Predisposition

by CrazyKater

(4th and final in a series, sequel to Premonitions) Adam is home. With the events leading to his abrupt return shrouded in mystery and struggling to redefine his place in the family, he must find the courage to continue living among ghosts of the dead.

1. 1

Adam Cartwright was falling.

Body descending through the air, his stomach flipped, dropping mercilessly as he helplessly plummeted toward the unknown. The air around him was black, stagnant, and thick, preventing him from discerning his surroundings. He couldn't see anything, but he seemed to hear everything.

There were voices echoing in darkness. All were distinct and familiar, each drastically different from the next; they sounded at the same time, their messages intermixed, composing a vexing chorus that threatened to drive him mad—or madder than he was already perceived, he supposed.

This thought made him smile, despite the complications of his current circumstances. If people only knew what he did then their opinions would transform so quickly they wouldn't even realize they'd changed. There was no stopping the change this kind of knowledge demanded. No preventing how it would weigh upon a person, twisting and mangling their heart, damaging and distorting their soul. It was knowledge that demanded change—change of opinions, behavior, and even personality—one simply couldn't remain the same as they once were. When alive, Ross Marquette had known that, and now Adam knew it, too.

A weeping erupted in the distance. The cries of a heartbroken woman quickly drowned out the voices around him. A man's grinding laughter quickly joined the overbearing sound, as though taking perfect cue from the woman's resounding pain. The laughter Adam recognized as belonging to a demon, the crying a ghost, and he was acutely acquainted with both.

If people only knew, he thought grimly, then they'd judge him a lot differently than they did.

I'm here, Adam, the voice of his father suddenly rose above the rest. Let yourself fall. I will catch you at the bottom.

This was a voice that shouldn't have been present, but somehow it always was. Embedded into his mind, it was benevolent and assuaging and so damn reassuring he could nearly cry. He wouldn't, of course, because he was done with that. He had cried enough tears over his predicament to last a lifetime; he refused to shed anymore. But hearing the voice of his father, the specific statements being said, were the only things that could threaten his resolve. They were a comfort because they reminded him that what he was experiencing—right now, in this very moment in time— was nothing more than a dream. And they prompted him to cry because he knew they were false.

Adam's body hit the floor with a thud. Back compressed by sudden impact, his breath left his chest. Eyelids squeezed tightly together for one terrible moment he felt like he couldn't breathe, his body aching from the fall. Lifting his hands, he pressed his palms against the sides of his head, hoping the pressure would help soothe the pain threatening to settle and linger.

Absently, he heard a door open and a series of heavy, muffled footsteps approaching his room with increased speed. Heart skipping a beat, he swiped at his eyes and his cheeks, ensuring any involuntary tears would remain unseen. The door to the room opened abruptly and only then did he open his eyes.

The oil lamp held in Little Joe's hand cast the room in a warm glow and illuminated the worry etched in his face. "Hey, Adam," he whispered. "You okay?"

Sighing, Adam nodded—an action he knew would go unseen or ignored. It was impossible to stop talking once he had finally begun; their demand either prompted by lingering worry or enthusiasm, his family had ceased accepting any nonverbal responses to their statements or questions. He was to talk, using any words of this choosing to express himself clearly. This an instruction given by Pa, leaving no room for disobedience. Adam still remembered how hearing it had made him feel. Delinquent. Awkward. Troubled. Troublesome.

What kind of grown man needed his father to make such directions? What kind of man knew he wouldn't have adhered to the order if it hadn't been so directly made?

It was easier not to talk. He had believed that before and he believed it now though he wasn't afraid of talking the way he once was, when Ross Marquette's ghost, bitter and vile, had been taunting him ceaselessly, slowly embedding himself into his brain, filling it with all sorts of ideas. Some were suggestions, others were demands, and none could be ignored. No, not wanting to talk now had nothing to do with any of that.

"Adam?" Joe prompted.

"Fine," Adam said.

Joe didn't appear convinced. "Do you need help getting up?"

There was a time when Adam would have taken offense to such an offer—or the mere suggestion he needed help from Joe with anything. Of course, that was then, a span of time seeming so far away that sometimes he wondered if it even actually existed. A time when he was confident and trusted, when Ross and Delphine and even Frank Mitchel were alive. A time without ghosts who seemed determined to destroy his life the way theirs had been. A time without demons, without Peter Kane. A time when Adam looked at his reflection in a mirror and recognized himself. A time when his actions were predictable, righteous, and forgivable.

Adam extended his hand and Joe took it, pulling him to his feet a little too easily.

"You're getting strong," Adam said, knowing he was drawing attention to a detail Joe would rather ignore.

"Nah," Joe whispered as he cast his avoidant gaze upon the bedroom. "You need to eat more."

"I eat plenty."

"Not enough to please Pa." Joe looked at Adam again. Or me, his eyes seemed to say.

"Pa's only going to be happy when I start eating as much as Hoss."

Joe wasn't quick to respond. "Nobody wants that," he said finally. "If you start taking after our larger brother, there ain't going to be any food left in the territory for anybody else."

The statement was humorous but Joe's voice was flat. The joke had been forced, said because it was what Joe thought Adam expected him to do. It was odd how some things had changed. How recent events had cast uncertain shadows over long-held expectations regarding words and behavior. Adam had once held strong to his footing as the oldest brother. He was the certain one; the strong one who gave reassurance but never sought it. He and Joe were either fighting or debating, having a laugh or poking fun. They didn't talk like this; neither one of them really knew how to handle each other now.

Now being the time that came after—a broad definition including all past periods of time Adam tried his best not to think about. It wouldn't do him any good to dwell on the past—or the future for that matter. The present was all that truly mattered. Or at least that is what Pa was so often repeating.

You're here now, Adam, he would reassure. Keep the past in the past; focus on today and let the future sort itself out.

It was advice that was often difficult to follow. How could he possibly negotiate the future without considering the past? How could he understand the present without giving before and after proper credence? He didn't want to think about either, but that didn't mean they didn't occasionally demand to be considered.

Before was before, when all was still right in the world. Ross and Delphine were both still living, and he, himself, still sturdy, dependable, and brave, his actions predictable and recognizable. Defensible. Moral. Damn-near virtuous on occasion. He longed to be that person again, on the inside and out. He wished it was how others would see him, so that maybe he could see himself that way too. He tried to model his current behavior after how he had been before, but all-too-often his intentions were lost, cast aside by the needs of the moment. Negated by the complications after had precipitated.

After all, after was after before; it brought changes and enacted events that couldn't be ignored. After was when he was befouled and his whole life began to slowly splinter and then swiftly fall apart. He didn't like considering after. It always seemed to foster a particular kind of compunction. It fed his anxiety and left him brooding. After was a terrible time period. Composed of one thing after another, a series of forced decisions that had come too rapidly to stop and consider the complications of each one. Some of these decisions he had made by his own volition, others had been made for him.

He had chosen to enter the desert outside of Eastgate, but he hadn't chosen to walk back out. Of course, he hadn't walked back out; his family had found him wandering the desolate land and carried him out. Other choices came after that one, a mixture of decisions made by him and others. Pa had been the one who decided to keep him close to home; it was he who had implored his son to fight. Adam was the one who decided to summon the courage to try. He had decided upon that and then someone had decided upon something else.

Adam still remembered what it had felt like, the horror and the panic of holding a knife in his shaking fist as he looked upon the blood streaming from Frank Mitchel's neck, wanting so badly to deny what had been done. Before had been nothing but a faint memory then; he had already been a captive of the never-ending series of events that composed after for so long.

After was when he entered the desert and finally met Peter Kane. After was when his family found him and took him back home. After was when he was so captive to fear that he lost awareness of himself and control over his behavior. After was when he became disturbed, each of his confounding actions being interpreted as deranged or lunatic. After he had been carefully fashioned into a murderer. After Sheriff Coffee had refused to hold him properly responsible for his crime. The asylum had been horrendous—that was true—but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough for what he had done—what he had allowed himself to do.

Stop. Adam closed his eyes. Stop. Rising from the depths of his mind, it was Pa's voice that put an end to his unruly thoughts. Take a deep breath and calm down.

"You sure you're alright?" Joe asked.

"Yes."

Adam's response was firm and quick, more reminiscent of how he had been before than after. It wasn't the first time he had answered this question in such a manner and it wouldn't be the last. He had fallen out of bed before and he would fall again. It had become a strange kind of constant in his life. Usually, it was Pa or Hoss that came running as soon as he hit the floor; only occasionally it was Joe. Adam often wished it was the other way around, that it was Joe rather than Hoss or Pa, because Joe never made an overt fuss. Hoss fussed a little. Pa fussed a lot.

Given recent history, Adam couldn't fault Pa for being worried. He was still used to the old Adam—or was it the new Adam? The one that had needed help and compassion, reassurance, and careful care. The Adam that beholden to a demon and ghosts was more childlike than man. Fearful and teary-eyed, he was uncertain about all that should have been right and certain about everything that should have been wrong. He was so certain of Kane's power and the graveness of the threats made by Ross and Del; they all wanted something from him; they all demanded to be heard. Among the strength of these voices, it was difficult to hear anyone else. It was impossible to allow himself to trust and believe in Pa's intentions. It was impossible to believe anything other than what he heard and saw. And he did hear and see them—all the time he did. Ross and Delphine had followed him ceaselessly during the day and Kane haunted his dreams at night.

There had been no escape. No rest. No doing anything they didn't wish him to. He had been a wreck; a shadow of the man he had once been, his life crumbling into ruins. He hadn't been capable of taking care of himself; he hadn't been capable of anything at all. And this was the Adam that Pa remembered, leading him to continue to worry and fuss. Although, even Adam had to admit, a little bit of fuss was usually warranted, because, after all, it wasn't like anything had been solved.

Killing Frank Mitchel had appeased and silenced one ghost and angered another. The spirit of Ross Marquette had disappeared but Delphine's ghost still lingered. The demon he had engaged himself with—the one disguised beneath a man's likeness, presenting himself as Peter Kane—had all but disappeared, too. That wasn't to say he was gone; Adam was certain he wasn't. Rather he was absent. Currently—momentarily—disinterested in pursuing him.

"You're certain you didn't hit your head?" Pa's quiet voice asked from the doorway.

Shaking his head, Adam wondered what had taken him so long to make his presence known. Usually, Pa was quicker with the questions, eager to verify his state of injury—or lack-there-of— with his eyes and hands. Sighing, Adam sat on the edge of the bed, looking between Joe and Pa as Joe and Pa looked between themselves, sharing a series of silent questions and answers.

It wasn't long before Joe was looking at him again. "'Night, Adam," he said.

Pa lit the oil lamp in the far corner of the bedroom as Joe quietly left the room. The movement of both the lamp and drawing table had been Hoss's wise response to his brother's tumultuous nights. He hadn't taken kindly—not that any of them really had—to the prospect that Adam could damage himself or the furniture with his violent falls. The former was the primary concern of everyone; the memory of another fall they had heard about second hand.

It was a fall, propelled by something never fully determined, that served as a catalyst for the present to become the future, abruptly emancipating Adam from the asylum he had become trapped in and placing him back into his father's care. He would recall the memory of this event slowly. Each tiny glimpse of a moment fragmented, feeling like a piece of puzzle that had become so damaged it would never again fit where it once belonged. He had been climbing a stairwell and it had been dark—he thought he was certain about those two things. He was unsure where the staircase was located, why he had been climbing it, or what had caused him to lose his footing.

Had he slipped or had he been pushed? What were those stairs leading him to? And why had he been on that staircase? Where was he going? Who was leading him there? What were they going to do when they arrived?

He would never remember the whole memory; the impact of his head slamming into the floor had taken it away from him. It had taken others too; happy and sad moments he could no longer recall and therefore would never know he should miss. And with all the memories it had taken, it had given him two things in return.

The first was a scar in the shape of a crescent moon, embedded horizontally on the left-side of his head; half was hidden by the thickness of his black hair, half extended on his forehead, between his temple and his ear, displayed for all the world to see. And the second thing he had been given was well worth the permanent scar.

He had awoken after being unconscious for an indeterminate amount of time in unfamiliar surroundings. Head aching with reverberating force, his stomach turning with nausea, he didn't recognize the room or the gentle glow of the oil lamp burning low. He didn't recall ever sleeping in that particular bed, its stuffing worn and flat in sporadic places, clumped into burgeoning balls in others. He didn't recollect the weight of the blankets or the sensation of the nightshirt covering his body, stiff and slightly itchy. He didn't understand where he was or how he had come to be in this place. But none of that seemed to matter, because with all the things he didn't recognize there was one thing he did.

Sitting vigil at the bedside, Pa was there, his eyes glistening with relief as he smiled broadly and placing his hand on Adam's chest. That movement, the feeling of his father's weighted hand, holding him in place, said more to Adam than any words ever could. I still have you, it whispered. I'm not letting go. I'll never let go.

And in the coming days Pa didn't let go. Holding on tightly, it was his actions, his fierceness and determination, that swiftly liberated Adam from his asylum and brought him back home. That had been nearly a month ago now. Some days it felt more like it had been years. It seemed like such a strange series of events, unlikely, odd, and grim. He had been injured by his fall down the staircase; it had taken more away from him than he was willing to admit. He had not dreamed of Kane since his fall; outside of occasional, sporadic laughter filling the background of his dreams, he had not heard from or seen the demon at all. It was both a blessing and a curse to be ignored. A blessing because he had enough external voices haunting his thoughts, and a curse because he had become so accustomed to Kane's persistent presence that it felt odd to be alone.

In the asylum Kane had become somewhat of a friend. It had been a startling development. One Adam was neither denied nor embraced. He had been with him on the inside of that somber building; it was because of Kane that Adam even survived. They had a complicated relationship, the details of which he couldn't begin to explain. Kane was both an enemy and an ally—a peculiar combination of companion and foe. Adam felt empty without him, lonely and lost.

Illuminated by the glow of the oil lamp shining calmly in the corner, Pa approached the bed. "You're sure you didn't hit your head?"

"I didn't," Adam said, squaring his jaw as he resigned himself to allowing the inevitable.

Extending his hands, Pa splayed his fingers, burrowing them into Adam's thick hair to carefully check his scalp for bumps. "That is the third time you've fallen out of bed this week," he said.

"Is that it?" Adam asked. The lingering tightness of his sore back muscles seemed to declare the statement a lie. "Feels like more."

Seemingly satisfied with what he found, Pa's arms returned to his sides, his brows remaining knitted with worry. "You're absolutely sure you didn't hit—?"

"I didn't hit my head. It's my back that's starting to feel like it's tied in knots."

"You do land awfully hard. Oftentimes it's as though someone dropped you from the ceiling rather than you simply rolling off the side of the bed. The bang seems to reverberate through the entire house."

"Hoss slept through it this time."

"Some nights it seems as though your younger brother sleeps like the dead."

Adam knew this wasn't true, because the dead didn't sleep. Their souls either stayed beyond lingering amongst the living or they didn't, and when they did the latter, they never slept. They paced.

"Did you have a bad dream?" Pa probed.

"No." It wasn't a complete lie. His dream wasn't bad and it wasn't good; it existed somewhere in-between.

"I thought you said you dreamed of falling and that was why you often found yourself falling out of bed."

Adam cast Pa a careful glance. He had never admitted to such a thing. "No, I didn't."

"Oh," Pa said, his tone a little too understanding, his expression a little too knowing as he sat next to Adam on the side of the bed. "I must have heard it from someone else then."

They sat in the quiet for a moment, each avoiding looking at the other. Adam's heart pounded so hard it felt as though it might beat right through his chest. Pa's statement served as an admission and invitation for his son to tell him what he already knew—what Adam was certain Pa must have already been told by someone else in his dreams. Just because Kane had decided to disregard him that didn't mean he had decided upon disregarding everyone else, too.

"Did Kane tell you that?" Adam quietly asked. His stomach turned at the thought of it; he didn't like Pa knowing about Kane. He didn't want them speaking about anything. "Be careful if you choose to engage him. Half the things he says are lies and the other half are things that can't be unheard. If you dream of him again, tell him to leave you alone."

Pa seemed to take note of his worry. "I don't dream of him, Adam," he assured. "Not anymore."

Opening his mouth, Adam very nearly challenged the statement but a sudden sound prompted him to be quiet instead. There was sound emerging from the dark hallway, trickling in through the open bedroom door to grind on his nerves and clench his heart with fear.

Scrape, scrape, thud.

These were sounds only he was privy to, warning of a ghost only he would see. Ever-so-slightly she was coming, traveling down the hallway to peer at him through his open door. Somehow—someway—she was always so quick to detect when the door was opened and then left ajar. She was easier to deal with during the day than night. Her nefarious presence was easier to ignore under the cover of daylight and in the presence of his family members then alone in the darkness. He hadn't told his family he still saw things they couldn't; he figured it went without saying. The noises still necessitated certain reactions, the source of which demanded specific attention and behavior.

A-dam, a whisper intermixed with the jarring noises. Low and throaty, each syllable was rattled and gurgled, as though the woman it once belonged to was slowly choking on blood. His name was one of the last things she had ever said, her neck broken and twisted, her bruised throat contracting painfully as she struggled to expel her last words. He had brought her to the house when she was still living; he had invited her in and sworn to protect her. He had failed to keep her safe and alive, and in death she remained unwilling to leave. Delphine's ghost wasn't like Ross's had been; they were as different as their expectations and demands. Ross had wanted revenge. Delphine had no interest in that.

Oh, A-dam...

Adam flinched, his body breaking into a cold sweat. The noise became louder and louder, her whispers sounding closer and closer with every word.

Scrap, scrape, thud.

A-dam...

Scrap, scrape, thud.

A-dam...

He couldn't take it anymore. Springing up from the bedside, he rushed toward the doorway, reaching it seconds before she finally arrived. She was so close; he could smell the foul stench of her decaying flesh; he could taste the staleness of her putrid breath, hanging like a cloud in the air for him to inhale. She was so, so close. Grasping blindly for the doorknob, he looked at the floor, desperately hoping he wouldn't have to look upon her tonight. It was a futile effort; he caught a glimpse of the blood-soaked hem of her nightgown and blackened feet.

A-dam... A—

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he flung the door shut and then lifted his hands, pressing them against his ears to muffle the rattling hiss. He stood immobile, struggling to remain in control of his breath, his fear of the ghost lingering outside the door threatening to overcome him as he didn't dare move. If he was quiet enough—lucky enough, too—then she would grow bored. She would tire of waiting and leave him until dawn. If he wasn't quiet, or lucky, then she would not tire of whispering; her voice would carry an endless stream of haunting messages, intended to slowly drive him into the depths of madness.

Heart racing, Adam's body began to slowly quake. He had no control over the slight motion; fervid and irrepressible, it was involuntary, suddenly invoked by the malevolent spirit lurking outside the room. She had been with him so long now; he had been forced to see and listen to her so many times, it hardly seemed right his fear of her should remain. Still, it lingered somehow, freezing him in place, making everything surrounding him feel so uncertain. But even so, this reaction was milder than he had felt before. The fear was less overwhelming, the panic slightly more governable. He had his initial reactions, of course, the gooseflesh and pounding heart, the deep longing to be ignored and left alone. These reactions were no longer prompted by shock, the need to deny or reject what he was seeing. They had more to do with dread than denial, respect rather than irrational fear.

A-dam... she sneered. A—

He didn't want to look at her again; he didn't want to hear the things she had to say. He knew what she could do to him—and what she could make him do. His fear was far from irrational. She was dangerous; she could and would hurt him if given opportunity to. The door was preventing that now; the symbols Hop Sing had drawn wouldn't allow her to enter.

Absently, Adam grasped at the carved pendant hanging loosely around his neck. Another gift from Hop Sing, it was a replacement of the one he had originally given. The first had been lost—taken rather—by someone during his brief asylum stay. Like the outside, the inside of the building had been dark and hoary, a perfect place to conceal any secrets exposed in its depths. Someone had taken his pendant—he had no recollection of who. They had taken his clothes and his boots. They had taken all manner of things. But never once did he cry, or scream. It was an odd source of pride now, this certain fact, so bold and glaring, standing out amongst all the other things he was uncertain of. Terrible things had happened to him but never once did he show a sign of weakness behind those walls. Never once did he scream.

He had heard others scream, of course. He had experienced nights—and days—when it seemed like he was the only person in the building who wasn't screaming. In fact, there were occasions when the abrasive noise had gone uninterrupted for so long that he had lifted his palm, placing it over his own mouth to ensure he wasn't the one making the sound. He never was. It was a small victory in a much larger war; sudden and intense, his determination to silence and stifle any disreputable emotions was a distinct difference from the Adam of before. In the asylum and even now, Adam did neither of those things—at least not anywhere he was in danger of being overheard.

