Author's Notes

And here comes the next one! I hope you all like it! :)

Chapter 37

Less than ten minutes later, Adam walked down the stairs with a fresh bandage around his arm and an odd feeling churning in his gut. He sensed Paul following behind him at a distance as if the doctor didn't want to get too close to him. As he descended the last steps, he wondered if he should have made more of an effort to clear the air between them before they'd headed downstairs. But with the way Paul had looked, Adam was almost certain he wouldn't have gotten a chance to.

They approached the sitting area where the others were seated around the table, playing cards and having quite the time by the sounds of it. There was laughter and good-natured teasing in among the animated conversation. It all stopped, however, when Adam and Paul came over. Madeline faced them, asking if everything was all right and since she clearly referred to his arm, Adam gave a quiet nod. After she'd taken a proper look at him and then Paul who slipped into the blue chair, her expression—still delighted from the fun she was having with the rest of the family—changed into one of worry. Next, it settled into downright distress. The coward he was, Adam bowed his head to escape the sight. He sat down beside her on the settee and she said nothing else. Neither his father nor his brothers made any comments. They just returned to their cards.

For Adam, the next hour went by in a strange blur. Even being next to Madeline again, his mood didn't improve. He might be physically present, but his mind was elsewhere. Back upstairs in his bedroom—reliving the conversation with Paul over and over again. Trying to make sense of what had happened. Despite his preoccupation with his troubled thoughts, he could tell that Madeline was concerned. Although he didn't face her, he felt her little glances whenever they struck him and he noticed the way she kept resettling herself on the settee. Fortunately for him, his brothers kept her busy with more card games and so he had yet another thing to be grateful to them for. He knew of no other two people who could override a strained atmosphere so effectively by simply talking non-stop and telling jokes. But that's exactly what Joe and Hoss gradually managed to do. By no means a discreet method—but effective, nonetheless. Their father, on the other hand, didn't say much and Adam had a feeling he would find a figure of stern disapproval if he looked over at the red chair. All the more reason not to.

As late afternoon came around, after many games of Whist, Madeline attempted to convince Hop Sing to allow her entrance into his kitchen. Somehow, she managed it. Adam made a couple of half-hearted objections, but he didn't have it in him to deny her. She just wanted to help out and show her appreciation for the support and warm welcome she'd received at the Ponderosa. He couldn't really blame her for that. Also, he thought it might be good for her to concentrate on something else and get her mind off worrying for a while. He noticed that Paul didn't comment at all when she disappeared into the kitchen and he was keenly aware that since they'd come back downstairs, the doctor hadn't uttered a word to anyone. Whenever he peeked over at the older man, Paul's nose was firmly buried in his journal where he wrote away as if his life depended on it.

The tension between them had changed. Not that it had disappeared—it had just taken on an entirely different nature. Adam found that he almost felt this was worse. No, not almost. Definitely, it was worse, and it weighed heavily on his already unsettled mind. So heavily, that all the conflicting emotions he harbored inside had been nudged out of their fragile balance and now they were in a bad place. With Madeline gone, he suddenly didn't quite know what to do with himself.

The urge to be alone hit him with all the force of a fist smacking into his gut. It was always the same when something troubled him to this point, when he started to feel overwhelmed. He needed to work through things on his own terms, in his own time and more than anything—he needed privacy to do it in. He knew he should leave the room, get away from everyone. Yet for some reason, he couldn't get himself to move. And the longer he stayed, the worse he felt.

It began as a series of tingles in his feet, shooting up his numbed legs—restlessness taunting him. Soon, one knee was bouncing in a rapid beat, nearly matching his pulse as it sped up. His vision started to blur as disturbing thoughts cropped up in his mind; the kind of thoughts that were best kept hidden away until nighttime where they would inevitably emerge to torment, to punish. When he was alone and prepared for them. Except right now, they wouldn't wait for the cover of darkness. As if demanding witnesses to the abuse, those thoughts slowly crowded his mind, overpowering everything else to the point where his surroundings faded from his awareness. All sounds; his brothers talking, Paul's scribbling, the vague noises from the kitchen—it all merged into one daunting pounding that made his head spin. So loud, there was room for nothing else. Unease seemed to crawl over him inch by inch, and he had no protection against it as it crept through his clothes to his skin where it prickled, making hairs stand up. Until it broke through the thin surface and anxiety was a living being within him, pulsing in his heated blood, draining him of air. Suffocating him. And suddenly, all that mattered was getting away. Outside. Where he could breathe.

