Are you all right, sweetheart?" he asked, still out of breath as he bent down to see her face.

"Yes, I just, it. . ." She stumbled over her own voice, realizing then how completely exhausted she was. "I am just . . . so very tired . . ."

"Of course, you are," he mumbled in a berating tone that was obviously aimed at himself. "Here I am, telling you that you need to rest and then I go and . . . do that."

"It wasn't just you, Adam . . ."

She stretched her hand up, intending to stroke his cheek but he caught her wrist, holding her still by his chin. Worry tensed up her body, but then she melted as he brought her fingers to his lips and kissed the soft pads.

They studied each other. Hard as it could be to read him at times, right now, she easily saw what he was thinking.

Adam sitting in a chair watching over her while she slept was one thing. But now they were both awake, on the same bed, her in his lap and the door to the room was closed. Nighttime to top it all off. It was a compromising and inappropriate situation, whatever way they looked at it.

"Let's get you lying down again," he said.

"Yes . . . all right."

He helped her slide off his lap and settled her against the pillows. She watched as he tugged the covers up around her, taking his time, making sure she was warm and protected. He stayed sitting on the side of the bed and she was glad of that. It made widening the physical distance between them more gradual and easier on both of them. A soft sigh left her when he smoothed the curls back from her face and brought his hand down to cup her cheek.

"I promised Paul that I would get him if you woke up. He just wanted to see you, talk to you a bit."

She leaned into his palm, wishing his touch could stay there forever.

"He must be exhausted . . . do you suppose he would be very upset with you if you let him sleep?"

"I'm not taking any chances. Even with that bump on his head, he'd probably win if he decided on a scuffle and I don't think I could outrun him at the moment." With a little smile, he brushed his thumb along her cheekbone. "I'll come in again when he's seen you. I can sit here until you fall asleep if you like."

"I would like that, but you need to rest too . . ."

"I will."

He shifted restlessly, captured his bottom lip between his teeth as he regarded her with apprehension.

"Madeline, I . . . I want—"

All at once, he bounced on the bed, tore his hand away from her face and whipped his head left in the direction of the door as a rustling noise came from the other side of it. They stared in mutual surprise as the door creaked open and a lit oil lamp appeared, floating midair, illuminating the outline of her uncle in the dark doorway.

"Madeline?" He squinted into the room. "Why, you're awake!"

Wearing a huge smile, he strode towards the bed, the edge of his blue robe sweeping along behind his slippered feet. Her heart leaped with joy and relief at seeing him and she smiled weakly.

"Yes Uncle . . . I am so happy that you're all right . . ."

Noticing Adam's rigidity next to her, she glanced over at him and saw that he had gone even paler than he'd been just before. He stood from the bed while practically gaping at her uncle with an expression that translated to something like, "Thank God you didn't walk in a couple of minutes ago."

She felt herself blush.

When her uncle stopped by the bed, his tremendous happiness illuminated his face better than both lamps combined.

"It's so good to see you awake, my dear."

Adam cleared his throat. "I was just about to get you."

Her uncle's narrowed eyes sliced into him. "Yes. I'm sure you were." He turned away from Adam and back to her. "How are you, my little Belle?"

"I am all right." She frowned at the bandage around his forehead. "How is your head? Are you sure you should be up?"

"Oh, it's nothing really, I can hardly feel it now."

"I'm gonna . . ." Adam motioned to the doorway. ". . . leave you two to talk."

He turned rather hastily and her eyes followed him as he walked across the room. As soon as he closed the door behind him, she felt a little pang in her chest. They hadn't had enough time together. She hoped that he would come back and sit with her again as he'd said.

"How are you really, my Belle?"

She faced her uncle who had set down the lamp and taken a seat in the chair. Even though the bandage concealed them, she guessed there must be deep furrows of worry behind the cloth, taped across his brow.

"I was very worried about you. I don't think I've ever been so worried in all my life."

"I feel better now, Uncle. I was quite confused when I first woke up, but I'm just tired now. Please don't worry yourself anymore."

He leaned forwards to take her hand. "You must be very sore . . ."

For a moment she hesitated, found a spot on his robe to secure her gaze to before she replied. "I mostly feel tired . . ."

"I saw, Madeline. I helped you get changed into your nightgown."

She pressed her eyelids together for a second, fighting for composure.

"Yes, I am a little sore . . ."

He nodded. "Adam has filled me in on most things. The parts he knew anyway."

A hot, salty drop suddenly slipped down her cheek, landing as a grey dot on the white pillow. The pressure in her throat became so tight, it condensed her voice to a whisper.

"Uncle, please forgive me. I never wanted to deceive you or lie about—"

"Shhh, none of that now, dear," he said, enclosing her hand between both of his. "Whatever you think I need to forgive you for, I do. We don't need to talk about any of this now. I just want to sit with you for a while."