A-dam... her haunting hiss continued. A-dam…

Adam glanced at the black symbols painted on the door, their very presence deeming her passage through it impossible. They couldn't silence her though, putting an end to her incessant demand for attention. She wanted to be seen, but she would settle for being heard, because her voice, her words, would be enough to insight fear. Stimulating emotions that made men weaker was what made her stronger. She thrived on fear, craved, and fed on it. She would do anything to make him afraid. There was no limit to things she could say or show him to provoke a response.

A-dam... A-dam…

"Adam," Pa said gently.

Adam gasped. So concerned with what was standing outside the closed door, he had forgotten who had already come in. Inhaling deeply, he exhaled quietly and then turned around, praying he appeared more confident and composed than he felt. His thoughts betrayed him the moment he laid eyes on Pa. It was difficult to want to face anything alone when presented with the opposite choice. It was impossible to endure the agitating whispering tricking in through the crack beneath the door when he knew there was another option.

Please don't leave, he thought, a silent desperate plea he would never voice. The Adam of before wouldn't have voiced it and the Adam of after wouldn't have had to; his bothersome behavior would have been enough to demand lingering company—someone to watch him carefully for fear of what he would do. Now Adam didn't want to need such things; although that didn't mean his family wasn't eager to provide them, or that he was not often relieved when they did.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Pa held a book in his hand. "Shall we continue?" he asked simply.

"Yes," Adam said, the word escaping him like an exhale.

Relief washed over him and lingered, warming him like an invisible blanket as Pa patted the bed in invitation and opened the book to where they had last left off. He returned to bed and his father began to read, his voice, deep, reassuring, and calm, drowning out the tortured whispering outside the door. This was just one late night of many that were spent like this. It wasn't the first time he had needed Pa to distract him, comforting and coaxing him back to sleep and it wouldn't be the last.

It was a need more fitting of the Adam of after, and the Adam of before wouldn't have tolerated such comforts. It wasn't easing Pa's worry or helping him loosen the firmness of the grip he maintained, monitoring, directing, guiding, and supervising his eldest son like a boy. But the Adam of the moment—the Adam of now—couldn't summon the energy to care about that. It was a worry best left for consideration during the daylight, when his need for his father's comfort was much less glaring and the entire family's growing tension and agitation was much clearer.

Xx

Adam awoke the next morning with no recollection of falling back to sleep.

His bedroom was peaceful, quiet save for the birds singing their morning melodies outside of the window. The door of the bedroom had been shut; the chair Pa had sat in was pushed a safe distance away from the bed, shoved neatly against the drawing table across the room. The book he had read from was nestled safely atop the table; spine crumpled, it rested open, pages face down, last night's stopping point carefully bookmarked for easy continuation when the need presented itself.

Considering it was the second book Pa had read to Adam aloud since his return home, it was a fair bet that it wouldn't remain in resting on its current place-holding position for long, which, Adam dolefully noted, was why Pa had left it as it was. Such flippant treatment of the item wouldn't have been tolerated otherwise, leaving it in a position promising to strain and wrinkle its spine. Oh, Pa wouldn't have had a problem with doing such a thing; it was Adam who didn't like leaving objects open and unattended.

Sighing, he rose from the bed. The floorboards felt cold beneath his bare feet as he strode to the table, intent on finding something—anything—to serve as a bookmark. He had a fleeting feeling the action was compulsive, that he should have been able to leave things well enough alone, trusting in Pa's silent certainty that the book would be lifted soon rather than later therefore rendering his search useless. It was a thought that was dismissed as quickly as it came, erased by an overwhelming need to correct the situation. This was a need that was just as compulsive as the original thought, a fact that did nothing to quash its strength or his desire to follow through with it.

Logically he knew the book didn't need to be closed, not at that very moment at least. Leaving it open or closed was a choice. But sometimes logic seemed fluid, slippery, and hard to grasp, it slipped right through his fingertips leaving him with only impulse. Impulsively he sought to close the book, not because he wanted it to be but because he needed it to be. He wanted to control it; he wanted to control something.

He was experiencing these types of thoughts and needs with increasing frequency as of late, something he was careful to keep to himself. He didn't need to give his family another reason to worry about him. It was another intention destined to fail miserably. His family, he knew, would worry about him regardless, and there wasn't much he did or said these days that went without note by at least one—if not all—of his family members.

He was still rummaging through the table when someone knocked at the door, a noise meant more as an announcement than a request. He neither replied to it nor did his visitor wait to be invited inside. The door then opened, revealing Hoss on the other side.

"Morning," he said with a chipper nod. "Hop Sing's got breakfast on the table. Pa wants you up and out, dressed for the day. Seeing as you've already done the first thing on your own, maybe we could start working on the other two."

He tilted his head and lifted his hand, offering the straight, steel razor needed to liberate Adam of his morning stubble. Sharp, threatening, and altogether too knife-like, it was an item Adam was not trusted to keep control of. Each morning it was offered and after it was used to complete its job it was promptly taken away. Sometimes, depending on his mood or that of the person presenting it, Adam was trusted to hold the razor and shave on his own, others he was forced to allow the routine to be done for him.

Today Adam wasn't in the mood to tolerate either as he continued rummaging through the desk, his face setting into a frown as what he sought continued to elude him. "I used to have things in here," he accused, opening, and then shoving an empty drawer closed. "Paper, pencils, inkwell—"

"Letter opener and fancy drawin' ruler too."

Adam cast Hoss a reproving stare. "Did you take them?"

"No, sir," Hoss said congenially. "That was Pa's doin'. Way-back-when, when you was a mite quieter and a lot more unpredictable; he cleaned your room out, removed anything he thought could be used to cause harm."

"You let him do that."

Hoss shrugged. "I ain't in the habit of telling Pa what to do. To be honest, I'm surprised it took you this long to notice. I ain't surprised you're mad over it, and I don't mind sayin' that's somewhat of a relief."

Adam immediately thought of their youth, the occasions he had expressed anger toward both of his younger brothers for moving his things.

"Pa won't see it that way, though," Hoss added. "If'n you're looking to get your things back now, then I would suggest a change of tone. You push him, he's only gonna push you back."

"Yeah," Adam snorted. "Or send me to my room."

"Consequences fittin' of the behavior. If you act like a boy, he's gonna treat you like one. You be grateful he and you are conducting your civil conversations upstairs rather than the barn."

"Pa wouldn't dare." Not now, at least.

"What makes you so sure?"

Shaking his head, Adam was unwilling to answer the question aloud. He knew Pa wouldn't threaten a visit to the barn. His father still harbored guilt over the last time he hit him, a fateful backhand he had unleashed in a different barn. It was an event they hadn't spoken properly about. Adam was certain they never would.

"How about those other two things, brother?" Hoss prompted.

"Two things?"

"Clothes and breakfast. We take any longer and Pa's liable to send up Little Joe; you and I both know what's gonna happen after that."

Adam looked forlornly at the open book. With nothing to bookmark it with, he would be forced to leave it the way that it was. The idea set as well with him now as it had originally. He just couldn't leave it be. It wasn't right to leave it like that. Extending his hand, he picked the book up and closed it; captive to the impulse of the action, he didn't think to glance at the page number.

Xx

Pa and Joe were seated at the table when Hoss and Adam came downstairs. Hoss led the way, trudging steadily down the staircase, anxious and eager to sit down in front of the food that was laid out. Adam was less eager, though he followed tight on his younger brother's heels. Since his fateful fall at the asylum, staircases had tended to bother him, clenching his stomach with nervousness as he ascended or descended. Odd and incorrigible, these feelings were something he attributed to his body recalling something his mind could not, seemingly intent on warning him of the dangers such fixtures could pose to his well-being.

Keeping his eye-line front and center, he focused on the vest covering his brother's back and refused to allow his gaze to stray. He didn't want it to stray—not after the difficulty of the night—not during this morning at least. If allowed himself to look upon the room then there was no predicting what he would see—what Del would choose to show him, how it would make him feel or what it would make him do. No, he wanted a peaceful morning, especially after such a tumultuous night.

Adam faltered when Hoss cut a path around through the living area, walking between the settee and table in front of the fireplace to approach the dining area. Hesitating in place momentarily, Adam didn't allow his eyes to stray from the back of Hoss's brown vest as he sidestepped, choosing to approach his family from behind the settee. It was the shortest of hesitations, the most minor of detours from the path on which he was being led, but it didn't go unnoticed by Pa. Sitting at the table, his brows furrowed ever-so-slightly as he watched his oldest son settle into the seat on his left.

Once shifting and variable, the seating arrangement had become fixed. Pa had remained at the head of the table, of course—it was the only seating arrangement which had been fixed since long before Adam's earliest memories—but the sons had all shifted, their present positioning becoming habit. Hoss sat at Pa's right, Adam at his left, and Joe across. It was an admissible change, one which prompted neither thought nor comment from Hoss or Joe. To them it didn't seem to make much of a difference; it didn't affect them in any way. But to Adam it felt like a demerit, a covert punishment meant for only him to glean. It seemed to emphasize what he was no longer able to do, the simple choices he was no longer able or allowed to make on his own.

There were times when he had sat at Pa's right, serving as a confident, business partner, and friend, respectfully giving and taking advice; and others when he sat across, their attention locked, their eyes gleaming, teasing and warning of ideas and opinions as differing as the colors of their irises. Conflict hadn't been something to shy away from back then; their points of view had been different but respected—most of the time. Adam carried memories of sitting right and across from his father; he knew what those places meant—even if his brothers pretended they didn't. He could not seem to summon any positive memories connected to where he currently sat.

"Good morning," Pa said.

"Morning, Adam," Joe followed suit.

"Morning," Adam said quietly as Pa's attention set and lingered upon him. He wanted so badly to shift in his seat, fidgeting under his father's evaluative stare. What was he looking for? What was he hoping to detect or not?

In effort to silence the overbearing impulse, Adam settled for a nod, then shifted his attention back to Hoss's vest. Well-worn and loved, the leather was faded and tattered in some places and matted in others. He tried to remember the first time Hoss had worn the vest; when he had obtained it, how and from whom. The answers to his hollow questions eluded him. His brother had had the article of clothing for forever, it seemed. The frequency of which he wore it rivaled the occasions when Pa donned his own. These were fruitless realizations; noting them added nothing of value to his day or life; still, he made them because he needed a distraction. He needed something to focus on so his thoughts wouldn't stray and betray him.

There was rustling in front of the fireplace. An eerie sound that could not be attributed to the crackling of the burning wood. Gaze frozen on Hoss, Adam stifled a flinch, his heartbeat quickening, thudding in his ears and his chest. He didn't have to look at the fireplace to know what he would find. He didn't need to see Del's battered body to know she was there.

Lying on her stomach on the floor in the very same place she died, she extended long slender fingers, her nails long and jagged, colored gray by death, the rotten skin surrounding them cut and peeling, cracked with dry blood. With those fingers connected to her mangled hand, she would scratch and scratch until they were worn down into bloody, boney nubs. And if he looked at her, she would smile at him, her eyes glistening wickedly, her lips curing upward into an inhuman grin.

He didn't have to look to know she was there; he didn't have to see her fingers moving to know she was scratching the damn floor. He could feel her motions on his body; the stinging pain of her fingernails as they seemed to break his skin, piercing, and digging deep, almost to the bone, before being violently tugged back and forth, up and down the length of his arms. She was over by the fireplace and he was at the dining table; still, he could feel her playing her game, torturing him in ways no one else could see. Her motions would not leave marks upon his skin; there would be no physical proof of what she was doing unless he made them himself. Unless he gave in and did what she was prompting him to do. He had given in before and he could do so again. It would be easy to give in; it was the fallout of the actions that would be difficult to negotiate.

A violent display of self-harming behavior would come at too high of a price to pay. He hadn't given into her pull to harm himself since returning from the asylum and doing so now would complicate things. He couldn't do it now, here, in front of his family members who were already worried. Such a display—his intentions for such behavior seeming so maddening and incomprehensible to those around him—would only declare his recent improvements a farce. He couldn't hurt himself again, not without Pa's worry intensifying, becoming so stifling and overbearing that the little control Adam had regained over his life would be taken away. Still, knowing the eventual negative complications of such actions did little to control the impulse of the moment.

"Joseph," Pa said suddenly, his voice sounding far away. "I want you to take a ride and check up on the herd on the south pasture. We need to assess how quickly that cattle needs to be moved."

"Sure, Pa," Joe said, his response sounding equally as distant.

Adam looked at his forearms; he wanted so badly to pull up his sleeves, to scratch and dig until everyone could see what was happening—what Del was doing to him, the conflict and pain she was making him feel. He wanted to scratch and scratch, digging his fingernails in deep until he drew blood, leaving another set of wounds behind; long and linear, reddened and puckered, their scars would echo the truth the others already declared: The terrible things he felt and saw were real. Nobody else could see or hear or feel her, but she was there. She was always going to be with him now; she was never going to leave him alone.

He felt a rush of panic, overwhelmed by the horrible truth, his thoughts betraying him further, taking an unsettling turn. If he scratched his eyes out, would he still see her? If he used his fingertips to damage his ears rather than his arms, would he still hear her?

A-dam, she began to hiss, her voice thick and low in her damaged throat. A-dam—

"Adam," Pa said.

Adam jumped in his seat as a hand gripped his forearm. He tried to pull himself from the grasp but the fingers held strong. Turning his arm and wrist, he was able to move his hand, grasping and holding the stifling forelimb in tense grip. It took him a moment to feel the warmness of the skin beneath the shirtsleeve, to note and recognize the broad, muscular forearm he was squeezing. He looked at his arm, held captive in his father's grip.

"Adam," Pa repeated calmly, a gentle prompt for his son to look him in the eye.

But holding on tightly, Adam couldn't summon the courage to do such a thing. He was too afraid of what he would see and how it would make him feel. The morning was supposed to unfold smoother than this. Things were supposed to be so much different than they were turning out to be.

He stared at the table, setting his attention on what had been set before him. His plate and coffee cup had both been filled, serving as a stinging reminder. The things he couldn't or wouldn't do for himself were always destined to be done for him; there were some decisions he believed he could decide to make only to immediately discover it had never really been his choice to begin with.

"Adam."

Pa said his name a third time, and Adam closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and prepared himself to finally answer. If Pa had to repeat his name again then the morning really would be ruined—and the day too as another series of decisions would be made for him.

"Fine," he said softly, his tone a little too forced. "I'm fine."

"Then answer the question," Pa said.

"Question?"

Adam assessed his family members sitting around the table, struggling to decipher what he had missed. There was no information to be gleaned from their masked expressions, no hint of emotion twinkling in their eyes. Their emotions were inscrutable, carefully hidden as not to help him correctly respond to questions he should have known the answers to. It was their way of testing him, of evaluating his capabilities for a particular day, so they could determine what he would and would not be allowed to do. He had improved since Frank Mitchel and the asylum —that was undeniable—but that didn't mean there weren't still rules, good days and bad, nightmares, emotional meltdowns, screaming and occasional tears. There were days when he needed to hide from her; nights when the whispers behind his bedroom door became too much; occasions when he couldn't bear to be alone and others when he needed silence and solitude.

He tilted his head, his breaths coming too quick, his soft gasps echoing in his ears. What was the question he had been asked? What was this decision that would be made for him? An opportunity presented or withheld because of his inability to answer.

"I was distracted," Adam admitted. The explanation was rushed and forced, sounding much weaker than he intended it to. "I'm sorry. Please, ask me the question again. I'll listen this time."

He looked at Pa who looked at Hoss, their expressions shifting slightly, a silent question being passed between them. It was an unsurprising turn of events. After all, Hoss was seated at Pa's right, the position of a confidant. Pursing his lips, Adam gave up on the pair, realizing he no longer had control over the question or the answer.

"I'm going to check on that herd," Joe said suddenly. Sitting at the opposite end of the table, his eyes glistened stubbornly as he took control of conversation. "I asked if you wanted to come with me."

Hoss and Pa frowned, their displeasure over the statement clear. Adam smiled, bolstered by his youngest brother's noncompliance. Hoss and Pa seemed intent on taking away the missed opportunity and Joe had taken a hold of the situation and graciously given it back.

Adam didn't hesitate with his answer, his eyes sparkling with gratitude. "Yes. I would like that very much."

"Good." Joe nodded.

"Not so good," Hoss disagreed, the response almost too soft to be heard.

"I'd like to go," Adam said, casting Pa a questioning glance.

He didn't want to think he required Pa's permission to go where and when he pleased but just because he didn't want to think it didn't make it true. Pa maintained ultimate authority. Holding on tightly, he could push Adam forward or hold him back and in place for as long as he saw fit. Sometimes Adam wanted to challenge this hold his father had obtained, and others he knew he would never dare. He needed it; he wanted it; and he despised it—although never all at the same time.

"Please, Papa," he added. There was no shame or embarrassment connected to the appellation. It was no longer said with intent to manipulate or influence. It had merely become a habit. A small comfort in the face of the seemingly fickle instability of each passing day. He may not always appreciate Pa's lingering control over his life but that didn't mean it didn't provide him any solace. It was his decisions that had brought him here, choices he had once made on his own. It was comforting to have someone watching him, thoughtfully verifying his decisions before they were made. Pa wasn't going to let him make another mistake. He wasn't going to give him the opportunity to.

And this, an afternoon ride with Joe to check on stock grazing pasture, wasn't an opportunity to make a mistake. Adam was sure of that. If allowed to accompany his brother he wouldn't do anything regrettable. He wouldn't do anything at all.

The decision wasn't an easy one for Pa to make. Adam could see the conflict etched in the lines of his face; he could feel Pa's hesitation in the stiff silence that had settled around them.

"Alright," Pa said eventually; voice low and tight, his agreement was coerced. "You eat breakfast and you can go. But," he qualified, shifting his displeased gaze to Joe, "I want you back well before dark."

Xx

"You mind him like a youngin'," Hoss said. The words were low, spoken nearly under his breath as he held Little Joe's arm in a tight grip, standing between his younger brother and Cochise in the ranch yard. "Do you understand me?"

"Let go of me," Joe protested stubbornly, his voice equally as low as he pulled his arm away. "Don't tell me what to do. He's my brother, too; you're acting like he's a stranger to me."

"I'm not so certain he ain't," Hoss countered. "Damn you, Joe; you know how easy he can give you the slip. And you know what happened..." He faltered, his face contorting with regret. "Well, what happened the last time he was out on his own."

Adam wondered if he would ever overcome the day he had killed Frank Mitchel and if a new one would ever dawn that would allow his family to trust him again. Or would he exist like this forever? His family loving and supporting him unconditionally but always bracing themselves for the acts he was capable of. Having Adam home, close and underfoot made Hoss and Pa more comfortable; they were both uneasy allowing him out of their sight. They worried when they didn't know where to readily locate him; they were fearful of a day he might be allowed to wander beyond their reach. The last time Adam ventured off alone he had killed a man, an event that could not and would not be taken lightly or quickly forgotten. It had affected and shaped all of them—though no one more than Adam, himself.

Before he had taken this man's life there had only been suspicion, a fleeting glimpse of what he was capable of—what he could be pushed to do. In the desert, Kane had shown him what kind of man he could so quickly become, and Ross's ghost had made this vision come true. And now he was allotted a glimpse; there was a whole picture hanging in the forefront of his memory, a clear depiction of Frank Mitchel's dull gray skin, irrevocably stained by the river of thick blood which had spilled from the jagged wound on his neck. He had cut Mitchel's throat ear-to-ear, inflicting a quick and rather painful death. Maybe someday he would remember killing him, what it felt like to hold the tip of the knife to his throat and watch him fruitlessly struggle after the worst had been done. For now, there was only suspicion, cold undeniable facts verified after-the-fact, and intense fear of what couldn't be predicted, deep-rooted apprehension of what he could and would do if allowed outside of supervision again. The last time he had strayed he had become a murderer, what would he become the next time?

"You don't have to be worried," Adam said flatly, not really knowing why such a thing needed to be said. The assurance wouldn't make a difference to Hoss—or himself.

"Why's that?" Hoss asked, casting him an uneasy glance.

"Because I'm not gunning for anybody today."

"That ain't funny."

"I didn't say it was funny."

"What is it supposed to be then?"

"True." Adam shrugged. "I just want to get some air, that's all," he added after a moment passed and Hoss's face still reflected his uneasiness.