His chest on fire and his head about to explode, he finally got moving. He half-leaped from the settee and strode for the front door, mumbling, he thought, something about the barn. Promptly, Joe's voice chased him from far away, asking about joining him and he heard himself decline the offer without even turning back around. One minute he was reaching through a fog hanging by the door, hoping to find the latch, his escape. And the next, he was standing on the porch, feet unsteady on the wooden floorboards as he jerked the door shut behind him.

The cool air hit his face—instantly soothing his burning skin. He gulped it in, greedily. Like a man half-drowned. His legs, weak as they were, somehow managed to carry him to the wooden beam under the porch roof and he slumped against it. That's when he realized his hands were shaking. From his wrists to his fingertips, they trembled, uncontrollably.

"D-damn it . . ." he gasped. He despised when that happened. Forcing his eyes shut, he slammed his right hand against the hard wood in defiance. Stopping the tremors. He stayed like that as the dense cluster of thoughts began to disperse in his mind. His pulse slowed from its frantic rhythm, returning to normal. And he gradually came back to himself.

After God knows how long, he became aware of the stillness around him. This was better. Outside was much better for him. Cool and quiet. Just what he needed.

When he opened his eyes, he saw a world much clearer than before. He pushed away from the beam and swiped a sleeve across his brow, taking a few last, steadying breaths. It suddenly occurred to him to check around himself, and his eyes raced out and across the yard. To his relief, he saw no cowhands hanging about. He tucked his bad arm close to his body and peered up at the sky.

It was a grey day, the kind that promised more to come. Looming clouds hovered above—huge masses forming the highest of ceilings in colors ranging from all shades of white to black. The sight stirred a streak of melancholy in him. He found a tragic beauty to heaven today.

His body felt heavy as he took a dragging step down from the porch and proceeded across the yard. It was slow going because he didn't quite trust his legs not to give out and dump him in the dust. Exhausted, but back in control, he kept his mind strictly blank when he got to the barn. It was a way of proving to himself that he was in control of his thoughts—even the dark ones—and that he chose when and if he would revisit them. At least he hoped it was so. Or maybe he was just fooling himself.

Grabbing the latch on the barn door, he slid the bolt sideways with a metallic click. He pulled the heavy wood open, moved inside and immediately, Sport snorted in a delighted greeting for his human.

"Hey boy," Adam murmured in return.

He left the door ajar and went to grab a horse brush from one of the hooks on the wall. Sport watched from his stall, his tail whipping back and forth while he grunted restlessly. Horse brush in hand, Adam walked over to the impatient mount, and he was met with an approving whinny when he opened the door to the stall. At the same instant, a white horse snout came straight at him. He allowed himself a weary smile. Sport's velvety muzzle roamed over his chest and down to his right hand where it nudged the brush. Finding nothing edible there, it wandered back up all the way to his neck, searching and taking some time to nuzzle him too.

Adam managed to veer around the insistent muzzle and stepped around to Sport's side. As he ran his hand down the chestnut's reddish-brown hind quarters, he noted how clean and shiny Sport's coat was. Someone must have already given the horse a thorough brush-down earlier and he suspected Hoss had done him the favor. Apparently, there was no end to his siblings' goodness these days and no limit to his own selfishness and stupidity. His shoulders dropped an inch as he began running the brush over Sport's back. If the horse felt it odd that he was receiving such special attention today, he didn't let on.

Finally, in the seclusion of the barn and with no one but his trusted steed to judge him, Adam began to relax, moving the brush in long, steady strokes. There was something about the repetitive motion—the comforting familiarity of it. It was soothing, almost meditative to him. For a while, he concentrated only on the simple task and Sport's soft noises of pleasure. Until finally, the calm was restored in him.

And only then did he let his mind drift back to what had happened between him and Paul.