"I . . . I missed you, Uncle Paul."

Perhaps it was an odd thing to say, but that's how she felt. She'd spent so much time avoiding him and lying to him and she'd missed just being with him. She didn't need to pretend anymore, finally.

"I know, I missed you too. Everything will be all right now, Madeline. Don't you worry about a thing."

She knew he was right. The people she loved were safe, she was safe. Everything was going to be all right.

xXXx

Adam passed the dresser, continued across the floor and stopped by the oval mirror. He turned on his heel, repeated the same brisk strides back across the room until he met the wall. Then he spun around again.

He felt like he was going crazy. Like he was about to explode out of his skin. Thoughts were ricocheting around his head and he couldn't make sense of any of them. There were too many, all mixed together. The pulsing in his ears was only getting louder and that tingling thrill from kissing Madeline just wouldn't go away.

He cradled his bandaged arm to his side and had to veer left to avoid a collision with his bed.

She was in the guest-room down the hall—he couldn't even see her right now and still his mind was covered with her. His shirt was covered with her flowery fragrance, and he was pacing the length of his bedroom, spreading it everywhere.

Six hours. That's how long he'd waited for her to wake up. Out of those six hours, he'd spent the last three watching over her on his own, worrying about her and thinking. Thinking. Tonight, he'd learned something new about himself. Three hours of deep pondering was too much, even for him.

He must have gone over the events of the last one and a half weeks dozens of times. And everything that had happened the previous afternoon—at least a hundred. Her rejection, his confusion, her ordeal, his guilt. The same regrets circling around him, what he would have done, what he should have done—if only he'd known.

He suddenly stopped pacing and ended up by the bed. It wasn't doing any good anyway—she was everywhere.

Supporting his left elbow with the palm of his other hand, he glanced around himself, searching for anything that might help calm him. His sight landed on a glass of water standing on the night table. He didn't remember putting it there. Must have been his father then. It wasn't what he wanted to drink, what he thirsted for, but still, better than nothing and his mouth was dry. He grabbed the glass and drained it as he sank down on the bed, closing his eyes.

In the darkness, she was even clearer in his mind.

When she had woken up, he'd only been aware of his concern for her. He should have seen it coming—of course she was going to ask him if he was all right. This was Madeline. But she'd taken him off guard with the question and when she'd given him that look. The Madeline-look. It was the only way of defining that look—as hers. There simply wasn't another person in the world who could see so directly into his core as she could.

He didn't know why he'd reacted the way he did. If he were honest with himself, panic was probably the word here. After going through what he could only describe as utter emotional hell for nearly two weeks, he couldn't deny that he was still slightly . . . unbalanced. To put it mildly. He'd been spooked by the thought of her finding out just how bad off he had been without her. And that fear, combined with his lingering doubts, guilt, and whatever else he had going on—added to the mind-boggling, intense physical sensations he felt in her presence . . . Yea, in short—he'd panicked.

He hadn't planned on pushing her away, it was an instinctive, spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. Like a reflex. He'd just climbed back over his wall and hoped she wouldn't pursue him. A bit like he'd crawled over her wall and landed in Paul's back garden.

Only Madeline hadn't wasted time crawling over his—she'd just broken the damn thing right down again. She'd reached in an touched his heart, his soul. In her innocent way, she had coaxed his emotions out of him—stripped him naked all over again—with disconcerting ease. Then she had soothed him, bathed him in comfort. Welcomed him with her touch and that unfathomable compassion of hers.

It was everything he'd craved for such a long time. He had her back again and she loved him. As much as it thrilled him, it also terrified him. Because now he knew exactly what would happen, what he would become if he ever lost her.

He just had no control when it came to her. For someone who relied on control as much as he did, Madeline was . . . disturbing. Perfect. Right. All of those things. But as for the control issue—he kept finding himself in situations where he was close to losing it. Like before, when he'd let his temper get the better of him, again, all because of his own guilt and anger over not being there to stop a madman from hurting her. And then, his complete lack of control when she'd touched him and said those words he'd desperately wanted to hear. And, not to forget, when he'd kissed her.

What was he thinking—kissing her in such a manner?! Under those circumstances?!

No control.

Even now, in his moment of private scolding, all he wanted to do was to go down the hall—toss Paul out of the guest-room—and kiss her again.

That thought made him jolt up from the bed, and every bump and bruise he'd acquired in the previous afternoon's fight screamed at him for it. He needed to get out of this room now. It was just too small.

In a second, he was heading out into the quiet hallway, leaving his bedroom door wide open. He stopped briefly by the guest-room to make sure Paul was still in there and once he heard the doctor's muffled voice from the other side of the door, he continued towards the staircase. The dim light coming from the sitting room reached far enough up the stairs that he could see each step. When he got to the landing, his father looked up at him from his book.