"And I just want you to come back, safe and sound and without any problems." Hoss looked at Joe seriously and continued, this time not bothering to lower his tone, "Like I said, you watch him close. Don't let him outta your sight."

"I'm not going to do anything," Adam said.

It was an insistent claim that sounded flat, even his own ears. Though it went ignored by both of his brothers, the statement echoed resiliently in the forefront of his mind as nudged Sport along, taking his youngest brother's lead and prompting his horse to follow on Cochise's heels. He wasn't going to do anything. Not this time. Not anymore.

Xx

Adam and Joe rode in silence.

The sun shone brightly, its cascading rays extending well into the horizon. It warmed Adam's skin and his heart, lifting his heavy mood until it all-but dissipated. He felt different out here, something which could not be completely attributed to the sterling weather of the spring morning, because away from the ranch house—away from Del—he was different. Unlike Ross's ghost, she couldn't affect him out here. Her influence didn't stray from the home in which she had died; her spirit was tethered to it, holding her hostage to perhaps the one place in the world where he should have been safe.

The journey to the herd wasn't as long as he would have liked. It seemed as though he and Joe had only just left when they arrived, and the situation they laid eyes upon was nearly as unpleasant as breakfast had been. It wasn't what either of them had expected or wanted to find.

The stock was scattered, their distant whereabouts verification that their grazing ground had worn thin. The recent snow thaw had revealed the land as lush and thick and the stock had eaten greedily, filling their bellies until they bulged and the land in immediate proximity had been picked near clean. They had started to wander then, driven by the persistent strength of cravings reverberating through their still-growling stomachs, their thoughts were short-sided. Their brains insisted that if they didn't find more vegetation, if they didn't continue to eat then the opportunity would be forever lost. It was odd what hunger could drive an animal to do, what pain and fear could convince it to become.

"Ah," Joe groaned, his disgust over the situation clear. "I can't believe what they've done to this land. The snow's hardly been gone for a couple of weeks and they've damn-near picked it clean."

"Scattered, too," Adam said noncommittally.

It was a situation he knew he would have no part in correcting. It wouldn't be allowed—Pa wouldn't allow it. This was a task that would fall on Joe—as so many other things already had. It was startling how much his baby brother had seemed to grow up as of late. The tasks and responsibility he had taken on without complaint. Even with Hoss taking over comprehensive oversight of the timber camp, Joe's workload was startling—enough for two or maybe even three ranch hands. He had taken on more than his share, because Pa still wouldn't allow Adam to take on much of anything.

"It's gonna take hours to round them up and then another half-day to move them," Adam added.

"They're gonna have to be moved soon. This land isn't gonna carry them through the end of the week."

"That's not going to make Pa happy."

"That doesn't make me happy," Joe said.

Turning in his saddle, Adam looked at Joe thoughtfully, wondering when his baby brother had begun to take ranch work so seriously. The sliver of discontent he saw emerging from beneath Joe's forced cool exterior was familiar. It reminded him of himself and how he had shouldered not such a differing workload just after Marie had passed. That was years ago now, a time when he and Joe had both been so much younger than they currently were.

"It's not the end of the world, Joe," he whispered, half-hoping the statement would go unheard. When Joe's gaze caught and held his own, Adam knew he had been heard.

"Easy for you to say," Joe said. "You aren't going to be the one dealing with it."

Though it shouldn't have, the statement stung. Joe's disgruntlement only served to remind Adam of how things were—how much they had changed and how they should have been. If this would have been last spring, or the one before that, Adam would have been checking the herd alone; he would have set eyes on the obvious problem and then fixed it on his own. He wouldn't have been hindered by the shortness of Pa's leash or patience. The story of the balding grazing land would have been shared with his family at the same time as retelling of how he rectified it. Difficulties that were brought to his attention wouldn't become issues for his family to solve.

"We can move them," he offered. "Right now, if you want."

Joe shook his head. "No."

"With both of us working, it'll take half the time to round and move them then it'll take when Pa sends you back here alone."

"Adam—"

"You know I'm right, and with everything else you're doing these days, saving half a day of work is nothing to scoff at."

Joe looked at him, his expression indecipherable, his eyes guarded, then he looked away, his attention setting on the sporadic stock as he exhaled a hearty sigh. "No," he said quietly.

"No?" Adam's stomach turned.

He could no more explain his reaction to the response than he could have predicted his brother saying it. It was shocking and saddening to have his argument so quickly dismissed. There had been a day when he could have convinced Joe to do almost anything; there was a time when his youngest brother wouldn't have chosen more work over having help. At least, that was the way it had been with tedious chores, like rounding up wayward stock. There were other things Joe wouldn't have asked for help with and Adam wouldn't have dared offer. But those were other things, the challenges of which were different than this. The tug-of-war of a young man struggling to be taken seriously, to stand on his own and prove himself in a house full of elders who were always a-little-too eager to help. This situation wasn't like any of those. This was something else.

"Joe—"

"I mean it," Joe said authoritatively. "Pa said he wants you home early, so that's what I'm going to do. I'm gonna bring you home, and then tomorrow I'm going to come back and deal with this herd." He nodded his head, indicating for Adam to follow him back the way they had come.

In that moment, Adam was suddenly certain their roles had been swapped; he had known it before, of course he had. How could he not? But now he truly understood it. Joe was a man now, capable, and trusted. It was Adam who was struggling to be taken seriously and stand on his own and prove himself to family members who didn't trust him to take care of anything—not even himself.

There was so much Adam could have said when he fell into line, directing Sport to follow on Cochise's tail. There was so much he should have said and so much he wanted to.

Was Joe likening this excursion to their last? The one which had begun with a conversation between him and Pa in the ranch house and ended with an argument between him and Joe in the Eastgate bathhouse? Was that the reason for Joe's determination and strict insistence now? Joe hadn't wanted to split up, but he hadn't had the power or the words to force Adam to do anything back then. And now he did.

Adam knew there would be no deterring from Pa's orders. No room for argument or disagreement or even discussion. Though Joe had advocated for his interests at the breakfast table, he wouldn't dare do so now. Not when they were alone. Not when he was in charge. Not with the haunting memory of a different argument which had been lost was lingering so close. It had been just the two of them before. They had been surrounded by cattle on that drive; Adam had been short-tempered and exhausted, his growing panic evidenced by brutal nightmares and a wandering gaze. Joe believed he had been looking for something, but that was wrong. He had been running, because something had already found him. And, now that it had, it was never going to let go.

He had known that when he and Joe were driving the herd toward Eastgate; he had known that truth when they arrived at Eastgate, when they sold the stock, shared a beer, and then set their sights on a much-needed bath. He had known it when he finally left Joe behind. Abandoning his brother in the bathhouse, he struggled to ignore the finality of his brother's parting words.

Adam, Joe had said insistently, his hands clutching the sides of the bathtub with such force his knuckles had rapidly turned white. Don't do this. Ignore what Pa told us to do. We can take a few days, like you want. Brother, I will go anywhere and do anything with you, but please don't leave like this. Don't go wherever it is you're headed alone. I got a funny feeling about you being alone. Something bad is gonna happen, I can feel it.

It was a plea that did nothing to change what needed to be done. Disobeying Pa, Adam had left his brother then, giving himself up to the malevolent power tugging at his soul. And in doing so, he had left his baby brother alone. First, to fruitlessly search the land he had entered, and then to deal with Pa's wrath and eventual grief. It was a scene that in the desert Adam would imagine repeatedly; it would haunt him as he longed to have been able to abide by them—to somehow be able to put a stop to what had already begun. And even then, he would still know—even captive to the darkest of moments, the most brutal of pain—what he had done and why. He had known it then and he knew it now.

And now there was still so much to explain, so many things to talk about that still lingered between them, their mystery and confusion festering. Following his little brother, Adam knew he should have summoned the courage to say something. Instead, he said nothing at all.

Again, they rode in silence. The only sound passing between them was the footsteps of their respective horses as they slowly made their way back home.

Xx

The peace Adam felt during the morning ride did not extend throughout the remainder of the day. That was not to say he ever believed it would. He didn't, because it never did. Although the haste with which the feeling left him was a shock.

Usually the relief he felt, the easing of the weight of his heart when he was away from the interior of the family home—and away from Del—lasted longer than it did. Normally it didn't return until he did; that familiar weight, the panic and sadness and dread seemed content to leave him alone outside of the ranch house. He could spend as much time as he wanted in the immediate proximity of those walls without being affected by these things. Well, that wasn't completely true. He was always affected; it was just easier to silence the memories and ignore the pull of her when he remained outside of her domain and out of reach.

That was the way it normally was, but that day was destined to be different. As soon as he and Joe rode into the yard, Pa exited the house and approached them. Tight and quick, his strides were purposeful and insistent. His face was constricted, his expression pulled into a forced mask of indecipherable cause. Or at least to the outside eye it might have been indecipherable, but Adam knew better, because he knew Pa. While no one else may be able to read Ben Cartwright's tells, Adam could. Their years together had made him an expert. Better than anyone else in the world, he knew his father; he could recognize and identify Pa's underlying emotions from even the slightest of hints.

When the cause of the emotions was something not serious, the shift from one emotion to the other was swift. Calmness could become frustration or fury in the blink of an eye, and once expressed the emotion would be gone, disappearing as quickly as it had appeared. When the change in Pa's demeanor was attached to something somber or grim, the transformation was slow, the stillness of his expression and even tone of voice always so slightly forced; it was as though he was trying to protect them—his family, his sons, and sometimes even himself—from the reality of a harsh situation.

"Joe," Pa greeted with a clipped nod. His attention didn't stray from his youngest son, something which did not go unnoticed by his eldest one.

"Pa," Joe said.

"I need you to go to the timber camp," Pa said. "Hoss sent word of some complications—"

"Complications?" Adam asked, immediately knowing what Pa was trying to conceal.

There was trouble in the camp; it wasn't such an uncommon thing, not among such cobbled together groups. The men who worked such camps were usually rowdy and rough, unafraid of a hard day's work or causing trouble should they deem it necessary. Adam wondered what had caused the uproar this time. Too much hidden boozing, tempers being shortened by too many days full of overexertion in a row, or maybe it was an old-fashioned difference of opinion fueled by discordant personalities? But what could possibly be so bad that Pa would feel the need to hide it from him? To disguise his worry and his words without casting him so much as a look.

"You need to go," Pa said, his gaze not straying from Joe. "Right now."

"I need to stay," Joe tried as he cast Adam a tired glance. "There's work to be done here, Pa. Who's going to do it if I join Hoss at that camp?"

"I will sort it out."

"That herd is worse than we thought," Joe countered. "It needs to be attended to soon."

"I will take care of that, too," Ben said, his tone deepening.

It wasn't quite an order, not yet. Adam could so easily recognize the urgency of the situation; he wondered what was stopping Joe from recognizing it, too. Maybe he did recognize it, the bothersome thought rose from the depths of his mind. Maybe that was the source of his determination to stay. Maybe Joe wanted to stay because he wanted someone else to go; having taken so much on already, maybe he wanted Pa to pick someone else for this job.

Looking at Joe, Adam noted the stubborn glint in his brother's eyes. Joe was holding

Cochise's reins, the thin strap of leather wrapped around his hand in a thick circle, the end of which was clenched in a tight glove-covered fist. Though Adam couldn't see what color his brother's knuckles were, he didn't need to. With the force of his brother's fist, they had to be turning white, a color that would powerfully contrast with the frustration reddening his face.

Just do it, Adam found himself thinking, words he wouldn't dare say. There was a time when he wouldn't have thought twice about voicing the direction, telling his younger brother what to do or reinforcing Pa's opinions or instructions, but it wasn't like that now. Each word, each sentence had to be carefully evaluated, all its possible repercussions considered and weighed.

He wouldn't agree with Pa about this because Joe's resistance wasn't completely misplaced. He had taken on so much additional work without complaint, so much more than his fair share. Why should he be expected to take on anything else? And Adam wouldn't agree with Joe because Pa was their leader, the head of the household—the boss, if he wanted to get technical about things—he was their father and they were his sons; if he posed a reasonable request, if he told one of them to do something that one way or another was required to be done, then they did it. As men, Pa didn't require them to agree or be happy about it; all that mattered was that it was done.

"Joseph," Pa warned.

"You should send Adam," Joe said, a terse blunt statement that even seemed to take himself by surprise. Eyes widening, he shook his head, as though to clear the impulsive thought from his mind. "I mean…it's his camp," he added, seemingly deciding upon an appropriate argument. "It's always been Adam's camp, Pa. Since they day that operation began, Adam has been in charge—"

"I am quite aware of the circumstances regarding the creation of that camp," Pa said, his voice was dangerously low. "Just as I am sure you are aware that I am no longer asking

you to join Hoss. Continue to argue and you will not like the direction this conversation will go."

Shoulders squared, Joe sat still atop of his horse, his anger and frustration seemingly freezing him in place. A few moments passed before he glanced at Adam and then looked back at Pa. "Fine," he quietly said as he nudged his horse with the back of his boot.

Turning in his saddle, Adam watched his brother ride away, knowing full-well that things were the furthest from fine as they could possibly be. Joe was right: It should have been him heading to back up Hoss. He should be the one responsible for fixing his mistakes.

"This trouble you'd rather label as complications that Hoss is having at the timber camp," Adam said softly, "it's because of me, isn't it?"

"Oh, Adam."

Pa's voice sounded extraordinarily gentle in comparison to the tone he had used with Joe. It pained Adam to hear it; it made him long for days long passed when he and Pa engaged themselves in monumental shouting matches. That would never happen now; it was yet another thing that had been deemed inappropriate; unseemly, given the circumstances.

He shifted in his saddle as Sport danced impatiently in place. The horse had always been so anxious, raring to go with little warning or prompt. He was unpredictable and that made him dangerous. Those were Pa's words, said years ago. He had said other things, too, meant to dissuade his son away from this animal and toward another.

The animal can hardly tolerate wearing a bridle, Pa had said. He shrugs his head impulsively, persistently as though he thinks one more shake is going to liberate him from your grasp. He doesn't want to be ridden; he doesn't have the right temperament. You'll never be able to fully trust him. He'll act right most of the time, put on a good show, make you believe you can predict how he's going to react in certain situations, but that doesn't change the truth.

Even back then, it was obvious the horse was a runner. He had something inside of him that refused to be broke. Something unpredictable, something wild. No, he was never going to behave the way Pa—or others—thought he should. He just wasn't built that way. Which was just fine in Adam's opinion, because in his opinion the horse was fine the way that he was. What was this need inside of men to predict everything anyhow? Why did everything have to behave in ways which were expected and planned?

He was a much younger man when he first looked upon the surly horse, he would soon call his own; he had been in his early twenties, just home from college, and he thought he knew so much more than he did.

I don't want you to take this horse, Pa had implored. Think of your mother; she was taken from us by an untrustworthy horse.

That should have been the end of it; knowing his father had cared enough about his wellbeing and safety to leverage his lingering fear and distrust of skittish animals should have been enough to dissuade Adam from picking the horse. Looking between the animal and Pa, Adam had opened his mouth to adhere to his father's request. He had no explanation—or defense—for what he said.

She wasn't my mother.

It was a response of a child, and at the time he had considered himself a man.

Sport shifted his footing once more, and, still sitting atop the horse, Adam looked down upon his father and shrugged sadly. It was damn unfortunate the things a man could recall. The moments that would and could continue haunt him for the rest of his life. Words and actions came with consequences; they always had and they always would.

It was ludicrous to believe his family, their business ventures or the Ponderosa would remain unblemished by what he had done to Frank Mitchel. He had killed a man—he had killed one of their men—and then he had been labeled as insane and sent away. And in the eyes of some, and even himself, the punishment had been far too lenient in comparison to the crime.

"I already know the truth, so there's really no point in denying it," Adam said. "Hoss is having trouble at that camp because of me. Like Joe said: It's mine; it's always been mine, and because it's mine that makes what I did so much worse. All the men who work out there know what I did to Frank Mitchel; there really isn't any point in pretending they don't, or what kind of trouble knowledge of that nature can cause. Frank and I had bouts early on. Those men know he and I didn't always get along. And they know I killed him in that camp. Knowledge of that sort is never helped by tempers made short by a long day's work, or hard liquoring at night."

"I thought we required our workers to stay dry in our camps."

"We do, but that's never stopped a lot of them before."

It hadn't stopped him on occasion either, Adam thought shamefully. It was a different kind of drinking a man did in isolated camps like those. It wasn't communal or social; it wasn't drinking with intention of elevating an already good mood; it was meant to soothe a bad one, memories or thoughts attached to such things. It was consumption done by a man with the futile hope that it would soothe his body and mind. It was pretty good at doing the former, leaving appendages lazy and reflexes delayed, but when it came to easing a troubled mind, it always seemed intent on doing the opposite. This, he knew, from experience. After killing Ross, he had spent quite a bit of time drowning himself in a bottle, attempting to run away from what had happened. It hadn't worked; it never worked. In trying to run away, he had stumbled upon something he hadn't wanted to find, an evil lurking in the darkness and a truth about himself he wanted so badly to deny.

Clearing his throat, Adam shook his head, a futile effort to clear the painful memory from his mind. He didn't want to think about things that couldn't be changed. "Just tell me the truth, Pa," he urged, asking his father what he couldn't seem to summon the courage to do himself. "How bad is the uproar at the camp? Is Hoss in danger because of it? What are you sending Joe into?"

Casting him a serious look, Pa was slow to respond. "Nothing the two of them can't handle," he said eventually. "That's all I'm going to say on the topic." He nodded at the barn, his voice carrying the slightest of stern edges. "Now, take care of your horse and see to your chores."

Pa left him then, allowing him discretion as he slowly dismounted Sport, led him into the barn, and began to do as he was told. It wasn't until after the horse had been taken care of and fed that the bothersome thoughts began to reemerge, helped along by knowledge of where his brothers currently were and why. It should have been him out there, firmly easing or silencing disgruntled voices, putting an end to whatever problem had arisen. It should have been him, but it wasn't; he was the one who had made things this way. He was the problem; he couldn't be the solution too.

It was he who had failed to save Delphine; he had killed Ross and Frank Mitchel, too. He had engaged a demon, purposely seeking out a so-called-man named Peter Kane in the desert outside of Eastgate for help.

Oh, lord, he had needed so much help back then. If he allowed himself to be completely honest, he would have to admit he still did. He wouldn't dare ask for it—at least not from anyone other than the devil he already knew. But Kane had gone missing, abandoning him to struggle with Del on his own. In his best moments, Adam imagined his current situation as a test of his morality, strength, and character, and in his worst moments he knew it wasn't, because that was a test he had already taken and failed.

He had killed a man in cold blood, something he once swore he could never be pushed to do. He was a murderer now; it didn't matter what Frank Mitchel had or hadn't done to Delphine when she was alive, it didn't give him the right to take a man's life. He wasn't the law, his actions no more defensible than Mitchel's supposed crimes. He should have hung for what he did. He should have gone to prison or at least remained in the asylum for longer than he had. He should still be there; his short time behind its walls had done nothing to rectify his actions. His fateful fall down the staircase should have provided him more repentance than it did, and maybe he would have thought that it had if only it wouldn't have given him more than it took it away. Nothing should have been the way that it was; his mistakes should have cost him so much more than they had.

A man was responsible for what he did; there was a price to pay for poor actions. If he lost control of himself and committed a crime, then he would be punished for it. There were no exceptions to this rule, no exemptions to claim when it came time for a punishment to be inflicted. It didn't matter if his hand had been forced or lifted all on his own, a man had to take ownership over his wrongs. This was a belief he had lived with for most of his adult life. Even now he believed in this—more than anything he did—so it was hard to accept things as they were. It was difficult not to think he was deserving of so much more pain and suffering than he had already endured.

Adam tended to his chores slowly, biding his time until he would be required to renter the house. He didn't want to see Del again; he couldn't imagine laying eyes upon her putrid form, ignoring her deleterious actions or the things she had said. He couldn't conceive of ignoring her at all. The last thing he could tolerate was a repeat of breakfast, having to be prompted, reminded, and coaxed into answering a simple question, Del's malicious presence doing everything it could to sabotage his behavior, making him look unsteady and weak.

He remained in the barn until the sun started to dip in the horizon, dusk settling too quickly, enveloping the ranch yard with teasing shadows. Pa came looking for him then. Entering the barn, he didn't say anything as he titled his head and nodded at the house, silently declaring the inevitable had been put off for long enough. Though his stomach muscles tightened anxiously, Adam didn't say anything as he followed his father's wordless prompt and lead.