He was confused. That was about the size of it. However much he wanted to tell himself that he had nothing to feel guilty about, this nagging feeling in his heart wouldn't let him believe it. In all the years he'd known Paul, he'd seen him get truly upset no more than a handful of times. And that was what had happened earlier. Paul had been angry, yes, and plenty annoyed, but in the end—he'd been that. Upset. Not an angry kind of upset either but a distraught kind. For that reason, Adam was now reevaluating every interaction he'd had with the doctor as of late. He reflected on how the hostility had increased between them for the last couple of days and questioned his own role in it all. Today had been worse than anything so far. Since morning, Paul had seemed determined to rile him. While he knew for a fact that he hadn't instigated the first many verbal provocations, he had still fired back each time with snappy comebacks to match the jibes flung at him. Something he now regretted.

He had already realized that the more time he'd been spending with Madeline lately, the worse things had gotten between him and her uncle. There was, without doubt, a link between his own growing closeness with her and Paul's growing grouchiness towards him. He had also contemplated what his father had said the morning before, about Paul worrying about Madeline and needing to spend time with her too. But to Adam, it seemed like the doctor only entered her room to act as chaperone and to put him in his place—not to be together with her. Whenever Paul had been near Madeline the last while, he'd seemed more preoccupied with insulting Adam than being there for her sake. Like the older man was dead-set on pushing him away from her. But why?

Earlier, he'd reached the conclusion that Paul felt he wasn't good enough for her, which had—quite understandably—bothered him.

Certainly not because he disagreed with that opinion. There really was no disputing it. Naturally, he just preferred not to have it rubbed in his face all the time. Deep down, he'd understood the doctor for feeling that way. After all, Paul had seen him in his darkest place. In his despair and hopelessness, drunk and disordered—on the verge of giving up. He'd said things he'd even asked the doctor not to tell his own father. Just the kind of son-in-law a person would want. Hardly.

So, yes, he'd understood that Paul might feel that Madeline deserved better than him especially now, after everything she'd been through. But then the doctor had gone and denied it.

"You're wrong about that," he'd said.

They had been friends for a very long time and as he'd heard those words, Adam had believed him. Firstly, knowing Paul, he would probably be ruthlessly honest if he thought that was the case and secondly—Doctor Paul Martin didn't lie. He wasn't that kind of a man and it was a trait Adam had always respected about him.

It all came down to this—Adam had been wrong in his assumption. He'd obviously missed something, and that was why he did indeed feel guilty now. He'd assumed he knew how Paul felt and he'd acted accordingly which had only made things worse. To put it mildly. That argument was one he wouldn't soon forget. As he thought back on the encounter, there were many things he would have done differently if he could. Things he would've stopped himself from saying and things he now knew he should've said instead. There was no hiding from the fact that he'd severely tested Paul's patience when he should have at least been courteous. His friend had taken the time to treat his injury. His friend had shown understanding and consideration when tending to him. When seeing his scars. And Adam had repaid him with brusque tones and stubbornness. And ultimately, he'd lost his temper.

A regular occurrence these days, it seemed.

He didn't know what was wrong with his head lately. His mind just wasn't where it should be. He was all over the place. What had happened to him just before in the house was proof of that. He needed to get himself together, that much was clear.

Sport suddenly tossed his head with a disgruntled snort, informing him that he was being neglected. Adam realized that his hand had gone still and the brush was resting on the horse's back.

"Sorry boy . . ." he mumbled and resumed the brushing.

Right now, it was probably best if he and Paul took a little break from each other. If that could be managed with them both living under the same roof. One thing he was sure of—he was done fighting with the older man. Even if Paul started up with spiteful language again, Adam wouldn't bite back. He would try to be more understanding and patient instead. And he could only hope that his love for Madeline wouldn't end up costing him and old and dear friend.

xXXx

By the time Adam left the barn a little while later, his thoughts were more settled. He felt ready to face other people again. He'd just closed off the barn door when the sudden feeling that he was being watched overcame him. He spun around to get a view of the yard and straight away, he spotted his father standing near the bunkhouse. Observing him. At least forty feet of empty yard between them, they studied each other, neither one moving.

Adam inwardly rolled his eyes. Then, shaking his head, he began walking. His pa did too.

They met in the middle of the yard and Adam cupped his left elbow in the palm of his hand, settling for a half arm-cross. It was better than nothing.