"She's awake," he said as he descended the last steps.

His pa slumped in the burgundy chair, shoulders sagging under his robe.

"Thank God . . . how is she?"

"Sore . . . a bit confused. Exhausted."

"I imagine she must be . . . did you wake Paul?"

"He came in to check on her before I got the chance."

Well, true in a way.

"He'll probably rest better after he has talked with her anyway," his father said, closing the book and setting it down next to the oil lamp on the table. "I'm glad we brought her back here. I think it's the best place for her to recover."

"Yea." He sighed heavily. "She's been through so much . . ."

"Yes, she has."

Adam wandered over to the blue chair. With his right hand on the armrest, he tentatively lowered himself into it, wincing when the aches that littered his body twisted in all the most painful ways. He finally rested back against the soft cushion and felt himself calming down. Giving no thought as to who was actually in the room with him, he settled comfortably into his favorite brooding position—one ankle crossed over his knee, eyes glazed over, right fist clenched in front of his mouth.

"You might as well stop that right now."

His hand dropped. "Stop what . . ."

He didn't even bother inserting a questioning tone. The words only served the purpose of stalling. They both knew it.

His father, with infinite patience responded, "Blaming yourself. You had no way of knowing what was going on, Adam."

"That's what Madeline said," he muttered, no closer to letting go of his guilt.

"Well, Madeline is a bright young woman."

He wavered, his thumb and forefinger picking at the spot on the armrest he was examining with great intensity.

". . . I almost lost her, Pa."

"But you didn't," His father said matter-of-factly, reining him in before he went any further down that grievous trail. "Tormenting yourself with if-only's and what-if's won't help anyone. The only thing that's important now, is that she needs you. And in case you've forgotten, you need her. She needs your help to be able to move on from this, and you have to be fit and healthy to help her. So, when are you planning on getting some sleep?"

"When I drop, I guess," he replied with that defensive edge to his voice, and just to make it worse, he threw in a nonchalant shrug at the end.

It always amazed him how his pa could make air thicken with disapproval in a mere second without uttering a sound.

He shuffled in the chair, keeping his eyes fastened to the armrest. "I was going to head for bed when I've looked in on her again and made sure she'll be okay for the night."

"Hm. I'm pleased to hear it, son."

Good. Now maybe they could try silence for a while.

Adam carefully resettled his bandaged arm across his stomach. It was on fire, at least that was the sensation. The thrumming ache had been present ever since Paul had stitched the wound and Hop Sing had fussed over it earlier, but now, after moving about and holding Madeline tighter than he should have been doing in any case—it was burning with pain. As if licks of fire were swiping from his wrist up to his elbow. He went still when that rumbling voice drifted across the table.

"You haven't had anything at all to ease the pain, have you?"

Well, his father certainly was straight to the point tonight. Maybe that confined bedroom hadn't been so bad after all . . .

"No. Paul offered to measure out a dose of laudanum, but I could tell how reluctant he was. I told him to forget about it."

There was a fleeting pause, the first sign of hesitation from his father to enter this conversation.

"One glass of brandy would take the worst of the pain and help you sleep."

It was almost comical. The emphasis on that first word reminded him of how Hop Sing told Hoss that he could have only one of something.

"I better not," he eventually said. "I'm not sure that I can . . . control it."

"You're not . . .?" The question was soft-spoken, and sounded more like a statement.

"No, Pa. In fact . . . I don't think I can yet."

That was the truth of it. He wanted a drink and he wanted more than just one. If Madeline ever, ever saw him in that dark place . . . the idea nearly made him shudder. Another truth was that he hadn't actually slept yet in his recently established sober state. Now that he'd left his depressed, drunken stupor and didn't have the liquor to help lull him into a mindless sleep, he knew what was waiting. He had a few nights worth of nightmares to catch up on, and that wasn't exactly a pleasant prospect.

"Well, when you've been up to check on Madeline again, you can always come back down here if you're not ready for bed," his father said, picking up the book again. "You might just drop on the settee and get some rest." He added, "I'll be reading here a while yet."

No subtle approaches tonight, that was for sure.

Adam turned his head, looked over at his pa whose features were perfectly schooled as he relaxed back in the burgundy chair. "And when are you planning on getting some sleep?"

"It's Dickens, Adam," he said as if that was sufficient answer as he waved the book. "I got started on it while we were doing all this waiting and now I just can't seem to put it down."

The room became quiet and Adam watched him leaf through the pages to find the right one.

Would his nightmares still find him if he fell asleep here with someone else close by? Would his father's presence make a difference? Once upon a time, the man had proven to be pretty good at fending off nightmares. A frightened, crying, four-year-old boy's nightmares. But that was a long time ago. And very different dreams. Still . . . what if?

He was so tired. Bone-tired. Could he bring himself to just let go for a little while?

He would check on Madeline first. And think on it.