Moving from the space where she had died, Del lingered too close to Adam for comfort once he entered the house, placing her body mere inches from his own. With her standing so closely behind, her rotting hands clenching the back of his chair, her fingertips cracked open and bleeding, still worn to the bone from scratching the floor, dinner was only slightly more successful than breakfast. The gray skin on her arms was peeling, flaking off her arms like scales. The smell wafting from her was horrendous; it was a putrefying rotten stench he had once only likened to dead animals, their bodies left under the heat of the summer sun for too long. Adam ate sparingly, too disgusted by the smell radiating off her decaying body to stomach the meal. He excused himself and retired to his bedroom as soon as he was able, fighting the urge to run up the stairs and then vomit up what little he had eaten once the door was closed.

He kicked off his boots, pulled his shirt from his pants and sank on the bed with a groan, his skin feeling clammy and cold beneath his untucked clothes. Curling his body into a tight ball, he focused on his breath. Inhaling and exhaling, his lungs inflating and deflating at a steady rate, it took ages for his stomach to calm, and even longer for him to fall into a restless sleep.

Xx

The sky above the seaboard was dark.

Billowing, black clouds hung as far as Adam could see, teasing the fierceness of the incoming storm. The wind was bitter and cold as it blew around him, penetrating the thick wool of his jacket and embedding itself into his skin and bones, leaving his shielded skin as pink and bothered by the icy weather as that which was exposed, the parts of his face and neck left unprotected by his hat and upturned collar of his coat. His body was shaking, his expression contorted in extreme discomfort; though, as he kept his attention focused on the quickly approaching storm, he wondered if his reactions were prompted by the cold or something else.

The wind intensified, gusting, and growling around him; it seemed intent on moving him. It didn't seem to care how it happened, if he chose to take a series of steps or if it pushed him; the strength of the blasting air declared the decisive requirement. The incoming storm was much too powerful to be endured in his current location; he was to move or be moved. It didn't matter what he chose, whether he turned around and walked away, or allowed himself to be taken up by the wind and transported where it meant to take him. In this dream—which he had experienced more than once—he had already exhausted both options. It didn't matter what he did, if he traveled this path by choice or force, he always ended up in the same place.

In comparison to the other dream he so often had, this one was decidedly worse. He would rather dream of falling indefinitely with haunting whispers echoing around him than stand on this dock staring at the coastline. He would rather be surrounded by impenetrable darkness than be allowed to see hints of the malignancy of what approached. It was coming—there was no stopping it—and once it arrived it would demand terrible things from him—it would require him to do what it proclaimed to be done. He would either choose to follow direction, or he would be forced; abstaining from action was not an option.

Staring at the dark clouds he felt a surge of anger, the warmth of which seemed to supersede the power of the cold surrounding him. It warmed his body, enveloping it in a fury that burned so hot he felt seconds away from breaking into a sweat. Turning in place, he scanned the empty boardwalk, his eyes darting from one side to the other, endlessly searching for someone he knew he wouldn't see.

"Where are you?" Adam yelled angrily. "Why aren't you here?"

These were questions he had asked before, sometimes kindly and others, like today, furiously; still they always remained unanswered. Kane never appeared to answer them. Adam had been abandoned, left alone to endure the crippling weight of such an unavoidable fate alone.

"You said you'd help me!" he shouted up at the threatening sky. "You said I didn't have to be alone in this! You promised to help!"

Lighting erupted in the distance, a jarring crack which could be heard but not seen. This noise was followed by a powerful booming of a thunderclap; the ground beneath his feet seemed to shake as the sky finally gave way, sending dense raindrops to cascade violently around him. They embedded themselves into the cruel waves of water and gathered in quick puddles on the ground.

The raindrops stung his skin as they struck his face, leaving scattered dots, red and angry, upon his forehead and cheeks. Tears began to well in his eyes, an automatic—unwanted—reaction to the persistent needling pain. The raindrops felt like a thousand tiny knives, their impacts purposeful and forcible, meant to cut and penetrate his skin. If the strictness of the weather was a reaction to his anger—a punishment for the questions and accusations he had to dare voice again—then so be it. There were worse penalties to be forced to endure. This he knew, because in the desert outside of Eastgate he had been subject to more than a few.

His pain had existed before and after his time in that desert but that didn't negate the power of what had been done to him while he was there. It didn't dissolve the memories of what Kane had done—what Adam had allowed to be done. He had suffered through starvation and thirst, overexertion and weariness; he had been worked to the bone as a mistreated animal, then tied up, beaten, and abused. He had endured everything in the hope that something, a single punishment, or the culmination of them all would be enough to absolve him of his sins. He had purposely sought out that demon desperately hoping Kane would help. He had hoped his penance in the desert would be enough to free him of Ross and Delphine's angry ghosts. He had prayed the demonic Kane would hold true to the luring promise made to Adam in his dreams.

I can help you, Kane had said. But first you must come to me. Hand yourself over to me and I will take care of everything else.

And so, a decision had been made; Adam had entered the desert not looking for anyone, rather knowing what he would find. He didn't expect to walk back out of the landscape unchanged. He didn't anticipate walking out at all. But just like so many other events in his life things had not gone according to plan. His family had intervened, pulling him from the desert prematurely. From their point-of-view they had saved him. But, sick and exhausted and clinging to his father, Adam had known the truth. They hadn't saved him from anything. They had condemned him instead. It was too much to think about in the moment—to reconcile the pain of this knowledge with the comfort of Pa's arms. Strong and steady, those arms held Adam tight as Pa's body shifted slightly, gently rocking him back and forth. It would have been soothing had the truth not been so glaring; it might have been comforting had it not been so incredibly wrong.

His family was never supposed to find him; they weren't supposed to intervene.

"And just what exactly do you think would have happened had they not?" a woman's voice suddenly asked.

Adam knew who was speaking before he turned around. He had always known her, even before the first time he'd seen her in his dreams. Something about her voice had always been familiar to him; something in his heart had recognized something in hers. He had always known who she was: His mother. The real one. The woman who had given her life for his own mere minutes after his birth.

Approaching him slowly, Elizabeth Cartwright was as young as she was in the photograph his father had entrusted to him for safekeeping. Barefoot and white-summer-dress clad, she was not dressed appropriately for the weather—she never was. Hot, cold, snow, rain, or shine, she remained impervious to the seasons of Adam's dreams. Her skin was healthy and pink; her long, curly hair was shining, draping over her shoulders and down her back. She was luminous and positively glowing. Why was she here? She wasn't the one he wanted so badly to see.

"Why are you here?" Adam asked. It had been a while since they had last spoken. So many months had passed between then and now that he had lost count of them. Her absence from his dreams had been a minor concern in comparison to what he had been dealing with at the time. Her advice had seemed so unsatisfactory in comparison to that which was gleaned from his conversations with Kane. Adam had shut her out back then, his dreams becoming reserved for conversations with someone else. "Nothing has changed between now and then. I don't want to see you."

Elizabeth smiled kindly. "My dear, everything has changed between now and then."

She was more right than wrong. Things had changed and not for the better.

She had appeared in his dreams often when he was child. Though he knew who she was, he had never considered her a true parent. She was his birth mother and he was her son; she referred to him fondly with appellations such as "darling" and "dear"; and he called her Elizabeth, because "mama" had become a title his heart had coveted for someone else—a kindhearted, blond-haired woman his father had married when he was quite young. As a boy he had known what he would become uncertain of as a man. Inger was real, and Elizabeth was not. She may have existed in his dreams, but she could not stray outside of them.

Still, Elizabeth was his playmate as a child; a source of safety and stability when it seemed as though no other existed. It was when Adam entered adolescence that his relationship with her began to change, shifting into a bond that would linger well into adulthood. Her existence did not come without glaring benefits. Limited to his dreams, she was the perfect confidant, someone to talk to when he felt he could not share his feelings or troubles with anyone else.

But just like so many others, their relationship had changed. It was fractured by Adam's sudden aversion to speaking with ghosts, his determination to seek out demons instead. It was shattered by Elizabeth's actions.

"You betrayed me," he said flatly. She had visited his father in a dream and divulged things that weren't meant to be shared. "And you lied to Papa."

"Your father was worried enough as it was. Could you imagine how he would have felt had I told him the truth? Had I shared with him that it was you who refused to speak with me? That every time I appeared to you in your dreams, you shut me out. That it was you, not that devilish Kane that was making that choice. His worry for you was all-consuming; I couldn't bear to make it worse."

"But you could give him false hope? You came to him in his dreams; you told him to help me fight. It's because of you that he thought I could be helped, that this fight was one that could be won. You planted the seed in his head that led to the conversation that forced my hand. You knew I couldn't turn down his request to fight, not after it had been so directly made, and you knew I couldn't tell him the truth."

"You speak as though your hand was never going to be forced. As though Ross and Kane weren't pushing you toward the same end. As though me not talking to your father would have prevented you from doing what you did. It wouldn't have prevented it, Adam. You know that. My conversation with your father only sped things along."

Coming to stop next to him, she reached for his hand; he pulled it away and took a step backwards, countless drops of rain streaming down his cheeks.

"You needed help," she said. "I tried to help you. I reached out to your father so that he could help you too."

"You made things worse," he accused. "Why would you visit him and talk about me?" Once he had trusted her with everything, and now he could trust her with nothing. It was a betrayal that hurt, somehow cutting deeper than anything else he had ever endured. "How could you have?"

"Darling, that was months ago."

"That's supposed to justify it?"

"What do you want me to say?" She remained calm in the face of his anger. "What do you need to hear in order to accept the truth? Yes, I visited your father and spoke to him about Kane. I told him he needed to fight for you; I was the one who said he needed to find a way to break the grasp of the things holding you down, to talk to you in a way that you could hear him. He did that. Blaming me for what you did after is not going to change anything."

"Not taking responsibility for your role in it isn't going to change anything either!"

"I accept it. Why don't you?"

Adam refused to reply. He didn't want to think about what she was really asking. The questions lurking beneath the words she had said: Why can't you accept what happened? Why can't you accept what you did?

"Enough about then, let us talk about now," she said, after a moment had passed, when it became clear he wasn't going to reply. "Even now your father worries about you. You are better than you were, but he questions what your future will hold with things as changed as they are. Seeking comfort in him the way that a child would does nothing to ease his worry. You allow him to help you in all the wrong ways. You aren't a child, Adam; you're a grown man. Don't you think it is time to start acting and thinking like one? Tell me, what do you plan to do next? What is to be done about the ghost who still lingers, Delphine?"

"Nothing." Adam shook his head. He had no intention of doing anything to appease ghosts. Not this time.

"She is angry with you," Elizabeth said. "She should be. When are you going to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Tell the truth."

Adam shook his head. "I am no longer in the habit of fulfilling the demands of or taking advice from ghosts."

"Del's wishes aren't so different from her husband's. They both want a specific truth to be told and closure to be gained. Granted, Ross wanted revenge, but Del has no interest in that. She merely wants for her husband what he wanted for her. She needs you to tell the truth."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"With your words you say you don't understand, but in your thoughts and your heart you do," Elizabeth countered. "Fear is what holds you back from doing what is being asked of you. Regret and guilt are what keeps you from fulfilling Del's request. Let go of these emotions. They serve no purpose for you. Has the past taught you nothing about what holding on to them can cost? What kind of mistakes they will prompt you to make? If you keep calling out to Kane in your dreams he will return to you, and just like the last time he will not help you. He will only make your situation worse."

"You don't know that."

"I do. Just because I spend my time amongst angels, do not think I don't understand the workings of demons. They don't mean to help you no matter what they say. Their promises are composed of lies. They take pleasure from pain and suffering and torture, and they feed on guilt and fear."

"Kane isn't like that," Adam insisted. "He's… he's…he's—" What exactly was he? Neither a friend nor foe, Kane was the only one left who Adam felt he could talk to truthfully. The only one who wouldn't judge him for his misdeeds. "It's only because of him that I survived that asylum. It's because of him that I didn't lose myself behind those walls."

"Your father was the one who made sure you didn't get lost inside that asylum," Elizabeth corrected. "It was his insistence, his determination to hold the men caring for you accountable that saved your life. Do you think if he wouldn't have stayed close that you would have ever been allowed outside of that place? Do you think your life would have been preserved after your fall down those stairs had he not lingered so close? It was your father who demanded to see you after the accident. It was he who insisted upon taking you to the outside doctor who saved your life. Kane left you to die after that fall; he abandoned you, something your father wouldn't dare do. Kane isn't your friend, Adam; you're an intelligent man, surely you've deduced that by now."

"Yeah, well, you're not my friend either," he said. It was such a juvenile counter to her careful words, but he didn't care. He hadn't asked her to appear. She wasn't the one he was inviting to speak to him when he shouted up at the clouds. "I don't want to talk to you. I don't want to see you anymore."

"Why?" she pressed.

"I don't need a reason."

"Yes, you do." Taking a step forward, she grasped his forearm firmly.

"Let me go."

She held his arm tightly. "Other men may not need a reason for their decisions, but you, Adam, my son whose actions have always been so calculated, his requests and demands so thoughtful and reasoned, you do. You have a reason for everything you do and say; you always have and you always will. Even if you deny the truth, don't require me to do the same."

Adam wanted to say he didn't require anything from her—that he never had and never would. He wanted to remind her of a different truth than the one she was beseeching him to admit. She was dead—the youthfulness of her appearance was a testament of that fact. It was Pa who had raised him. It was Pa who had influenced everything—and Elizabeth nothing. It was Pa's opinion, his point-of-view that meant so much more to Adam than he wanted to admit. He didn't want to share with Pa what Elizabeth already knew. Not after everything that had happened and all the trouble he had already caused. Not after everything he had already put his father—and family—through.

"Do you want to know what I think?" she asked.

"No, but I suppose you're going to tell me anyway."

"I think you don't want to tell the truth, because you want to be punished. You call out to that demon with the hope that he will come back. Because only he and the evil that has bound itself to your home in the form of that woman are going to hurt you the way you believe you deserve to be hurt. You don't want to be forgiven, Adam, and you don't want to be saved. You want what is happening to you."

Stung by the aptness of her words, he felt a surge of fear. Was he really that transparent? Was her assessment based solely on observing his behavior, or had death given her certain allowances when it came to hidden truths? Deep down, he believed it was the latter, but that did nothing to soothe his anxiety. It didn't matter how she knew what she had said; her knowing it at all was enough of a threat. She had spoken to his father once before; she could do it again.

"There is a way out of your current situation if you look for it," she said. "But you never find it if you remain so intent on condemning yourself. Let go of your guilt; move on from what has been done. Confide in your father, truthfully this time. You told him why Ross Marquette was demanding Frank Mitchel be killed, now tell him why you were fighting to keep Frank alive. Isn't that what this is all about? What has it always been about? The horrible mess between the Marquette's and Mitchel, the triangular conflict you were pulled into after Delphine and Ross died. Tell your father the truth, Adam. Allow him to help you negotiate the approaching storm."

Scoffing, Adam pulled his arm out of her grasp and took a step backwards. "Don't talk to me anymore," he growled. It was an impulsive reaction; one he knew he would come to regret. "I don't want to dream of you again."

"You don't mean that."

"I do. I really, really do."

She stared at him, her expression neither happy nor sad, rather something in-between. A combination of disappointment and frustration often displayed by a displeased parent when their child was adamantly choosing something that only promised pain and heartache.

When she finally opened her mouth to reply, what she said wasn't what he was expecting to hear. "You should wake up."

"What?" he asked, unsure he heard her correctly.

"Wake up," she repeated firmly. "Right now."

Adam woke suddenly. Eyes opening wide, he stared up at the dark figure looming over his bed. He gasped in shock and quickly extended his hands, holding the wrists hovering over his torso in a tight grasp.

"Adam," came the quiet reassurance. "Everything is fine. It's only me."

It took a moment for Adam to comprehend the statement and then it took another for him to realize who he was holding on to. "What are you doing?" he whispered.

"You kicked the blanket to the bottom of the bed," Pa said. "I was fixing it."

"Oh."

"I didn't mean to wake you."

Letting go of his father, Adam allowed his head to sink heavily into his pillow. "It's okay," he whispered. "It wasn't you who woke me."

Sitting on the side of the bed, Pa nodded as though he understood. "Bad dream?"

"Not exactly."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing." Adam shook his head. "It doesn't mean anything."

Face softening, Pa set his attention on the blanket, readjusting, and then smoothing it over with the palms of his hands. He seemed to be waiting for something—either for Adam to volunteer a better explanation or for him to compose the right question. Seemingly finally content with the blanket, he removed one of his hands and moved the other to linger upon his son's chest.

Though Adam knew the action was meant to comfort them both, his father's hand too felt heavy. Like a weight meant not to soothe but to hold him down. "It's fine," he whispered, ignoring his building discomfort. "I'm okay."

Pa looked at him then, disbelief shining his dark eyes. He didn't say anything for a long while as he sat and stared, his hand unmoving, resting steadfastly on his son's chest.

Adam wondered if his father was counting the beats of his heart, the increasing rhythm making Pa hesitant to accept his assurance. Was it his heart that was giving him away, or was it something else? Adam knew why he had woken up, but what had prompted Pa to do the same? What had his father been dreaming about? Had something—or someone—implored Pa to suddenly wake and travel down the hallway to check on his eldest child?

"Who was it, Adam?" Pa asked finally.

"Who was who?"

"You said it wasn't me who woke you that implies that someone else actually did. Who was it?"

"Nobody."

"Son, I'm asking you a question and I'm trusting you not to lie to me."

"I'm not," Adam lied.

"Okay," Pa said disbelievingly. "You don't want to talk about it, then that's fine. Let's talk about something else." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Trust is such a fleeting thing these days, especially between you and me."

Adam nearly groaned, his stomach turning nervously. He didn't like where this conversation seemed to be headed. He was not in a mood to take kindly to fatherly advice. Or any unsolicited advice, for that matter; it didn't matter the source. Like with Elizabeth in his dream, he longed to ask Pa to leave him alone; his father wasn't the one he was aching to speak to. It wasn't his guidance he was anxious to obtain.

"You are better than you once were," Pa said matter-of-factly. "There are ways in which your improvements are glaring, and others where your lack of improvement is difficult to ignore. I know you're fighting with yourself internally, trying to figure out if the person you are now is capable of being the person you were before. Your current distractions don't always work in your favor in that particular war. It's hard to convince anyone or even yourself that you will ever be able to stand alone again when you have such powerful, mystic forces pulling at you so relentlessly."

"I don't want to talk about her," Adam said, thinking of Del's ghost. She seemed disinterested in pursuing him tonight, something he wasn't certain would continue if he dared speak about her.

"Well, that is good, because we are talking about you."

Adam blinked, his face contorting with confusion. "Me?"

"I want you to know I recognize the struggles you experience inside of our home. I don't hold your reactions and subsequent needs against you. It's acceptable to be afraid; it's understandable why sometimes you wouldn't want to be alone. Needing your family, seeking protection in the safety of our presence is nothing to be ashamed of. Not now. Not after everything that has happened. I want you to know I see you trying to stand alone on your own two feet. I see you in this house when things go awry and I saw you today outside of it when things went very well. You rode with Joe without problem, and upon your return you spoke to me easily. Stubbornly." He smiled. "Though I didn't necessarily like the things you had to say, it was not lost on me that you were saying them. You were comfortable speaking your mind; you trusted me enough to share a glimpse of your regret over what happened at the timber camp."

What happened at the timber camp—this was the only way Pa had been willing to refer to the events leading up to Frank Mitchel's death. Adam wasn't certain if this was meant for his father's benefit or his own. He didn't know who Pa was trying to protect by avoiding direct words.

Adam wanted to press his father for more information; he wanted Pa to explain in excruciating detail what it was he believed had happened. But he didn't. He wasn't ready or willing to correct the inaccuracies or take responsibility for providing misleading information.

"You trusted me today," Pa continued, "and it occurred to me that maybe it was time for me to start trusting you with a bit more than I have allowed as of late. Tomorrow you and I are going to move that herd to fresh pasture, and if that goes well then maybe we can have a conversation about you being entrusted with more than just barn chores."

Adam smiled. The words had lightened the weight of his father's hand; it no longer felt quite so stifling as it lay upon his chest.