"Don't tell me you've been loitering around out here all this time just waiting for me to come out."

His father cleared his throat, cautiously. "You left in such a rush, Adam. I know you don't want me to . . . well, I gave it a while, but I was worried. When I did come out to see if you were all right, Harry called me over to talk about something and I only just came out of the bunkhouse. I wasn't sure if you were still in the barn . . ." He wavered, grave wrinkles framing his mouth and tugging his brows closer together. "Are you all right, son?"

Adam tried for casualness. "Yea. I just . . . needed some air."

He failed so miserably that the uncomfortable silence that descended around them seemed to go on for hours. Growing uneasy under his father's keen regard, he drew in a quick breath and forced out a more honest reply.

"There were some things I needed to think over. And I had to do it alone."

"I see . . ."

"But it's all right now, Pa. You don't need to worry." He relaxed his stance, but still felt those dark eyes on him. Hoping to shift the focus onto something else, he asked, "So, what did Harry want then?"

He hadn't really expected to get away with it, but his father put his hands on his waist and gazed back at the bunkhouse. "He wanted to tell me about the work he and the men did checking on the herd in the south section today . . ."

The fact that he willingly went along with the subject change was a clear indicator that something was wrong. Extra attentive now, Adam straightened, watching him closely.

"And . . .?"

A moment passed before the reply came. "It looks like we've lost thirty head from the south pasture."

Adam frowned. "Didn't a few go missing in that area not long ago?"

"Yes. And it was more than a few." Grim-faced, his pa laid a hand on his shoulder and kept it there, turning them both towards the house. "It's a bit too coincidental for my liking."

"You're thinking rustlers?" he asked, looking sideways as they walked.

"I'm not sure yet but it wouldn't be the first time. Anyway, we certainly can't rule it out. Harry didn't want to say anything directly, but he did seem to have a feeling."

This was just what they needed. Obviously, they'd dealt with cattle-rustling before—most ranchers around these parts had at one point or another. But hunting for rustlers was a serious, time-consuming and not to mention, often dangerous business. It couldn't have come at a worse time. Hoss and Joe definitely weren't ready to be riding out and taking on cattle thieves.

They stepped up on the porch and walked along the floor as Adam quietly processed what he'd been told. It wasn't until they stopped by the front door and he felt a long squeeze to his shoulder that he faced his father again.

"What are you thinking, son?"

He chose his words with care before responding. "Maybe I should ride out there tomorrow and look around. I could take a couple of men with me, we might find some tracks."

His father raised an eyebrow at him. Informing him without words that there were all sorts of reasons why that wouldn't be happening.

A rush of exasperation flew from Adam's lips. "Pa, I'm fine."

"Mmh, you look it." There was a hint of humor in the older man's countenance, but it quickly merged into that overprotective, fatherly affection that even now could make Adam squirm like a kid. "Let's wait a few days and see what happens before we go riding anywhere. I've already told Harry and his crew to search every inch of the area tomorrow and they'll keep an eye out. If they find anything, they'll report back to me right away. Who knows, those foolish steers might have wandered off and found themselves a nicer meadow nearby."

His gut told him that was unlikely and Adam knew his pa believed it no more than he did.

"And if it is rustlers?"

"Then we'll deal with it."

The answer was clear-cut simple.

"All right," Adam said with soft acceptance. Arguing would get him nowhere and while he would rather have been out there searching himself, he had to acknowledge that he probably wasn't ready to ride around the countryside yet.

"Come on, let's go back inside," his father said in a lighter tone, gently patting his shoulder. "I think Madeline and Hop Sing are cooking up quite a feast for supper." He grasped the door handle. "And let's keep this missing-cattle business between us for now."

Adam nodded his affirmation. "Sure."

He pushed the door inwards and they were soon assailed by a waft of mouth-watering aromas that Adam immediately recognized. Madeline's baking.

"Well, something smells delicious!" his pa exclaimed, closing the door behind them as Adam paused by the dresser where everyone's coats and hats were hanging up.

He saw his brothers sitting on the settee and Joe quickly jerked his head around. A look of relief crossed the kid's face and Adam instantly felt bad for brushing him off earlier when he'd rushed out of the house. He offered a hesitant smile, which Joe caught and returned with an easy grin.