"Like I told you long ago," Pa continued, "if this is your new reality, if the forces that have bound themselves to you have no intention of letting go, then you are going to have to find a way to live with them. The rest of us are going to have to learn to accept that while we want to save you from these forces, we can't. We can't fight what we don't see, but we can trust in what we do. You are better now than you once were, Adam, this afternoon was a perfect example of that. It's time to start embracing your improvements. It's time to start accepting what is, instead of always focusing on what was or could be. Let's take tomorrow as it comes, and then we'll talk about what can come after that."

"Alright."

It was the most heartening news Adam had been presented with in a long while. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring, what successes or pains it would lead to. The reclaiming of independence or the stripping away of what little he had recently obtained.

Standing, Pa gathered the book from the side table. If he was surprised to find it had been closed, he made no indication. Pulling the chair back beside the bed, he sat and held the book on his lap, his attention set on the pages before him. It didn't take him long to find where he had left off when he previously read the book aloud.

And when Pa's gentle voice filled the room, Adam rolled on his side. Back facing his father, he closed his eyes. He didn't hear a word of the story; he couldn't begin to pay attention to Pa or the book. His thoughts were too burdened by what Elizabeth had said.

You allow him to help you in all the wrong ways.

He couldn't argue with her assessment, not with the sound of his father's voice serving as such a perfect glaring example of unseemly help. He was a man, not a boy, much too old for bedtime stories or his father to verify his well-being in the middle of the night. He shouldn't need such comforts, and in this moment, in the middle of this night, he realized he didn't. He hadn't asked Pa to remain in the room. He had never asked him to stay. So how was he supposed to tell him to leave?

Tell your father the truth, Adam.

Though the words echoed relentlessly in Adam's mind, it was advice he knew he wouldn't follow. Not now. Not this time.

Xx

For the second time in as many days Adam rode in silence.

Sport and Buck strode in tandem, their twin gaits unprompted; memories of the countless times father and son had traveled together throughout the years left the animals well-accustomed to matching their footsteps without implicit instruction. The air filling the sparse distance between Pa and Adam seemed taut, stretched, and slightly strained by their lack of conversation.

Adam knew his discomfort was due to the person who was beside him and the discussion they had shared during the night. Though it had resulted in a tremendous development and the possibility of a much-desired outcome, it had left him feeling oddly nervous and slightly on edge. He knew his movements were being watched and carefully considered; his actions and reactions today would directly impact tomorrow. They would be used in support of or against him, deeming him ready or unprepared to be allowed to venture beyond the ranch yard alone. Given the past this was something he was unsure he should be allowed to do, but his uncertainty did not stop him from wanting the freedom to be granted. It didn't stop him from coveting and hungering for Pa's approval. It seemed as though it had been years since he had done something genuinely worthy or deserving of his father's trust and praise. The small steps he had made in recent history—talking, eating, doing what he was told when he was told to do it—could not be categorized as such. Like Elizabeth had said, he was a man, not a small child; these things didn't deserve the celebration Pa allotted them.

It felt good to work, to move his body in ways which he had not in so long, and, despite his reservations, it felt good to be riding next to Pa, cattle surrounding them as they slowly shepherded the animals to their next feeding grounds. It reminded him how things had been years ago—before Ross and Del had died, before the desert, and before Peter Kane—when it had been he, his father and brothers, and a handful of ranch hands running the Ponderosa's yearly round up. Things had seemed so simple back then, any complications he had been facing minor in the face of what he dealt with now.

Back then, before Pa asked him to seek Ross Marquette out for his help with that fateful drive, had Adam been experiencing any complications? He couldn't seem to remember. Things had seemed normal enough. The work was hard—it always was—making the days seem too long and the nights too short. It was the evenings Adam remembered the most; the time he and Pa had spent sitting alone together gazing upon an endless map of stars. Helped along by the hint of alcohol lingering in his coffee cup, Pa was always so eager to reminisce about the past. Sometimes Adam allowed it and others he didn't, but it didn't make their time together any less enjoyable, the memories of it so precious now.

Would he and Pa ever enjoy an evening together like that again? Was it possible with the stifling memories of the recent past persisting in the forefront of their minds? Could they ever be the way they once were, father and grown child, a pair of men allowing themselves to handle each other with an apt gentleness that would not linger beyond the evening, spilling into future interactions?

It didn't seem possible.

Adam was a man—his age, his height, the deepness of his voice declared such an irrefutable fact—but his actions had forced his family to view him as the opposite. It had forced Pa to permanently exercise gentleness once only reserved for those evenings spent below the stars.

Moving the cattle, Adam quickly noted—and tried to ignore—the way Pa's attention set upon him and then seemed to linger a moment too long. It was obvious his father wasn't paying attention to the task before them, and he wasn't helping Adam in his fight to stay on task.

Needing a distraction, Adam thought of that cattle drive and how different everything had seemed back then. How easily he and Pa had spoken to one another. How differently Pa had seemed to look at him, faith and pride glistening in his eyes. Once Adam had realized something had gone wrong in Ross and Del's marriage, he had gone to father for help and advice. He had looked to his father for the wisdom to understand why Ross suddenly seemed so changed and the strength to endure it. He had been deeply disturbed and worried, both feelings Pa hadn't validated or shared at the time. Pa hadn't listened back then. Not really. Not in the way Adam had needed him to. But all-too quickly that ceased to matter, because someone else had.

It was Kane who felt Adam's fear and responded to his anxiety. It was during that drive that Adam dreamed of the demon for the very first time. More dreams would follow the first; Adam would dream of Kane before Ross and Del died and long after. He would fear him at first, then grow to hate him, and then, eventually, he would look upon that demon with an emotion akin to affection. Kane listened to him in a way no one else would; he helped him in a way no one else could. Soon Adam would begin to yearn for Kane's presence; and he would pine for him when he was gone. And now, in his dreams, Adam would call out and beg to be listened to, but there was no Kane to respond to his anxieties and fear.

"What happened?" Adam whispered absently. Why did Kane leave him? Where did he go?

"What?" Pa asked. Brows furrowing with confusion, he looked upon Adam as though he misheard him.

Adam shrugged.

For Pa, the lack of response seemed to serve as a discernible answer. "Son, relax," he said, his attention drifting to the stock. "I've never known you to need to fill silence before, don't allow your nerves to allow you to begin now." He nodded approvingly. "You're doing well."

"How well?" Adam pressed.

"Well enough for the task at hand. I know what being entrusted with more responsibility means to you. Just like I am certain if you took a moment to consider it you would understand my difficulty in entrusting you with it. Don't rush into things, Adam. Let us take our time in deciding until we have faith we are making the right decisions."

Though Adam knew it wasn't meant as a reprimand, the statement still stung. He felt his chest tighten as another impetuous question slipped from his mouth. "You don't trust I can make right decisions?"

"I am trying to."

Pa looked at him and Adam looked away. He had never known his father to try to do anything; something was either said and believed or it wasn't. He was stubborn like that. Steadfast. Predictable. Comforting. If Pa had ever struggled to accept something in the past then it certainly wasn't something so freely admitted to—it was never admitted to at all. Adam hated being the one to demand such an unwelcome change.

"It's alright," Pa soothed as though he understood. "This isn't your fault."

Scoffing, Adam shook his head. His emotions were too close to the surface to be ignored now. Jaw clenched, his throat felt tight; it burned painfully as he struggled to repress tears that felt so close. He didn't want to cry. Not here. Not now. It was supposed to be different out here; he was supposed to be different.

But he wasn't. Not really.

He still had his anxieties; he still had his fear—fear of the future, fear of the past. He still longed for a dream. For Kane to come back and listen to him the way he once had. He wouldn't have to say words to have his feelings understood. Adam would say nothing and Kane would look at him and know everything—what to say, what to do.

Come back, Adam desperately prayed. Please, please, come back.

With their horses striding closely in slow tandem, the sparse distance between Adam and his father was quickly spanned. Grasping Adam's forearm, Pa held it gently. "Adam," he said, his voice too soft to be indicative of anything good.

At the moment, it was too much to handle. Adam closed his eyes. He wanted so badly for things to be different; he needed to look upon something and not be reminded of how much everything had changed. He needed Kane come back and Pa to let go—of his arm, of the power had obtained over his choices and his life. He didn't want any more change; he wanted something to remain the same. He wanted Kane to return, look upon him and without words understand. Why didn't Pa understand?

"Take a deep breath," Pa prompted gently as he removed his hand from Adam's arm and settled his palm on the back of his son's neck. "Calm down. There is no reason to be upset. Nothing has happened yet."

That wasn't true, Adam thought mournfully. Everything had happened; everything had changed. It shouldn't have been that way, but it was. He had killed a man; they all knew it. He didn't understand why Pa couldn't say it aloud—Kane had never had trouble saying it aloud.

The past had taught them all what he was capable of, the horrible things he could be pushed to do. Ross was gone; Kane was absent; but Del still lurked, her violent fury increasing with each passing day. She could seriously hurt him if she wanted to; like Ross, she could make him hurt others if her anger festered long enough. He didn't want to hurt anyone. Not this time. Not anymore.

"Take a deep breath."

Pa's gentle voice broke through Adam's thoughts. Still, he couldn't conceive of following the order, of doing something that would calm rather than intensify his guilt.

"Adam," Pa said, his voice becoming firm. "Now is not the time to focus on things that cannot be changed. You know where you've been, now focus on where you want to be. Take a deep breath, calm your mind, and open your eyes. There's work to be done; these cows aren't going to move themselves."

It took a moment for Adam to comprehend the statement and then another for him to comply. Opening his eyes, he looked at Pa and in father's eyes he saw what he had already heard in his voice. His emotional response should have cost him the opportunity being presented. It should have implored his father to decide upon limiting his freedom rather than further entertaining giving him more. But it hadn't. Pa's mind wasn't made up. Not yet, at least.

Nodding at the animals surrounding them, Pa silently instructed Adam to return to work. The morning continued without further issue. It wasn't until they had completed moving the herd and pointed their respective horses in the direction of home that either spoke again.

"How long would it have taken?" Pa asked.

On the surface the question made little sense. However, there were a plethora of events Adam could have applied it to. How long would it have taken for him to die wandering around the desert? How much longer would he have suffered at the hands of Ross and Del's ghosts if Elizabeth hadn't visited his father's dreams? How long would he have lied about dreaming of Kane if Kane himself hadn't told Pa the truth? How much longer could Adam have gone before he finally killed Frank Mitchel? How much more time had to pass, how much more punishment, pain and suffering did Adam have to endure until it was enough to alleviate his sins?

"How long would it have taken for what?" Adam asked.

"If I wouldn't have come to you last night and offered an opportunity to allow you more independence, how much longer would it have taken for you to ask for one?"

"Oh... I'm not sure."

"Don't do that. I am speaking candidly and asking that you do the same."

"I am being candid."

Eyes narrowing with skepticism, Pa looked at Adam for a moment. "I don't believe that."

"Why?"

"Because I know you very well. There isn't a soul on this earth, or even above or below it that knows you better than I." Pa's lips curled into a small smile. "You wouldn't have asked. You would have waited."

"I don't know about that," Adam admitted, his father's jovial demeanor putting him at ease. "I tried to convince Joe to let me help him move that herd the other day."

"What did he say to that?"

"It was an emphatic no."

Pa laughed. "Good for him."

"Good for him?"

"After all the years he spent having to follow your instructions, it is no surprise he would take kindly to the opportunity of instructing you for a change."

"Yeah." Thinking of how he left Joe behind in Eastgate, Adam frowned. "I don't think that was the reason."

"Then what was?"

Adam shook his head. "Nothing."

"I see," Pa said knowingly. "Well, if you don't like that question then answer another. What were you thinking about when you had that emotional fit earlier?"

Startled by the question, Adam directed Sport to stop and Buck followed suit, leaving father and son side-by-side. Pa couldn't possibly be expecting an answer. Why would he even venture the question? What was the point of knowing? Of hearing Adam say the words?

"I see you don't like that question either," Pa said evenly. "That's unfortunate, because I want you to answer one of them."

"No."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

Too preoccupied with the startling notion of telling the truth, Adam couldn't think of an acceptable response not to. He settled on the next best thing. "You don't get to know all my secrets."

"Maybe at one time that was true," Ben said. "But after everything that has happened, you don't get to have secrets. Not anymore. I want an answer."

"To which question?" Adam deflected.

"That's up to you."

And that's when Adam knew, his previous emotional fit and his success moving the herd weren't the things Pa was going to judge the day by. It was this conversation. His refusal to comply would negatively affect the outcome of the day. If he refused to answer, then Pa wouldn't trust him. And if he did, the outcome most likely would remain the same. It was an impossible choice, but it had to be made. Telling a small truth today may only impact tomorrow, but refusing to talk completely could hinder the foreseeable future. He didn't get to choose whether the question was answered or not; the only control he had was deciding the truth he wanted to tell. And even that really wasn't a choice. He couldn't possibly tell Pa the truth about Kane—about how he felt about Kane.

"I left Joe in Eastgate," Adam said. His voice was emotionless, quiet, hollow, and flat. "He begged me not to leave. I did anyway."

If he was shocked by the revelation Pa showed no indication. "And that's why he didn't entertain your offer yesterday," he said. "He couldn't stop you back then, so he's going to make sure he stops you now."

"Yes."

Pursing his lips, Pa nodded, his gaze drifting toward the landscape. "Given what has happened, can you understand how Joe's intention and desire to control your decisions might be an impulsive need shared among Hoss and I as well?"

"It's not impulsive," Adam whispered thickly, the lump in his throat returning. He had done everything he was asked not to do. Ignoring Pa's instruction and Joe's pleas, he had entered and disappeared in the desert outside of Eastgate. He had killed a man. He had made the decision to become what he was.

"What are your intentions?" Pa asked, his gaze remaining on the land around them. "If you were granted more permissions now, what would you do with them?"

Adam thought for a moment. "It would be nice to get some air. Have some space and time alone."

"Away from us?"

"Away from Delphine. Sometimes... I just need to get away." That wasn't all Adam wanted. He wanted Kane to come back, take hold of his hand and lead him the way he once did.

"Because her ghost cannot stray from behind the walls of our house," Pa stated.

"Yes," Adam affirmed.

Inhaling a deep breath, Pa held it, pressing his lips together in a firm line as he seemingly considered his decision, its possible complications and repercussions.

He questions what your future will hold with things as changed as they are, Elizabeth's statement reverberated in Adam's mind. He hadn't needed her to tell him that; it was something Pa's actions had long declared.

Pa had read to him the night before; he had looked in on him in the middle of the night, adjusted his blanket like he was a child, and then he had lingered, filling the room with the soothing sound of his voice as he read. His extended presence served as a testament to his own nervousness, his overbearing concern about his oldest son's well-being. Asking his father—or his family—not to worry was like demanding the sun to stop rising and setting. It was something that just happened; it was beyond anyone's control. The past had taught them to be as leery of what they saw as what they didn't. To question his words and actions. To be thankful for the calm, quiet moments and brace themselves for the horrible unknowns the future could hold.

They were right to be worried, but Adam couldn't exist like this forever—a strange combination of both man and boy, haunted and tortured by a ghost within the walls of his home; never trusted by his family to venture beyond the ranch yard without someone to supervise his actions. It simply wasn't sustainable. Or tolerable for much longer. Being around his family wasn't going to help him—Kane had always seen that. Why couldn't Pa see it too?

"What is it like?" Pa asked softly.

"What is what like?"

"Being haunted by ghosts. Seeing things other people aren't privy to."

"Oh." Adam shrugged weakly. He wanted so badly to dismiss the question. He wondered what response could allow such a thing. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do." Looking at him once more, Pa held Adam's gaze with his own. "Tell me."

"It's... scary."

"I know that. Tell me something I can't figure out on my own."

Looking away from his father, Adam shook his head. There were countless things he could have disclosed, details about ghosts and the dead that would have no bearing on his future. They wouldn't incriminate him or cast a shadow over any of the things Pa already thought he knew. There were numerous things he could have said and only one that felt important to share.

"Being haunted by ghosts isn't like being visited by them in your dreams," he said. "It's isn't like speaking to Elizabeth or Kane when you're asleep, because when you dream about them you always have the option of waking up. You can always wake up, leave them and the conversation behind. I'm not asleep when I hear and see Delphine. She is the farthest thing from a dream. There is no waking up, no leaving her behind. She is almost always there and she is nothing like she was when she was alive." His stomach turned with a familiar combination of sickness and panic. He didn't want to say more, but he couldn't stop the words from escaping his mouth. "She's callous and mean and frightening. She doesn't look the same as she did. She looks dead. Her body is so ravaged, so decayed. It's putrid and rotting. The smell of her body penetrates the air around her. It lingers like an invisible cloud of smoke; sometimes it makes me feel like I can't breathe. Sometimes—"

"Okay," Pa interjected as he held up a silencing hand. "That's... enough; you don't have to say any more." He looked positively sick for a moment, before his expression contorted with something akin to resignation. "Okay," he repeated, expelling the word on a deep exhale as he nodded.

"Okay," Adam repeated numbly.

"You can have your time and space away from the house. You can take rides alone and complete the chores on the land that are delegated to you."

"Really?"

"Yes, but there are still rules, Adam. Expectations that need to be met, directions to be followed. I don't want you thinking you can just leave at any given time without permission or warning."

"Of course not."

"You are never to leave alone after dark, under any circumstances. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"You better," Pa said firmly. "The protections I dictate are in place for a reason."

"I know."

"You are to stay out of town and away from the timber camp or any other place on the Ponderosa where we have hired men to work. It's foolish to think the past hasn't shaped us or the opinions of people who surround us. Word of what happened at the timber camp and the details surrounding your stay at the asylum spread around the territory like wildfire. Sheriff Coffee may have viewed your punishment as sufficient but there are far too many others that do not. People don't understand what happened to you, why you of all people would have done what you did. And now they won't because they can't. The talk in town is ugly, and the words traded among our men in the timber camp about you are horrendous to say the least. I'd fire the one's responsible except for the fact that if I did then there would be no one left."

Pa wasn't telling Adam anything he didn't already know; he overheard a private conversation between Joe and Hoss in the barn. He was aware Virginia City was full of ugly talk. Rumors of Adam's unbalanced behavior and changed disposition had lingered. Beginning after he returned from the desert outside of Eastgate, this speculation coupled with what he had done to Frank Mitchel had transformed his once respectable reputation.

The townsfolk said Adam got away with murder. They said it was Ben Cartwright's power and money that had saved his son from being hung. They said the time he had spent lost in the desert outside of Eastgate had left him permanently changed. They called him a lunatic. They said he was mentally unbalanced and volatile, his behavior erratic and dangerous. They insisted he had killed one man without warning; he could and—would—do it again.

"I'm going to ask you another question," Pa said. "I want an answer and I'm trusting you to give me a truthful one. You did what you did for Ross's ghost and now he's gone. This is a fact that would lead one to believe that Delphine lingers for a purpose too. Are you absolutely certain there isn't anything you can do for her? There isn't something to be done, or some truth to be told that would put her soul to rest and allow her to leave our home?"

Adam couldn't bear to look Pa in the eye as he opened his mouth to reply. "There's nothing I can do." He knew the assurance was a lie, and listening to his father expel a hearty sigh he wondered if Pa knew it too.

"You've always owned up to things you've done wrong, Adam. You never were one to run away from your mistakes. I pray that isn't what you're doing now. Once a man chooses to begin running from what causes him pain, he very rarely summons the courage to stop."

Though he didn't respond, the words weighed heavily upon Adam for the remainder of the day. He couldn't help wondering if, like himself, Pa knew more about the situation than he was admitting—if he was still experiencing premonitory dreams despite his previous assurance otherwise.

Xx

That night Adam dreamed of falling once more. Surrounded by blackness, pained screaming, and maniacal laughter, he fell. It took him a while to realize something was missing in the air around him; the sound of Pa's voice could no longer be heard.

He woke when his back hit the floor, eyes opening suddenly to gaze upon the darkened ceiling as he gasped to regain the breath which had been knocked so violently from his chest. Closing his eyes, he began silently counting the passing seconds, dreadfully waiting for his father to come running to his aide as he had become accustomed.

Ten seconds passed, then twenty, then thirty and forty. He counted until he reached fifty before he finally opened his eyes again. Nobody was approaching; he hadn't been heard. The room was quiet and mostly dark around him. The oil lamp burning low in the corner set a haunting stage for the shadows of the fixtures of the room. His attention set on the wall opposite his bed, his attention settling on a particularly bothersome scene. Standing tall and broad, a black shadow stood, its dark, sinister mass unbelonging to anything in the room.

"No," Adam whispered as the shadow began to move, pulling itself off the confines of the wall to approach him. "No."