Seemingly boundless tolerance. It would take him years to make things up to those brothers of his. Brothers.

He noticed that Hoss hadn't turned around. All he could see was the big man's expansive back and there was something . . . odd about the way he was sitting. Looking to Joe, Adam cocked his head. Joe waved him over, smiling fondly as he leaned back against the armrest of the settee. Puzzled, Adam slowly approached them, hearing his father following in his steps at the same pace. He was aware that Paul was reclining in the blue chair, but the doctor didn't appear to be acknowledging anything outside of his journal.

As Adam got closer, he realized that Hoss' shoulders were awkwardly hunched as he sat stock-still, almost like he was trying to be small and discreet. Or invisible. Finally, Adam came to a halt at the side of the settee and gazed down at his sibling. Next to him, his father choked on a laugh.

Hoss' cheeks were stuffed like a chipmunk's—golden-brown crumbs stuck by the corners of his mouth and even more strewn across the front of his shirt.

Lips twitching, Adam nodded at the two round, cinnamon-colored biscuits clutched in his meaty palm. "How'd you manage to get hold of them? Isn't Hop Sing out there?"

The second he asked, he guessed the answer.

Evidently realizing he'd been discovered, Hoss turned and peered up at him and Adam was abruptly taken back to one time he'd caught his brother at ten years old, coming out of the back door to the kitchen while stuffing molasses-cookies into his pockets.

"It was Madeline," Joe spoke up, bringing him back to the present. "She snuck them out for him while Hop Sing wasn't looking."

Now chuckling heartily, his father walked to the red chair, holding both hands up. "I want no part of this. I've seen nothing."

Hoss swallowed, his cheeks returning to normal size. "She sure is somethin'. I gotta say she makes the dang finest. . ." He scrunched his face up. "Uh, what was it she called 'em again, Joe?"

"Ginger nuts."

"Yea, that's right." He admired the two cookies. "The dang finest of them nuts I ever did taste. Fresh out of the oven too." He glanced up again, hesitated, then slowly extended his hand in a manner that suggested tremendous self-sacrifice. "You uh . . . you want one, Adam?"

Adam couldn't help but smile. "No thanks, you have them. I . . ." He peeked over at Paul who gave no indication he was listening. Or interested. "I think I'll just go and see if I can sneak one out for myself."

With that, he headed around the settee in the direction of the kitchen. Cookies, the furthest thing from his mind. What was it, a little over half an hour since he'd last seen her? And now his heart was filling with warmth, thumping in anticipation of going out to her, of being near her again.

He was by the dining room table when he stopped and turned back around. "Oh, you might want to, you know—" He brushed a hand across his shirtfront, tipping his head at Hoss. "Get rid of the evidence."

Hoss looked down at his own shirt, grimaced, and quickly began wiping the crumbs away. Twisting around again, Adam walked to the kitchen—the sound of Joe's chortle and his father's rich chuckle going off behind him.

xXXx

Supper was a feast that proved just how well Hop Sing and Madeline worked together behind a stove. A delicious dish of fried chicken, sweet potatoes, fresh vegetables and big, golden biscuits to mop up a rich gravy. As platters of food were passed around, Joe and Hoss kept the conversation flowing around the table and continued to do so throughout the meal. Paul was either silent or speaking quietly with Ben. But mostly silent.

Although there were many of his favorite foods on the table this evening, Adam was having difficulty enjoying any of it. Not so much because of Paul but more because of Madeline. She had overdone things. He'd known it the second he'd seen her in the kitchen and his frustration had been instantaneous. It hadn't helped matters that she'd tried to hide her exhaustion from him and he'd struggled to keep calm with her. Now, sitting at the dining table, he was regarding her with more concern than annoyance—chewing and swallowing every bite of food without tasting much. She looked tired, frail. Her face was nearly as white as her blouse, a greyish tinge just under her eyes. There was a certain heaviness to her movements; the listless way she cut her food, the delayed manner in which she looked up in response to something Joe said to her. As though it took her mind several moments to catch up. And her smiles were weak imitations of the real wonders, lacking their usual vibrancy and effortlessness.

Adam most wanted to scoop her up, carry her upstairs and put her to bed. But while he was itching to do that, he imagined she wouldn't appreciate the gesture, however good his intentions might be. So, he tried to tamp down on his concern, waiting instead, for the right time to step in.

That time came when everyone's plates had been cleaned except for Madeline's, which to Adam's displeasure was still half-full when she set down her cutlery. The relaxed conversation continued between his father and brothers for a couple of minutes while he thought on how to approach her without coming across as being annoyed that she'd overtaxed herself. She didn't need that from him. He just had to make her understand that he was only worried about her and trying to do what was best for her. Before he could lean over and deliver a few soft-spoken, caring words in her ear, she abruptly stiffened in her chair.

"Oh. I have something in the oven . . ." she muttered, like talking to herself as she stood.

"Madeline, you—"

Her back was already to him. "I'll only be a moment . . ."

Adam bit back any further protest and shot a look at Paul to see if he intended to do something about this. Paul's gaze tracked her as she walked off, the worry written plainly on his face, but he didn't say anything. Then when she disappeared around the corner to the kitchen, his eyes dropped down and slightly to the side—Adam's way. The doctor wiped his mouth with his napkin, rose from his chair and excused himself. But to Adam's surprise, and everyone else's for that matter, Paul strode not towards the kitchen, but to the staircase. Sudden, hot anger spiked in Adam. Whatever issues he and Paul might have with each other, it was unfair to take it out on Madeline. She was unwell, and the doctor had just walked away.

"She needs to be sitting down . . ." his father said worriedly, breaking through the quiet now in the dining room.

Adam grabbed the napkin from his lap and tossed it onto the table.

"She'll sit down all right."

His voice was all promise.

He was out of his chair the same second, marching around the dining table, his strides long and purposeful. Nearing the kitchen, he heard an eruption of loud objections from Hop Sing and he picked up the pace. When he reached the doorway, he stopped to assess the somewhat chaotic situation. Hop Sing stood over by the water pump next to a pile of dirty dishes, his sleeves rolled up, now continuing his rant in his native tongue. Droplets of water flew from his hands as he gestured wildly at Madeline who was by the stove across the room. Distracted, she made a few soft sounds to placate him as she looked around herself, searching for something, her features becoming even more drawn and tight. When she took a dish cloth from the workbench and bent down to the oven, Adam stepped forward, aiming a pointed finger at her.

"Stop right there!"

It was the voice he'd commonly used to get unruly soldiers to listen to him; deep and filled with authority, a voice that demanded attention. It worked. She righted herself and turned to give him a look of innocent surprise that seemed to ask, "are you addressing me in that tone?"

"Don't move," he ordered, more calmly, striding towards her.

"But Adam," she said in distress, "I must get these out of the oven before they burn."

"Let me."

"But I—"

"Hand over the cloth."

Looking thoroughly bemused, she held out her hand and he swiftly seized the dish towel, then bent down to open the oven. A wave of hot air rushed out and using his good hand, he pulled out the cast-iron tray filled with rows of neat, golden-brown cakes.

"Honey, this thing's heavy . . ." he admonished, frustrated that she'd actually intended to lift the tray.

Madeline didn't seem to hear him, she just smiled happily down at the tea cakes. "Oh, look. They're just right."

"Yea, that's . . . great." He set the tray down on top of the stove and none too gently, thrust the oven door closed.

"Missy Madeline velly bad," Hop Sing piped up from across the room, waving his arms about. "She work too much and she no listen when Hop Sing tell her to stop! Mr. Adam you do something!"

"Okay, all right Hop Sing, I'll—"

"You make Missy go! This no good! You take—"

"Simmer down, will you?" Adam cut in, practically hurling the checkered dishcloth onto the workbench. "She's leaving now."

With a grunt and a sharp nod, the cook went back to his dirty dishes, muttering something in Cantonese that Adam didn't understand. It was probably for the best.

He turned to Madeline, his shoulders set stiffly like his jaw, his posture unyielding. "Let's go. You're not spending another minute in this kitchen today."

Her eyes finally left the cakes and she gazed at him for a confused couple of seconds to process the words, then her lips formed a soft, soundless O. She brushed a brown ringlet away from her forehead—one of the many that had escaped her hair-clip—and her lashes fluttered a few times.