This simply couldn't be happening, not again.

The shadow moved swiftly and fluidly. Each gliding step it took seemed to push more and more air out of Adam's lungs. He wanted to move. To pull himself off the floor and run from the room. Maybe he would seek respite in Hoss's room like he once had or maybe he would run until he ended up somewhere else. Anything would be better than remaining on the floor. He wanted to move, but he couldn't seem to get his brain to send his limbs the correct signals. A numbness was enveloping his body. A heaviness was compressing his chest; he felt as though there was a weight upon his heart, an increasing tightness of what felt like a fist, holding and constricting. He gasped for breath, the air surrounding him feeling much too thick to breathe, as the shadow finally stood above him, its threatening mass hovering in a billowing cloud.

He stared up at the dark figure, his eyes widening with terror. He wanted to scream or cry. To yell out for Pa and his brothers to hear. But he remained painfully silent, his voice muzzled and stolen by the lurking shadow. It seemed to loom over him for eternity before anything changed. Before his eyelids began to feel too heavy to remain open.

It was on the floor of his bedroom where Adam was forced into a deep sleep. Hours passed before he finally awoke and regained control over his body. He blinked blearily, tired eyes struggling to decipher his surroundings and how he had come to be where he was. The light of the full moon shined above him, illuminating his naked form as he stood amongst the soaring pine trees. He was outside, his bare feet standing on a sharp bed of pine needles, his body violently shivering against the cold.

Where was he? How had he ended up out here? And what had his body been implored to do before his mind woke up?

The sound of approaching footsteps prompted him to turn around, and he when he did, he found himself enveloped in a blanket, its thickness meant to hide his body from the world.

"Mista Adam," came the soft whisper in the darkness, a voice so comforting and familiar, Adam nearly broke down into tears. "Come," Hop Sing added.

Grasping his hand, Hop Sing led Adam away from the darkness of the forest, pulling him toward home and into the protective beam of the glowing lamp light in the cook's first floor accommodations. Silently, Hop Sing directed Adam to sit on the side of the bed, then he proceeded to gather items from the other side of the room: A paintbrush and vat of ink, supplies that would be used to protect Adam from powers which would lead him astray.

Sitting on a stool in front of him, Hop Sing extended his hand in offering. Adam complied and allowed his hand to be held still as Hop Sing glided the black-stained tip of the soft paintbrush bristles over the back on his hand.

"Happen again?" Hop Sing asked knowingly.

Casting him a fearful glance, it took a few moments for Adam to summon the courage to admit what he wanted so badly to deny. "It's happening again," he said finally, his heart pounding in his chest.

This was an unwelcome development. The complications of which would neither be avoided nor predicted. How much time would pass before the shadow visited him again? Where would it take him next time? And who would find him once it did?

"Pa can't know," he added quickly, his voice nearly inaudible. "Nobody else can know."

His attention focused on carefully drawing the ancient, black symbols, Hop Sing didn't answer. Adam figured it was just as well. The man never had been in the habit of volunteering information unless asked directly and, even then it was a toss-up whether the information being asked for would be divulged. The secret would be safe for as long as Adam managed to keep it—which judging by past experiences would not be very long.

As Hop Sing continued his pristine, careful strokes, neither of them dared speak again.

Xx

Pa noticed the symbols right away.

Sitting at the head of the table, he grasped Adam's wrist and pulled his son's hand closer for inspection. Staring at the dried ink, he opened his mouth, his forehead wrinkling with deep lines of worry, then he closed it again. In preparing himself to speak he had decided upon not saying anything at all, it seemed.

Adam was relieved as Pa let go of his hand, his father's attention shifting to filling both their respective coffee cups. With Hoss and Joe leaving early that morning for the timber camp, Adam and Pa were left alone. A slightly tense silence settled around them, their rapport paralyzed by a rhetorical question Pa wouldn't dare voice.

Something had changed during the night, that much was obvious, the evidence of such an event declared by the writing on the backs of Adam's hands. The symbols had been placed in response to something. Adam was certain they both knew that, and he was certain this specific knowledge was keeping his father from probing. There was no point in declaring what they both knew. Something had changed in the night, and something had changed the day prior too.

Pa had said Adam could leave the immediate ranch property alone. It was logical and understandable this new development would invite anxiety and fear—not only for Pa but for Adam as well. Both could be afraid Adam was not ready to cope with the responsibility of being alone and anxious about any number of bad decisions he could make. Adam knew it was plausible for Pa to think these were the feelings that had led to the symbols painted on the backs of his hands. Maybe so intimidated by the future he had needed something comforting to ground him in the present. This assumption wasn't completely ill-founded; Adam only wished it had been the true motivation prompting the painted protections. He hoped and prayed the symbols would be enough to contend with what was really going on.

And what was really going on?

Adam wasn't completely certain. He didn't know what could possibly be gained by overpowering his body and mind, stripping him of his clothes and setting him on a wandering path. But he knew what could be lost. There was a time when events such as these had ignited Pa's worry and systematically stripped Adam of his father's trust. There was a time when Adam believed he knew who was commanding his insentient actions, but now he wasn't so sure.

At the beginning, he had believed it was Ross who was making him do such things; then, after the day he had gone to the timber camp in Hoss's company only to disappear and be found at the lake, he had believed it was Kane. With Ross's ghost gone and Kane absent neither seemed like feasible culprits for last night's excursion. He thought of Del, maybe she had been the one to place him naked and wandering in the woods, but that didn't seem likely either. She was decidedly bound to the confines of the house; she couldn't enter his bedroom. He had seen something in his room, a familiar shadowy figure he had seen before; he had always thought it was someone—or something—he knew. He had never believed it could be something he didn't.

Turning his head, Adam gazed upon the room, carefully looking first at the dining area, then the living space, and then he settled his attention on the far back wall. One side of it contained the staircase and the other led into the area containing his father's desk. Though he couldn't see the piece of furniture from his vantage point, he imagined what was laying on top of it. Documents and papers and an open ledger. What kind of work awaited him and his father today? What kind of evil was lurking in dark crevices awaiting an opportune moment to emerge? Who or what was the shadow that had overcome him the night before? Why was it there? What did it want?

Emerging unprovoked, these weren't questions he wanted to answer or entertain, so he turned his attention elsewhere, focusing instead on the fireplace and the emptiness of the space between it and the settee. Del was nowhere to be seen. Her absence was curious, especially given what happened in the night, and for the first time he began to wonder if he was truly aware of everything she was capable of. Was he certain she wasn't the shadow? Could he be certain of such a thing?

"Son?" Pa asked. "Is something bothering you?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Looking at Pa, Adam noted he had become the focus of an evaluative gaze. "I'm sure," he said, hoping his voice sounded more certain than he felt. "I'd like to work outside today. I'll take the barn chores and whatever else needs to be done, and then later, if it's alright with you, I think I'd like to take a ride this afternoon."

"By yourself?" It was more of a statement than a question, the tightness of Pa's tone mirroring that of his face.

Seeing Pa's palpable discomfort intensified Adam's own. Did he really want to venture out alone? He wasn't sure. Where would he go? What would he do? What if he was made to do something? What if the shadow came back? Maybe it was safer to stay closer to home, close to Pa and Hop Sing. He didn't want to think about the shadow; he didn't want to remain in a place where Del could so suddenly appear.

Adam nodded despite his reservations.

"Oh, Adam, I don't think today is the right—"

"You said I could. You said I was ready."

"I didn't say you were ready," Pa corrected. "I said the time had come."

It was an interesting distinction, leading Adam to believe Pa wasn't as comfortable with things as he seemed. "You're not ready," he accused.

"No," Pa sighed. "I am not."

"Does that mean you're going to take back what you said?"

Placing his fork next to his plate, Pa reached for his coffee cup and took a series of sips. "No," he said eventually. Elbows propped on the tabletop, he held his cup in both of his hands, its rim hoovering inches from his lips. "I may not be comfortable with it, but you can go. I am a man of my word, and I raised you to be too. Therefore, I want you to promise you aren't going to get into any trouble. I want you to promise that you are going to go exactly where you tell me you're going and then you're going to return exactly when you tell me you will. You will go on an outing to get your fresh air and then you will come back."

"Of course."

"That isn't good enough, son. I want your word. I want you to promise."

"I promise."

"You promise what?" Pa pressed.

"I promise I won't get into trouble."

"And?"

Adam inhaled a deep-chested breath, visibly annoyed by the expectation he recite the given instructions like a chronically disobedient child.

"And?" Pa prompted firmly.

"I promise I will go where I say I'm going," Adam said quietly. "I will come back when I say I'm going to. I will go and get some fresh air and then I'll come home."

Pa nodded, seemingly satisfied with the extended response.

They finished their breakfast in silence.

"So," Pa eventually said, "where are you going?"

Adam shook his head. He couldn't share what he didn't yet know.

Xx

He told Pa he was headed to Lake Tahoe.

This was a plan he was immediately required to change; if the horrified look upon Pa's face wasn't reason enough to rethink his destination, then the firm "no" that escaped his father's lips was. So, Adam thought about it a moment and eventually came up with a slightly less intimidating option.

A particularly still and shallow shore of the Truckee River was where he would go, to get his fresh air and listen to the comforting sound of the water trickling passed; he might even fish. It sounded damn near idyllic as he said it aloud. It took a minute or two, but, eventually, after giving it copious silent consideration, Pa fell for his adjusted itinerary—hook, line, and sinker.

Adam didn't go to the river.

Though if it had been a deliberate lie or a decision that came after he finally disappeared from his father's nervous gaze, he wasn't sure. Surely, he hadn't intended to mislead his father. Given Pa's worry that would have been a terrible thing to do. And Pa was so incredibly worried. Lingering a little too closely as Adam saddled Sport, he hadn't uttered so much as a word until his son led the horse from the barn and prepared to mount.

"Promise me," Pa said as he grasped Adam by the arm and held him in place, both his son's feet still firmly planted on the ground. "Promise me you will be safe."

The words were achingly familiar, the tension on his father's face mirroring the unease he had displayed so long ago; both were identical to a moment long past when Adam and Joe were preparing to drive a herd to Eastgate. Pa had seemed to know something back then. He had looked upon Adam as though he knew his instructions to return home quickly would be ignored. Adam wondered if this moment was destined to become like the one before. If it, too, would eventually be looked upon with stinging pain and deep regret.

"I promise," he said.

It was a vow he had meant to keep. Even if his path had changed and he detoured to a place he knew Pa would never allow him to go, he was careful. He stayed aware of his surroundings and minded his horse's pace. He did everything he could to ensure his journey was safe.

Eventually, he found himself standing in front of the iron gates of the cemetery just outside the outskirts of Virginia City. It was a foolish decision, impetuous and unwise;

the likelihood he could visit the grounds without being seen was slim, the resulting complications of being seen seemed painfully predictable. Word of a rare sighting of the eldest Cartwright son would only lend to the rumors floating throughout the town; Pa would be furious with the townsfolk—with Adam himself. It was an intimidating notion; however, it was not enough to make Adam turn around and go back the way he came.

He wasn't sure why had come to the cemetery; even so he wouldn't leave without giving the moment what it seemed to be demanding. He could feel it in the coolness of the air, in the hardness of the ground beneath his boots; he hadn't wanted to come here, not really. He had come because it was required. It was something he had to do.

He stepped through the entrance of the slim, iron fencing, the lines of plots beckoning, seemingly inviting him to look upon them until he found what he sought.

Like the town to which it belonged, the graveyard was not large. It served as a final resting place for fewer folks than one would think, predominantly townsfolk who had passed at varying ages, scattered drifters and ranch-hands who had no families to claim them. Ross and Delphine were both buried in it as were the rest of the Marquette family, a decision which had perplexed Adam as a youth.

The Marquette's had owned land; it made more sense for those who had borne their last name to rest upon it. Still, both Ross's parents and his brothers had been buried in the cemetery, Ross's mother, the matriarch of the family, still clinging to the decidedly Eastern belief that the deceased belonged among others, all gathered in one final place. It was an expectation that hadn't made sense to Adam when he was an adolescent, but he understood it now. His own time back East, the hours he had spent in the stately graveyard where Elizabeth rested had silenced any judgment or doubt.

Virginia City's graveyard was pitiful in comparison to that one. The graves and their modest markers were more reminiscent of Inger's nominal, unmarked prairie plot than his birth mother's grandiose one. Able Stoddard may not have had land at the time of his daughter's death, but he had had money, and so had the Marquette's. Or at least they had when Ross's parents and brothers had died.

When it came time to bury Ross and Delphine it was discovered the estate was not nearly as liquid as originally thought. Ross had had trouble with his herd dying out a year or so before—everyone knew that; what they didn't know is that it was a loss the Silver Dollar never recovered from. To most it made sense in hindsight; financial hardship was Ross's reason for robbing the stage. It was the reason for all the mistakes he had made toward the end of his life. But to Adam the explanation wasn't enough, because the reasoning was hopelessly flawed. It wasn't a need for money that had led Ross to do what he had done. It was something else.

Shaking his head, Adam expelled a hearty sigh. He didn't want to think any of that; he had left home to clear his mind and his thoughts, not convolute them. He hadn't entered the graveyard with the intention of laying eyes upon where Ross or Del's respective bodies lay. He didn't want to talk to them; their ghosts had both spoken quite enough.

The lofty headstones marking the members of the Marquette family made their plots easy to identify and avoid. To an outsider the older headstones served as a declaration of the family's wealth; to the people who knew the details surrounding their deaths Ross and Delphine's matching markers were a testament to Ben Cartwright's humanity and kindness. It was he who had discreetly commissioned the town's stonemason to create headstones which would match the rest of the family. When they were finished and placed, it was he who had quietly paid the bill. This was not something that was ever spoken about among the Cartwright family, rather just silently understood.

Adam's eyes scanned his surroundings, searching for something he was both dreading and eager to find. It didn't take long for his eyes to settle upon the furthest back corner of the graveyard, the meager wooden marker seemingly calling out, inviting him to approach. He did so slowly, carefully, his heartbeat quickening with each step.

It seemed like an eternity had passed before he finally crouched in front of the cross. It was dirty, covered in residual dust from once packed dirt that had been blown up by wind. Rain had turned the dust into mud which had dried and now clung relentlessly, disguising the name carved in the wood. He cleaned it the best he could, the scratching of his fingertips finally unearthing the name of the man buried beneath.

The state of Frank Mitchel's grave-marker was a testament to the townsfolk interest, or lack thereof. They cared more about the gossip of how the man had died than the fact that he ever lived. No one cared about what Frank had done or that he was gone. No one except Adam.

There were so many things he wanted to say to this man in the ground and absolutely nothing that seemed sufficient; there was nothing that could give proper weight to the gravity of the loss—the loss of Frank's life and the losses Adam's behavior had facilitated.

They had had such a tumultuous beginning, he and Frank. First, they had been strangers, then enemies, and then, somehow, they had ended up something else. It was all so odd to think about now, how they began and how they had ended and everything that happened in-between.

"I'm sorry," Adam whispered mournfully, the word escaping without thought. The apology unearthed a memory, the words never given but once so angrily sought.

"You ain't sorry!" Frank had once said, an accusation yelled early on. They were enemies then, both of them trying so hard to stifle their pain in the bottom of a bottle. "You killed that boy, your supposed best friend. You followed Ross Marquette up onto those cliffs without any intention of hearing him out. He was unwell, sick in the head, and you killed him for it!"

The words added to Adam's guilt so intensely at the time that the only feasible retort seemed to be connecting his fist with the older man's face. It was an action that led to a fight, shattered glasses and liquor bottles, broken bar tables and chairs, and neighboring twin cells in the Carson City jail. Despite their proximity, they didn't speak again. Adam didn't talk to Frank for a long time after that. And when he finally did, their next interaction was in yet another bar; though his words were vastly different, the emotions influencing them were the same as what had begun their fight.

"I want you to come work for me," Adam had said. It was a kind offer on the surface, an extension of the proverbial olive branch, but beneath the surface it hadn't been that. It had been malicious and calculated, his intentions for Frank Mitchel terrible from the start. Ross's ghost had long made its presence and demands known by then, the energy of what would become Del was no more than a whisper in the darkness of the blackest nights. He had begun to hear her, but he couldn't see her. Not yet.

The way Mitchel had looked at him, silently mulling over the offer, was enough to make Adam wonder if Mitchel suspected something was awry.

"Nope," Mitchel said eventually.

"Why not?"

"I don't work for murderers that's why not."

Adam snorted, shook his head, and lowered his voice. "You worked for Ross Marquette," he whispered. He was slightly amazed at his ability to leverage such a painful detail with no emotion.

Mitchel wasn't so fortunate. "That's different," he growled.

"Why?"

"Because that boy wasn't no murder, at least not the last spring when I was on his payroll."

"People change."

"Not like that, they don't. A man is a murderer or he ain't. Ross did what he did because he was sick." Mitchel cast Adam an accusing glare. "What's your excuse?"

Adam suppressed the urge to flinch, the question begging an answer he wouldn't dare say. "Look," he said firmly, "I'm just trying to give you what you want—what you think you deserve. Isn't that what you've been saying since you came back into town? That I cost you a job and now I owe you one."

"And you would have me doin' what? Slinging shit left by the horses in a corral and barn? Droving season has passed, kid. Droving is what I'm good at; it's what I do."

"Well, I don't need you to drive cattle and I don't want you picking up after horses."

"What then?"

"Timber."

"Timber?" Mitchel scoffed. "I ain't never worked timber."

"But you oversaw men."

Mitchel was intrigued. "What's men gotta do with trees?"

"I have men that need to be directed and watched. Working with the trees is easy enough to pick up; it's the management skills that can't be taught. I need somebody who's tough and can stand up to the most belligerent of the crowd. Somebody who won't cave on an opinion he knows is right. I've fought you a time or two, so I know you can take a punch. And you've been spewing the same bull-shit story about Ross and me since you rolled back into Virginia City and discovered he was dead, so I know you hold strong to your convictions." Adam shrugged. "Call me crazy but I think you'd be a perfect fit for the job."

"What about your daddy?"

"What about him?"

"I can't see him taking kindly to me working for y'all considering the guff between us."

"He doesn't have to know about any of that."

Mitchel chuckled. "You're kiddin' with the way he keeps you and your brothers underfoot there ain't no keeping it from him."

"Let me rephrase that, my father doesn't know, Frank, and he won't know. I'll make sure of it."

"Like I said, he'll find out."

"No, he won't."

"Yeah, right. You're telling me that a man like Ben Cartwright doesn't have awareness of all of his business ventures." Mitchel shook his head. "Nope, a man that successful knows what's goin' on at each and every one of his camps. He knows who's on payroll, where they came from, what they're like." He glanced at Adam. "If somebody ever had personal issue with one of his boys."

"He does," Adam said. "He knows all those things for every other venture, every other camp, except for this one. He doesn't have a hand in it."

Mitchel wasn't convinced. "Why the hell would that be?"

"Because it isn't his. It's mine. It's always been mine."

Mitchel laughed.

"I'm serious," Adam said.

"You're lyin'."

"I'm not."

"A man like Ben Cartwright don't just hand off —"

"Except for when he does," Adam interrupted.

"Why would he do something like that?"

"Because it's all he has to get what he wants in the end."

Now Mitchel really was intrigued. He squared his jaw and stared at Adam, curiosity sparkling in eyes.

Adam wondered if this was part of the family story he wanted to tell, and if Mitchel was the person he wanted to share it with.

"Which is what?" Mitchel prompted. "What did your daddy want that was worth giving up rights to that camp?"

"Me," Adam sighed. "He wanted me."

"That don't make sense."

Adam knew it didn't, but it was just as well. It wasn't for anyone else to understand.

The time he spent away at college in the company of his well-traveled grandfather had done little to settle Adam's wandering spirit. It had left him yearning for new adventures, a deep desire to set his attention on new frontiers rather than old. He hadn't wanted to come home after graduation—at least not right away. He wanted a few more years away at the very least, the rest of his life at most to wander and explore the vastness of the world and find something he could call his own.

This camp is something you can call your own, his father had written to him. I will not maintain authority over it, the men who work there, or your decisions.

Adam still recalled being taken aback by the words he was reading. It was as though Pa had reached into his mind, pulled them out, and wrote them on the page. How did his father know he was yearning for something of his own? How could he have been privy to such an intensely protected desire? He had never spoken this intention aloud. He had never summoned the courage to write words documenting his inner conflict for Pa to read. Still, Pa had known. Somehow, he had just known.

And when he accepted the offer and returned home, Adam had done so half-hoping his father would know something else he remained determined to never say. The arrangement was temporary. He could put his dreams on hold for the immediate future, but he wouldn't remain in the Nevada Territory forever.

Adam wasn't built like Hoss or Little Joe; he couldn't remain in the same place for the duration of his life. The traveling he and his father had done in his early years had impacted him greatly, instilling within him a wandering spirit and a courageous heart. He wasn't content remaining in place. Eventually, he would leave his family; it simply wasn't conceivable he would remain on the Ponderosa, as sprawling and vast as it was. Maybe if he would have had more time after college to work through his adventurous desires then that could have been different. Perhaps, if he would have had the courage to decline his father's offer, or, better yet, if the offer had never been made then Adam would have worked through his wanderlust and returned home to stay.

Sometimes, in his most shameful of moments, full of frustration and anger over the tediousness of daily ranch life, Adam resented his father for presenting him with the timber camp and hated himself for not having the courage to reject it. He had known back then what his father was doing and what the camp really was. It was a gift, a purposefully concocted ploy to exploit his most severe weakness. He wouldn't reject the offer once it was made—Pa had known that. Adam would never choose his own desires and dreams over those of his father. He had been taught to listen, value, respect, and follow his father's lead—Pa had known that too.

Back then, Adam had considered himself a man. Looking back, he saw so clearly how much of a boy he still had been. A man had the courage to disappoint his father. A man told the truth no matter how terrible it would make himself or others feel. That was a lesson he had been taught but struggled to practice at the time. Sometimes he wondered if he truly practiced it now.

"Listen," Adam said, looking Mitchel in the eye, "it doesn't have to make sense to you. Just trust me when I say the camp is mine. You work for me, not my father. I hire and fire who I want when I want. Men come and go and my father doesn't know who they are."

Mitchel grunted.

"What do you say?" Adam asked.

Mitchel took his time, pouring himself a drink while he thought on the offer. Adam knew it was a difficult one to decline; men like Frank Mitchel who had spent most of their lives on the backs of horses directing cattle from one place to another were never given opportunities like this. If their age didn't work against them, then their lack of experiences did. Timber was vastly different from cows—despite his claims otherwise—and experience wouldn't come easy—neither would the respect of the men already at the camp.

"Alright," Mitchel said, the word no more than a sigh. "This don't change anything between us, you know," he added, his voice a little louder. "I ain't ever gonna like you."

"No," Adam had said with a tilt of his head. "I don't believe you ever will. You stand by your actions and words, even when they're things people don't want to see or hear. I respect that about you. Hold on to your suspicions, Frank. Stand firm in what you think and believe, in the end that's all a man really has."

The decision was the beginning of something, a first step on a path which would eventually lead both men where they ended up. Adam and Frank Mitchel had begun as enemies, but as time passed, they had ended as something else.

"I keep looking for you," Adam admitted to the grave. "Wondering, waiting for you suddenly appear to torture and follow me the way Ross used to. Some days I wish you would, then maybe I'd feel better about what happened between us. Although, I guess if you really wanted to make me suffer for what I did then I suppose not haunting me is probably the best way to go about doing that. This way I have to live with it. There's no processing it like there was with Ross. No going from grief to fear to anger and frustration over time. I was always afraid of him, that never changed but toward the end I got so overcome by frustration, I felt so... pressured that... that I was willing to do anything to get him to go away. Nothing should have happened the way that it did; I should have been strong enough to face up to Ross's ghost and do what I knew was right instead of giving in."

He smoothed his fingertips over indents on the grave-marker and shook his head. Ghosts of the past had a way of demanding their due. Even if they never showed themselves, their memories lingered behind, imploring those who knew them best to feel certain kinds of ways. And what Adam felt now was shame, regret, and pain.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I wish things could have been different than they were. I thought I was stronger than I was; I thought I was a different person than who I've turned out to be."

"It isn't good to speak to the dead as though they are still alive."

Adam's eyes widened, his face falling with shock. Still crouching, he turned swiftly and nearly lost his balance and landed on his behind. It was a blessing he didn't, because staring up at Minister Joe who stood paces behind him, he was certain he wouldn't have had the courage to pick himself up. He hadn't heard the man enter the cemetery. How could anyone's approach be so covert?

Minister Joe looked upon Adam without judgment, his voice soft and matter-of-fact as he continued. "I heard you were lost in the desert."

"That was a long time ago now."

"Was it? Are you so certain you are not still lost now?"

The question was as odd to Adam as the way the Minister was looking at him; it was though he could see right through him, reaching into his head and his heart to become privy to his struggles and fear. Adam didn't know how to reply, not that it would have mattered much, because Minister Joe didn't seem intent on gleaning answers.

"God cast Cain into the desert," Minister Joe continued. His voice was even and clear as if he was giving a Sunday morning sermon. "But first," he lifted his index finger and placed it on the left side of his head, "he marked him with a scar. If I were to imagine it, I suppose it would look like your own. How did you happen upon that scar?"

"I fell," Adam said dumbly, needing so badly to respond, to hear his voice as verification he wasn't imagining the conversation or the man in front of him. "Or so I was told."

"Maybe it's a gift from God."

"God didn't give me this scar."

"Cain's scar was a promise of protection; it was a warning meant for others placed by God. Don't hurt this man, that marking declared, for if Cain is killed then I will avenge his death sevenfold. I wonder what yours declares."

"That I was clumsy on a staircase."

"Or so you were told." Minister Joe smiled, his expression softening. "I seem to remember you as a man who was quite agile on his feet. You know, God protected Cain despite his sins. He will protect you too. There is a way out from your current circumstances if you look for it, but you will never find it if you allow yourself to ignore what has led you here in the first place." He nodded at Mitchel's grave, a knowing glint in his eyes. "It isn't wise to dwell on the past; however, it isn't good to ignore it either. Perhaps you should spend less time listening to the voices of the dead and more time focusing on the beauty of the life that still surrounds you, then maybe you will be able to hear him and he will instill within you the courage and faith you need to continue your fight."

"And by him you mean?"

"God, of course."

Adam's stomach turned. "Of course."

"It's something to think about at least." Minister Joe tilted his head toward the town in the distance. "I wouldn't linger here too long if I were you. There are folks in this town who would not leave you so peacefully, and others who desire to catch a glimpse of you for the sole purpose of embellishing their later gossip. You are still quite the popular topic, I'm afraid."

With that, Minister Joe nodded, turned, and left as quietly as he had come.

Watching him walk away, Adam was too overcome with shock to move or speak. Eventually, he summoned enough wherewithal to follow the minister's advice, and he endured the ride home, his mind suddenly burdened with questions and doubts.

Why did it seem as though Minister Joe knew much more about his struggles with evil than he alluded to? How could he possibly know anything at all?

Xx

That night, Adam paced.

His footsteps were light and dull, muffled by the cloth of the socks covering his feet as he strode to one end of his bedroom to the other. His brows were furrowed with tedious thought; his fists were clenched in tight fists at his sides; and on his lips he wore an ever-deepening frown. He was unsettled by his conversation with the minister and guilt-ridden over the broken promise to Pa. He should have gone where he said he was headed, then he wouldn't have had a run in with anyone; he wouldn't have felt so contrite over visiting the cemetery; he wouldn't have had the conversation which left him so agitated.

Was there a reason for the way Minister Joe had looked at him and the things he had said? Or was his expression, words, and timely appearance merely happenstance? His presence and Adam's own in the cemetery overlapped perfectly for the interaction to take place, brought together by chance rather than purpose. The idea seemed likely enough, until Adam thought about Minister Joe's words.

Likening Adam's scar to that of a figure in the Bible, Minister Joe had encouraged him to listen to the voice of God rather than those of the dead. The statement itself wasn't necessarily odd; after all, he had witnessed Adam speaking to a grave-marker. Still, the minister had said listen, not speak; he had advised Adam to engage God over the dead, to seek him out for courage and help. It sounded so simple when the minister had said it. Too simple. And it was.

Shaking his head, Adam scoffed bitterly. Contrary to what Minister Joe seemed to believe, he had already tried the suggestion. Some calm and collected, others pleading and panicked, all his prayers had gone unanswered, ignored or denied by a God who remained unwilling to help. Adam had prayed so much after setting his eyes on Ross's ghost for the first time, even more after first hearing Del, and he had prayed before entering the desert outside Eastgate with no avail. In his dreams, God had stayed silent; the devil that called itself Peter Kane had not. The demon was the one who had promised help. The only one who heard Adam's cries and pleas. Tortured and feeling so alone, he had taken it, not yet knowing what it would all mean for him in the end.

Adam closed his eyes. If he could only go back. Back to before the desert, before he gained knowledge of Ross and Del's ghosts, before he purchased the Silver Dollar at auction, before all the drinking, the regret and grief. He just wanted to go back, if not to a time before Del's death, then at least Ross's, not to change his friend's choices rather his own. If Adam had it to do all over again, then after being told the truth about Ross's crimes, the stage robbing and murdering, cattle rustling and wife beating, he would follow Pa's advice.

Go home, Adam, Pa had said. And in his father's eyes Adam could see Pa's worry, his desire to protect him from witnessing an unavoidable end. Go home and stay there, those dark eyes said. You know what's going to happen when we confront Ross. You love this boy with the fierceness of a brother; I don't want you to have to be the one whose hand he forces to pull the trigger.

Had he heeded his Pa's instruction, Adam still would have found Del, there wouldn't have been any way around that, but maybe if he hadn't killed Ross then her ghost wouldn't have had reason to linger or hate him so much. Or maybe it would have still, he wasn't sure.

Del wouldn't have wanted to live if Ross was dead, Adam was certain about that. Despite Ross's crimes and occasional cruelty toward the end of his life, Delphine was a loyal wife to her husband; she loved him despite his faults. She wanted him and her life was beside him, no matter how much he had changed. She wouldn't have lived without Ross. Not with the child growing inside of her belly. Not after what had been done. No, there wouldn't have been any saving Del.

By the time Adam knew the truth about the things Ross had done, it was already too late to save either of them. But Adam could have saved himself. If only he'd done what Pa told him to do. If only he had stayed home. It was a simple instruction that seemed so impossible to follow after holding Del in his arms as she died. It didn't get any easier to adhere to after that day when he tracked and followed Ross onto those cliffs. Somehow, Pa's order became more and more difficult to observe and abide after taking Ross's life. Heeding it would have been wise, though; it would have saved him from so much struggle, pain, and fear.

If had he only stayed home in the weeks after Del and Ross's deaths, seeking respite in the company of his family, instead of turning to saloons and drink, instead of buying the Silver Dollar at auction and then living alone upon it, instead of heading alone into the desert outside of Eastgate— it all could have been so different had he followed Pa's advice.

Scrape, scrape, thud.

The footsteps of Del's ghost seemed to reverberate throughout the hallway behind his closed bedroom door. Her steps, as clunky and uncoordinated as they were, seemed to land in tandem of his own. She was restless as he was, her soul as tormented as his own.

Scrape, scrape, thud.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. "Why won't you just go?" he whispered. "Why can't you leave me alone?

A-dam, came her insistent hiss through the crack beneath the door. Open the door. All I want is to take one good look at you.

Adam cringed. That wasn't all she wanted. Despite her claims otherwise, a look never was quite enough. She meant to hurt him. She meant to show him things that shouldn't be seen.

"Go away," he whispered. It wouldn't do any good to engage her; he wasn't certain why he tried.

Not until you open the door.

"I'm not going to do that."

Then I won't leave you.

"You aren't going to leave me anyway."

She laughed at that. Deep chested and gurgled, her chuckles sounded impossibly deep and grinding. They sounded more reminiscent of a monster than a ghost of a woman, inhuman and malevolent.

Open the door, she said. I have something to show you.

"Go away," Adam said. "Leave me alone. I don't want to listen to you tonight."

Overcome by exhaustion, he wanted to lay down, close his eyes and give into the peaceful pull of sleep. But his slumber wouldn't be peaceful that night; Del's ghost wasn't the only thing preventing him from enjoying such a simple pleasure. He was afraid of falling asleep, of suddenly awaking to find a shadowy figure lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to overcome his consciousness and take hold of his body for its own utilizations.

What was this thing that had visited him the night before, taking a hold of his body and setting him on a mysterious path? What was the purpose of holding his mind captive and leaving his body beyond his control? Of stripping him naked? He didn't know what the point of that was or why it was required. Was it meant to be a physical reminder that his body hadn't been under his control? Or was it meant to mortify and embarrass him, serving as a declaration to those around him that he was as mentally defunct as they thought.

Sane men didn't remove their clothes and wander around naked. Rational people remained in control of their thoughts and actions; they knew what did and why. Adam didn't know what had happened the night before; what he had done between the time the shadow had overcome him while he was laying on his bedroom floor and when he woke up naked wandering through the pines. There were so many questions he couldn't answer, and only a few which haunted him the most.

Where was he going? Who was leading him there? What were they going to do when they arrived?

Scrape, scrape, thud.

Del resumed her pacing, the trio of sounds reverberating through the hallway, turning Adam's stomach sickly and grinding on his nerves.

Scrape, scrape, thud.

Longing for a distraction, he stood once more, his soft footsteps falling into rhythm with those echoing behind the closed door.

Minister Joe had encouraged him to remember the events that had brought him here. Adam's memory of some were fragmented and skewed, others he recalled in appalling detail, and all he longed to forget. He hadn't always seen Ross and Delphine; their tortured souls hadn't always cried out for only him to hear. And if he had only listened to Pa then maybe they never would have.

Go home, Adam, Pa had said, an ignored instruction that left calamity in its wake.

Come home, son, Pa had pleaded much later, a request Adam had wanted so badly to abide by.

Do you ever think about it? Del asked, her voice a muffled hiss tricking in from beneath the closed door. She had ceased her pacing, setting her attention on torturing him with words. What it could have been like had you not bought our ranch? How different would your life be then? That was your true mistake. The first in a long line of poor decisions.

Coming to a stop at one end of the room, Adam centered his weight on the balls of his feet and pivoted his body, turning quickly in place before continuing to stride in the opposite direction. Del was far from wrong. If he were to take Minister Joe's advice about considering the past, then he would have to admit that buying the Silver Dollar was a glaring mistake. It was a fateful decision, one that had made him privy to forces better left alone and unseen. It was a decision that had changed the course of the rest of his life.

He hadn't been haunted by Ross or Delphine before buying the Silver Dollar. Something about being on their land and inside their home had awoken their unsettled spirits and given birth to something beyond Adam's control. It was impossible to think about the Silver Dollar without thinking of Ross. It was impossible to think of Ross without considering Del and Frank Mitchel and the unborn child they shared.

A piercing cry erupted in the hallway. High-pitched, haunting, and horrible, it was a sound that could not be attributed to Del's ghost. It was too young, too tortured, too confused and pain filled to belong to her. It was the desperate crying of an infant who hadn't been allowed to live. It was Del's unborn baby who Adam was being forced to listen to now.

Open the door, Del forcefully implored. We want to see you.

Closing his eyes, Adam shook his head, anxiety rising from the pit of his stomach to shorten his breaths and tighten his chest. What Del meant was she wanted the door to be opened so he could see them. It wasn't enough to be forced to hear them; they needed to be seen too. He couldn't tolerate the thought of giving into Del's instruction, opening the door, and setting his eyes upon her battered body, the skin on her arms and hands discolored by bruises and decay as she held the screaming infant in-between the palms of her hands. The baby was terribly small—almost too small to be recognized for what it was meant to be. Its facial features were undeveloped, its body wrapped in skin so thin that it was nearly transparent, making it appear more amphibious than human. Marred with thick, sporadic clots of rotting blood, it looked more like the offspring of a monster than anything that could grow in the belly of a human.

Seeing Del's abhorrent form was bad but being forced to look at her baby was worse. He didn't want to be made to see the child again; he couldn't tolerate hearing it cry. Its pain could never be eased; its screams would never be properly soothed away. In life this child had been unwanted by Del. In death she held onto it like an obscene trophy, smothering its cries and hiding it away, then suddenly producing it from seemingly nowhere and flaunting its grotesque body and excruciating cries. She hadn't thought of naming the child when she was still living; struggling with the details of its conception, she couldn't imagine doing such a thing. She wanted to deny its existence rather than accept it. Death had cured her of the frivolous emotions prompting her denial, instilling within her a deep-seated hatred instead. She hated this baby—almost as much as she hated him.

Open the door, Del hissed furiously. Summon the courage to act like a man; be brave enough to look upon your mistakes.

Cringing painfully, Adam opened his eyes. The thought of opening the door was nearly as tolerable as being forced to listen to the baby's incessant cries. He found himself unable to do either. Struggling to conceive of an alternative plan, he began pacing again. He had to do something—anything—to distract himself from the activity outside of the door. There had to be something he could think of that would allow him to ignore Del's repetitive demand sounding in chorus with the baby's tortured cries.

Open the door, she hissed over and over again.

Adam pressed his palms against his ears to drown her and the baby out. It didn't work. It never worked.

"Go away," he whispered, the words uttered under his breath as he came to a stop in the center of his room. "Go away… go away… go away…" It was a panicked mantra, one which distracted only slightly from what was happening outside the room. Still, it was enough for him to regain control over his thoughts; it was this slight reprieve that allowed a memory to be recalled, advice given about a larger problem that could help him solve this one.

There is a way out of your current situation if you look for it, Elizabeth's words echoed his mind.

"…Go away… Go away…" he continued repeating his own demand as he turned his gaze upon the room. There had to be something he could do. There had to be a way out; he just needed to find it.

"Go away… Go away…Go aw—"

The words died on his lips, his focus finally setting on his bedroom window, a solution so simple it had gone overlooked. Del wasn't going to leave; she was here to stay, but he didn't need to hold himself hostage in a house that had become her domain. He could leave. He didn't have to stay.

There is a way out from your current circumstances if you look for it, Minister Joe had said, unknowingly repeating Elizabeth's advice. But you will never find it if you allow yourself to ignore what has led you here in the first place.

It was guidance Adam couldn't follow if he remained in place. Consideration of the past was always destined to be drowned by the power of the present, the sight and sound of Del and her baby and the overpowering emotions they invited him to feel. He couldn't think clearly here; he would never be able to act sane. There would always be something holding him back. Ghosts and shadows impacting his behavior, his father and family controlling his every move. Staring at the window, he was taken aback by the simplicity of the solution to his problem. It had been there all along, positioned too close for him to see it for what it really was.

Del couldn't leave. But he could. He didn't need to stay in this place.

So taken by the idea, the saving grace of the mere thought, Adam didn't hesitate further. Striding purposefully to the window, he unlocked the pane, then lifted it, leaving ample space for him to slip out of the opening and onto the roof. He didn't bother closing the window behind him; he didn't spare one second looking back. His attention was on what lay in front of him, the ground of the ranch yard which seemed so far away from the bottom of his feet.

The distance between the edge of the roof and the ground was a fair drop. But a particular span of his youth, full of rowdiness and discontent, had left him prepared to safely make the jump.

Still, it was surprising how much the feeling of falling, his body descending quickly through the darkness, frightened him; it was a shock how much landing hurt. He landed with his feet planted firmly on the ground, his upper body crouching, pressed into the position by the velocity of his body weight, the joints in his knees protesting the sudden lack of movement with loud cracks. He stood up quickly, the pain in his knees ebbing, his nerves calming a little more with each step he took away from the house.

He inhaled a deep breath, then exhaled it, inhaled another, and exhaled again. Simple and repetitive, the action cured him of his lingering anxiety, the panic that had begun to constrict his chest, the burdensome worry born from the sound of Del's needling voice and her baby's ghastly cries. He could no longer hear either of them; they were too far away to reach him out here.

"Ha!" Adam said. Turning around, he walked backwards as he looked up at the gaping window. "Come get me now," he added, his lips curling into a teasing grin. "You won't because you can't."

The quiet, stillness of the night was intoxicating; and he felt drunken with relief. Oddly impaired by a feeling of overwhelming rightness rather than wrong. It was so simple; the solution had been in front of his eyes the entire time. He didn't have to see her anymore. He didn't have to listen to the things she had to say or hear her baby's cries. Both Elizabeth and Minister Joe had been right. There was a way out. He had looked for it and he found it, this simple solution which he had gleaned. He had needed to leave the house. And now that he had there was nothing he could be promised that would convince him to set foot back into her domain. He was free of her out here, and he intended to stay that way.