"Yes, all right . . ."

He held his hand out to her and she moved towards him, but then halted. "Just a moment . . . I think I might have forgotten—" She made to twist around, but that was it for him then, and he caught her by the elbows.

"Madeline, you have to stop now."

Unnervingly, her hands instantly went to his chest and she fell forwards like she'd needed the support, her eyes closing. His irritation immediately gave way to worry.

"Here," he said, drawing her close to him. "Come here, honey."

"I'm . . . I am sorry, Adam . . ."

He let go of a long, pent-up breath as she settled into his embrace. "You promised me you would take it easy, right? And before we sat down for supper, we agreed you were going to rest afterwards, and suddenly you're rushing off out here again. You can't do that Madeline, you've only just started to feel better."

She dipped her head and a wealth of rich, long curls fell forward, partially hiding her face from his view.

"I only wanted to prevent the cakes from burning. I had forgotten about them and then when I remembered I knew they had to come out now . . ."

"You could've asked Hop Sing to do it for you," he countered.

"That didn't seem very polite when he's busy with a mountain of dishes to—"

"Forget politeness for once—you've completely worn yourself out."

Her crestfallen look thawed his annoyance, and he adjusted his accusing tone to something much softer.

"It's time to stop, sweetheart." He reached up and stroked her cheek tenderly with his knuckles. His brow furrowed at the slight heat under his hand and he noticed the faint patches of pink to her cheeks.

"You feel a bit warm now too . . ."

She leaned into him, her lashes slowly lowering and rising in a dazed sort of way. "I do? Oh . . . don't you think it might just be the heat from the oven?"

He hoped so. She'd just been so very ill, he wasn't sure he could take seeing her like that again right now, confined to a bed, so vulnerable and exhausted.

"I don't know, maybe," he mumbled, caressing the side of her face. "But what I do know is that you're either going to walk out of this kitchen willingly with me now . . ." He cupped her chin, tipping her up to meet his intense gaze. ". . . or I will remove you."

By the way her lips started to curl in what looked to be the beginnings of a smile, he figured she thought that he was kidding about that last part. He kept his expression firm, inflexible but without being too hard as he locked her eyes with his to show just how not kidding he was. Her lips slowly drifted downwards instead.

"That won't be necessary, Adam . . ."

His sternness subsided, and he fixed a small, off-center smile to his face. "I'm glad to hear it. Let's go then."

Wrapping one arm around her, he directed her towards the kitchen doorway.

"Thank you, Hop Sing," she quickly said over her shoulder, "it was wonderful being in the kitchen with you."

"Yes, but Missy Madeline stay away now," the little man called, his tone strict. "Not come back here for long time."

With a smile, she leaned against Adam and he held her a little tighter as they went.

"He is such a joy . . ." she mumbled.

Probably not the first word he would use to describe their temperamental cook, but Adam hummed agreeably all the same as he walked her out of the kitchen.

They got as far as the now abandoned dining table when she stopped, glancing around. "Where did Uncle Paul go?"

"Upstairs I think." He gently but firmly tugged her along with him. "Come on, you need to sit down and rest."

"But we were going to play chess together . . ." she said, allowing him to guide her onward.

"You can play chess with Paul another day."

They moved to the settee and he could vaguely hear his father and brothers talking over by the alcove. Almost as soon as he'd gotten her seated on the couch, her eyelids started to droop.

"I do feel a bit tired now . . ."

"I bet you do."

Sitting next to her, he draped his arm along the backrest of the settee, settling it around her shoulders.

"Come here," he said, pulling her body to rest against him. "Just relax for a few minutes."

She attempted, quite feebly, to push away as she looked around them. "Adam, this is hardly appropri—" He lifted his hand and ran it through her hair. She breathed a long sigh. "Oh, never mind . . ."

There. Much better. He felt her melting into him and he released a sigh of his own as he started to calm down. God, she'd exhausted him. Absentmindedly, he played with her hair, sifting the satiny strands between his fingers. After a few moments, he mumbled. "You can be pretty stubborn, you know that?"

A very soft, very tired laugh—clearly directed at him—hit the top of his shirt. His mouth fell open. He tried to sound offended. "What was that laugh for, Miss Delaney?"

"Mmmh, quite an accusation . . ." She struggled to stifle a yawn. ". . . for you to be making."

"You're saying I'm stubborn too?"

"Only the most stubborn man I've ever met."

"So, I must know what I'm talking about then."

"Yes . . . yes, I suppose you would."

She nestled under his chin, molding herself to him and a strange sort of ache blossomed inside him. He moved his hand down from her hair and folded his arm around her like he never intended to let her leave this position. A couple of minutes passed until he felt a warm brush of air against the base of his throat.

"Adam . . .?" she asked, her voice very drowsy now.

"Mmm?"

"You're not angry with me . . . are you?"

One corner of his mouth lifted, and he dropped a gentle kiss to her hair. "No, I'm not angry. I just want you to take care for yourself. Or at least let me do it."

She gave a faint murmur and he laid his cheek against the top of her head. Her sweet scent teased at his nose and he inhaled it deep into his lungs, basking in the pleasure of it, the aroma making him lightheaded. He closed his eyes and let himself get lost in how much he enjoyed the feeling of her soft little body pressed against his. She fitted there. So perfectly. Like she belonged right there at his side. He could tell she'd fallen asleep by the way she rested just slightly heavier against him as her breathing became slow and steady. Opening his eyes again, he glanced down and noticed that her fist had curled into his shirt. A warm burst of deep emotion hit him smack in the center of his chest and then seemed to spread throughout his entire system. How had he been so lucky to find this woman? How could he ever express to her how she made him feel?

He was so focused on her, he barely registered Hoss and Joe when they came over with soundless steps. They settled on the edge of the fireplace opposite him and he looked up. The affection shone out of both of them as they regarded her, then they smiled at him. He smiled back, and his face must have shown at least some of what he felt because their happiness for him was palpable when they suddenly grinned. He knew she would be embarrassed when she woke up and realized she'd fallen asleep on him in open view like this, but it didn't matter. This moment, he would cherish forever. His father appeared behind the settee, leaning over the backrest to carefully drape a quilt over her. Adam nodded up at him in thanks, but the moment his pa moved out of the way, his line of sight fell on the staircase.

Paul was standing on the landing, one hand braced on the banister, the other dangling by his side. There was the oddest expression on his face and his eyes were on Madeline. He was staring at her as if transfixed.

Adam frowned, watching him. The expected reprimand failed to arrive. No, sharp comments, no fierce glare. Just nothing. Eventually, the doctor lifted his gaze and their eyes connected for the first time since their argument earlier. Paul's look was unlike anything Adam had seen in his life. It was empty, old, and there was no irritation, no resentment anymore. Only a strange sense of sad acceptance. And then a flicker, just a tiny glimmer of something reminiscent of . . . affection. Adam swallowed to relieve the sharp pressure in his throat. Paul lowered his head.

Instead of descending the rest of the stairs, the doctor turned around and started up again. His back bent forward in a hunch, he took each step as if he were leaving part of himself behind.

Resting his cheek on Madeline's curls again, Adam watched the older man until he disappeared out of sight.

xXXx

Absolute silence greeted him as he entered the room. He wandered across the floor, his eyes roaming around him. With nightfall rolling in, the colors of the furniture were left muted by the advancing darkness. They would stay that way until the sun rose and ignited a brilliant new dawn to give the dimmed hues back their vibrancy. A new day. It couldn't come soon enough.

He ended up by the bed and slowly sank down onto it. The creak of the mattress accompanied by the creak of old bones. A flowery fragrance hung about him—her invisible presence still powering the room and bringing out a somber smile. An old fool's smile. He wondered how long that scent would linger on in his own home. A long time, he hoped.

The silence would be the hardest thing. It would be hard to go back to such silence again after living with the blessing of a soft, loving voice welcoming him home every day. But he would do what was needed of him when the time came.

He shifted to sit sideways and picked up the dark blue, velvet pouch lying on the bed. Smoothing the soft material with his thumbs, he gazed ahead of himself. At the white pillows, freshly propped up against the headboard. At the chess board standing on the flat cushion—pieces all set and ready. He closed his eyes, sat quietly for a few seconds. Then, he reached out towards the board. One by one, the chess pieces dropped back into the velvet pouch.