Turning back around, he didn't break stride as he walked purposefully toward the barn. It wasn't until he was inside, his path no longer illuminated by moonlight, that he hesitated. His surroundings were unsettlingly dark, and he heard a rustling that he wasn't certain could be attributed to the barn animals. He stood frozen in place, his breaths coming quick and a chill slowly creeping up his spine as he listened carefully, painfully for the sound to reoccur.

Delphine couldn't follow him out here; she was bound to the house. What was he hearing? What was responsible for making this sound?

He listened hard for a moment or two, his sudden hesitation and lack of movement did nothing to encourage the noise to continue. He didn't hear it again. But hearing it once was enough to make his stomach turn anxiously and dissolve his euphoria. Though Del couldn't leave the house, something else could. A dark, looming figure composed of shadows. It could take him places he didn't want to go; it could make him do things he didn't want to do. Which was worse to forever endure, Delphine or this strange figure? Or both at the same time? Delphine was stuck in the house; she could not stray outside. The shadow creature was different; it seemed able to go when and where it pleased.

What was better? And what was worse? The ghost he knew or the monster he didn't? The remanence of a dead woman, bitter and angry, who meant to hurt and torture him with her actions and words. Or a shadow being who meant to overwhelm his mind and steal his body, directing and controlling his actions for no immediately foreseeable end.

Why had it taken him to the forest the night before? What was the purpose of stripping him naked and setting him upon a wandering path? Did it mean to undermine his progress in the eyes of family members? Or did it intend to force another mistake? Was it intent on ruining him? Stripping away what little independence he had regained.

Adam was lucky Hop Sing was the one who had found him wandering among the trees. Pa would not have been so gracious; the startling discovery would have awoken painful memories of a different time when Adam would wander and then be found, his body unclothed, his mind absent. That was a different time than this, the experiences of which Adam was certain were different than those he would have now. Pa wouldn't see it that way, though. Too frightened by the striking similarities, he would be unwilling to admit the differences. And there were differences between before and now.

Before, the black shadow figure had lurked, leering after Adam long before he ventured to Eastgate. It wasn't until after the desert that Adam began to experience his spells of absent wandering. The first time he recalled it happening his family had found him wandering the desert outside of Eastgate, pulling a dead man's body behind him. The power of Pa's voice had been enough to force him to come back then, because Adam hadn't yet discovered the relief remaining mentally absent could provide, how safe the depths of his subconscious could be, and who he could speak to while he was there.

In the desert, Pa had held Adam tightly, rocking him slowly as he cried. It was an instinctual condolence; Pa's slight motion as impetuous as Adam's tears. The action coupled with overbearing exhaustion had soothed Adam into a deep sleep. He dreamed of a cliff and the demon called Kane; a place where he himself could both exist and not exist at the same time.

Standing tall, the towering, jagged cliff seemed to extend infinitely as Adam sat on the edge of it, his feet dangling in the air as Kane stood behind him.

"What's going to happen now?" Adam had asked.

"There are difficulties ahead," Kane said, his voice sounding oddly pleased. "Things to be done that you won't want to do, but you must do them."

Thinking of the ghosts of Ross and Delphine and the things they were demanding, Adam sighed. "I came to you so I wouldn't have to do them. I sought you, so that they could stop seeking me."

"There is a way this could have ended," Kane said. "It won't be that way now. If you want to be angry about it, if you want someone to blame, then blame your father. He's the one who pulled you from this desert; he is the one who prevented you from doing what I asked."

"They weren't supposed to find me. I was so damn sure they never would."

"There are difficulties ahead," Kane repeated. "I want you to come to me when you feel weak. I will always answer when you call."

And, back then, Kane did. He always came when Adam called. Seeking respite in the demon's presence, Adam would spend hours and days in Kane's company on the edge of that cliff. These were occasions when Adam would appear awake but catatonic. He would be dependent upon others for every need. His family would wonder what happened, what could have or should have been done to prevent his spells of extended absences to take place. They wouldn't know the truth; though eventually Pa would begin to suspect it.

Sometimes, Adam's spells didn't just happen; their existence was facilitated by choice rather than force. Like Kane had suggested, Adam would seek refuge in the depths of his mind when things became too much to bear. When he couldn't handle listening to or seeing Ross and Delphine anymore. When his father asked him a question he couldn't dare answer, he would leave all awareness of his body behind and escape deep into the depths of his mind.

In his mind, the things Adam saw were always the same—the cliff and Kane—but the places his body traveled while he was unaware were always different. His body didn't always move without his direction, his legs moving and taking him to new locations without his command; however, there was a distinct difference between the occasions when it did and didn't. When it didn't move, when he was fortunate enough to regain his awareness in the same safe place where he had lost it, he knew his extended mental absentness had been purely self-soothing. He had chosen to lose control over his body and he had chosen to regain it again. When he lost awareness of himself in one place and came to in another, he knew he had been used, led by something. It was on occasions like this that he knew the time he had spent captive to yet another conversation on the edge of that cliff hadn't been by his choice, rather the choice of someone else.

Before he had thought it was Kane or Ross making that decision; now he knew it hadn't been, because the shadow figure had returned; it had come for him the night before and it could come for him again. And now there was no cliff, no Kane to speak to. There was nothing when he became overpowered and lost control of body and mind. No thoughts, no dreams, just a blank, vacant span of time. He would lose consciousness and control in one moment and then regain awareness in another, not knowing how much time had passed, what he had done or why.

The shadow figure had returned. It had come for him before and it could come for him again. What would happen if he wasn't around family or Hop Sing when it did? If he left the house and Del behind, who would be there to follow and keep him safe when the shadow returned to claim him again? Who would cover his body and lead him back home? Who would do any of that if he dared stray too far away?

Hop Sing had done it the night before but Adam was doubtless Pa would do the same if necessary. Adam didn't want it to be necessary; he wanted things to be so different than they were.

Shoulders sinking, his mood further deflated as the scar on his forehead began to itch. He lifted his arm absently, burrowing his finger into his thick hairline. The tip of his index finger found the scar easily; its puckered length protruded from his scalp and he ran his finger up and down it. The motion was gentle at first, then as his worry began to take hold of him, intensifying his fear and giving birth to unruly thoughts, he lost all control over the action, his fingertip first smoothing over, then scratching and digging at the pale mark on his head.

Where did this scar come from? What did it mean? Was Minister Joe right? Had something marked him? Claimed him as their own. Was it the shadow that had done such a thing? Or was the mark merely a complication? A consequence of lazy footing on steep stairs?

Where was he going when he sought out that staircase? Who was leading him there? And what were they going to do when they arrived?

Captive to his bothersome thoughts, he remained rooted in place. Surrounded by darkness, the steady purposeful movement of his fingernail digging at his scalp grounded him somehow. He found solace in the action, comfort in the sharp pain as his nail finally broke through the thickness of the scar, cutting and slicing his skin. The satisfaction of the movement overrode the stinging; though, in some distorted way, they both pleased him. The pain and the movement were both within his control. If he stopped scratching, prodding, and digging into his torn flesh with his fingernail then the pain was bound to stop too—eventually, at least.

Maybe if he scratched hard enough the scar would disappear. Perhaps if he dug his fingernail deep enough it would become something else. A mark placed upon his face by his own volition rather than someone else's; a scar he could take responsibility for rather than a mark from a devastating fall he couldn't remember.

Why had he been climbing those stairs? What the hell was he expecting to find? Was he looking for something for himself or was his body being used to seek something for someone—or something—else?

He didn't know but he longed to.

There was a time when he stood in the dark confines of the Silver Dollar's barn, a building that was not so dissimilar than the one he stood in now. Of course, the details were different but the feelings and desires leading him there were somewhat the same. Soul bulging with regret, pain, and fear, he was seeking something. Back then he was looking for answers to questions he had only begun to formulate, and now he was looking to forget both.

Minister Joe said he needed to go back. He had said he needed to consider what had happened in the past in order to have a future. Adam had removed himself from his bedroom; seeking a solution to his problem, he had liberated himself from Del's pull. He wouldn't return to the house now that he had escaped. There was nothing that could frighten him enough to implore him to do such a thing. If he had to live alongside Del's ghost then he'd rather die, because that wasn't living so much as it was merely existing.

"I'm not going back in there," he whispered, firm words meant more for himself than the animals in the barn. "I'm not doing this. I'm not letting this happen. Not this time. Not anymore."

He pulled his hand away from the side of his head, unsurprised by the wetness clinging to his skin, streaming down the distance between his fingertip and his wrist. He could feel blood oozing from his scar, trickling down the side of his face and neck only to become absorbed into the collar of his shirt. It was an unsurprising turn of events considering how hard he had gone at his scar, his motions only promising to make it more prominent. The open wound and blood on his body and clothing would be nearly impossible to explain to Pa. He didn't know how he

would explain it.

The rustling returned, sounding closer this time. Hand falling to his side, Adam clenched it into a bloody fist. There was a coolness to the air now; an unseasonable chill that left his breaths hovering in frozen clouds just beyond his lips. The barn was agonizingly quiet, save for the rustling, the telltale movements of something moving closer and closer to him. He couldn't see anything; but he seemed to feel everything. The painful clenching of his stomach, wildly turning with dread as each second passed. The tightening of his chest—a horrifying weighted contraction that withered his breath, making each shallower than the one before. He felt like someone was sitting on his torso, jumping, and pushing with vigorous force. It was such an odd sensation to have standing up. It was disturbing. Though he hadn't been knocked off his feet and held to the ground, he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see anything in the darkness of the barn.

But something was there. Watching. Waiting. What was it looking for? Or had it already found it? It had already found him.

It was coming closer and closer now. He could feel it slither through the darkness with maddening fluidly, its movements lithely and quick. He didn't have to see it to know it was the shadow. He could feel it growing around him; the dark, dense air composing its mass seemingly freezing the air.

He wanted to scream. To call out to anyone who would hear him. It wouldn't matter if it were Pa or Hop Sing, Hoss, or Little Joe. He didn't care who came running to save him this time. It wouldn't matter if he was saved. He just needed to be heard so he could be saved.

Leave me alone! He wanted to shout the words but his vocal cords refused to cooperate, dissolving the demand into a dreadful thought resounding endlessly in his mind.

Leave me alone!

Leave me alone! he vigorously thought. Then, as a cold, numbness began to envelope his body, stripping him of all control, he thought nothing at all.

Xx

The sun was rising when Adam finally came to.

Knees planted on the ground, he sat on his heels. His body was unclothed, his skin puckered by goose flesh in response to the cold morning air. He blinked once, then twice, and then a third time as he looked upon his confounding surroundings, anxiety building in his chest.

The Ponderosa's ranch house and the barn which stood just beyond it were nowhere in sight; he was no longer on land he recognized as his own. The aged remnants of a different house and barn, once tall and sturdy, sat barren and accusing in the distance. Twin wooden posts planted firmly in the ground supported a towering, antiquated head gate sign that loomed above him. He didn't need to look at the sign to know where he was. He didn't need to read the words to give title to this place. He knew where he was. He knew the trouble this land had brought him years ago and he knew the trouble it would cause him now.

"Shit," he swore breathlessly as he stared at the rubble that was once the Silver Dollar's barn. His feet moved absently beneath him, each step he unconsciously made bringing him closer and closer to where the barn had once stood. "Oh, shit."

Though the wooden structure had been ravaged by fire long ago, proof of its existence still lingered in scattered mounds. Once composed of mountainous piles of black ash, intermixed with hints of crumbling desiccated wood, the mounds weren't as sizable as they used to be. Time had transformed them; the brutality of each season had left their own mark, softening and disintegrating, then hardening and eroding the incinerated masses, converting the once mammoth blackened clusters into small, dull piles of ash. Someday there would be no proof of what had happened here, no remaining evidence of what the property had once been. Still the memories would endure—whether Adam wanted them to or not—and so would the land.

This land had once belonged to his best friend and it now belonged to him. He hadn't wanted to come here; after the events that transpired years ago which led him to set fire to both the barn and house, he had remained intent on never visiting this property again. At the time, he had been intent on doing something else too, thrusting his body off the edge of the cliff where Ross Marquette had died, hoping, and praying that the impact of the fall would be enough to take his life. Back then, he had been sick with fever but his actions had been purposeful, his thoughts painfully clear. The only way to avoid taking the life of another was to take his own. The only way to liberate himself from the ghost which haunted him was to become one himself. But it hadn't worked out that way, because Hoss had found him and intervened.

Do you ever think about it? Delphine's taunting words came rushing back. What could it have been like had you not bought our ranch? How different would your life be then?

It was something Adam thought about all time. It had been his biggest mistake—Del wasn't wrong about that. Buying the Marquette's property at auction was the worst decision he had ever made. It was terrible for a whole multitude of reasons. The way he went about it was wrong, not telling his family or even his father about his plans. The decision he had made after acquiring the property was even more erroneous; he shouldn't have left his own home in exchange for that of his deceased friends. He shouldn't have run away from his family and toward the desolating emptiness of the Silver Dollar. He should have stayed home, but his overwhelming grief hadn't allowed such a thing at the time.

He had felt haunted at home—not by Del or Ross, not yet—by the memories of was and would never be again. He was tortured by loss—by his failure to notice Ross was changing until it was too late, by his inability to help Delphine when she needed him most. If he had seen and noted the changes in Ross's demeanor sooner then maybe he could have asked Delphine the right questions; he could have thought of the right thing to say that would have allowed the future to unfold differently. But he hadn't and it didn't. The past was what it was, irrevocable and irreconcilable as he agonized over what he did and didn't do and remained tormented by what he knew and what he didn't.

Back then, to Adam, Ross had seemed normal until suddenly he wasn't. He knew Ross had died a sick man and criminal, still he couldn't seem to reconcile how his best friend had become what he was. What had pushed him to do what he had? And why hadn't Adam noticed anything out of the ordinary? How hadn't he known his best friend had become so changed?

The ceaseless, silent questions were excruciating. They hurt to consider, igniting within his heart a deep, stinging pain that seemed to intensify with each passing day. He should have asked Ross more questions the day his best friend had accused him of being inappropriate with Del. He should have tried to talk to him more than he had. He should have done something other than what had been done. Time had seemed to pass too quickly back then, each day feeling shorter and more maddening than the one that came before it. There hadn't been a lot of time to truly consider the things that were happening, or why. Born from mental instability, Ross's behaviors were unpredictable—unpreventable—they left little time for those around him to do anything other than react to each one.

There was no stopping Ross at the end. No holding him back. No saving him. It was his haphazard bullets that had forced Adam's carefully aimed one. It was Ross who had left him with no other choice. Adam's actions that day were legally permissible, still something about them had never felt morally defensible. At the time, he hadn't understood why this distinction was so important, but he understood it now.

He and Ross had been best friends, and even now, despite everything that had happened, they would always be that. Theirs was a fierce bond that would never be broken—Adam's fondness for Ross comparable to his feelings for Hoss and Joe. They had been drawn to each other from the moment they met, their quick friendship facilitated by the gleaning of an amazing fact.

They were born to different parents on the exact same day. It was a fascinating detail to discover at the time, feeling so extraordinary and utterly sublime to two young boys who hadn't yet had the opportunity to be surrounded by many other children, let alone someone who was the same age exactly. They had so much in common; their age and birthday, their respective family structures reflecting the other in perfect reverse. Ross was the youngest of three brothers, each of them born to the same mother and differing fathers. Their bond was fierce from the start, something that only intensified over the passing years. With time came a fond nickname that they would trade among themselves and a label that was given to them by others. They called each other "skinny" and other people called them "twins". They were best friends, inseparable from the start, and alongside each other they weathered the pain of change. The loss of Ross's father and Marie took place a year to the day apart. These losses would be the last corresponding events they would experience as their lives began to take drastic turns. Adam's was destined to become better, Ross's dreadfully worse.

In the years that followed, Ross would lose both his brothers to fever and eventually his mother too. He would become the last living member of the Marquette family—except for the Cartwright family and eventually Delphine—he would be alone. Still, there were plenty of things that happened before any of that. Horrid details of hidden traumas, brutal clandestine secrets that should not have been kept.

It wasn't long after his father died that Ross started turning up with bruises. There were only a few at first, a scattered marking of discolored skin not unfamiliar to form upon a rugged young boy's skin. Then there were more, too many to attribute to the rough and tumble youth. It wasn't long after the bruises appeared that Ross began to act strangely. He was distant, quiet, and cold. He still hung around Adam the usual amount but was vastly different than the friend Adam had been accustomed to. Though they were only thirteen at the time, Adam was old enough to easily discern something was wrong. If Ross's lackluster demeanor wasn't enough evidence to support his suspicion, then the deep, rope burns on his best friend's wrists were. They were odd wounds for a young man to have. Adam couldn't conceive of any logical circumstances that would lead his best friend to be wounded in such a way.

Ross had bruises on his neck, a trail of sporadic discoloration that began just below his left ear and extended, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He moved slowly as though he was sore, as if he was in pain and there were more wounds hidden beneath the rest of his clothes.

"What's happening?" Adam finally summoned the courage to ask one day.

Sitting hunched over on the sandy bank of Lake Tahoe, Ross cast Adam a careful glance. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, what's going on with the bruises? Who's doing that to you?"

Ross shook his head. "Nobody."

"It has to be somebody," Adam insisted.

"Well, it ain't."

"I don't believe you."

"Who cares what you believe?" Ross scoffed quietly. He cringed as he bent his knees and pulled them toward his chest, wrapping his arms around his calves and holding tight. To Adam, it appeared Ross was trying to make himself smaller; it was as though he wanted the ground to open and swallow him into its depths so he could avoid the conversation.

"Come on," Adam quietly pressed.

Averting his gaze to the lake waters, Ross didn't appear interested in providing an answer.

Sitting cross-legged on the ground next to him, Adam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and his chin on clenched fists. He wanted so badly to say the right thing, to ask the question that would allow Ross to feel comfortable enough to confide the truth. He couldn't find the right words. The pair sat silently for a while; their twin gazes frozen on the vastness of the lake before them.

"Don't you ever get mad at your little brothers and beat up on them?" Ross asked eventually, the question serving as a cryptic response to Adam's earlier question.

"Sure," Adam said. "But I'd never make 'em look like you. Joe's too little to really get into it with yet. Hoss and I, we get mad and shove each other around sometimes, never hard enough to really hurt or leave dark bruises."

"You're a good older brother, Adam. I wish my older brothers were more like you."

"Ross, are your brothers the ones hurting you?"

"They don't hurt me," Ross denied. The response was a little too quick, his tone of voice and little too weak to be truly believed. "It's just roughhousing. They're just tougher with me than they used to be. When Pa was alive, he didn't like us being rough on each other, but that's a rule that died along with him."

"Can't your ma tell them to quit?"

"She can't control them," Ross scoffed. "She doesn't even try. I think she's afraid of them."

In Ross's eyes, Adam saw he was afraid of them too. He couldn't blame his best friend for that. Something about the two oldest Marquette boys was decidedly intimidating. Eight and six years older than Ross, they were big, both in girth and height. They seemed to tower threateningly over Adam whenever he was around them. Their demeanors were obnoxious, belligerent, and crass. Though limited, their vocabulary included more than a few words and phrases that weren't suited for the ears of women or children. They had a penchant for violence and habitual drinking; they had been known to be the cause of many a bar fight and to rough up the occasional saloon girl. When their father was alive, they had the decency to hide their illicit activities. Now that he was gone, they didn't bother concealing much of anything. Adam avoided them when he could and gave them wide berth when he couldn't. He knew they were bullies; he knew Mrs. Marquette could do little to impact their behavior; and now he knew they needed to be stopped by someone. It wasn't right for an older brother to beat on a younger one the way they were Ross. Someone needed to stick up to them. Someone needed to help.

"I can ask my pa to help," Adam offered. "He's really scary sometimes when he gets mad. If he knew your brothers were hurting you, he wouldn't be happy. He'd get after them hard enough that I'm sure they'd never do it again."

"No!" Ross said firmly. "It's just roughhousing. Don't go running to your pa over it. It ain't a big deal, okay?"

Adam was certain the situation was the furthest thing from okay. "But Ross—"

"No buts! No nothing. Don't tell your pa, Adam. I mean it. Promise you won't tell anyone what I just told you."

"If it's not a big deal then why can't I tell anyone?"

"Because I'm your best friend and I asked you not to. Promise me!"

Adam cast Ross an uneasy glance. It wasn't a promise he wanted to commit himself to. Something about the situation was terribly wrong, he could feel it. There was something vile about the bruises covering his friend's body; something deeply bothersome about Ross's jittery determination to keep what was happening a secret.

"Ross—"

"I mean it!" Though Ross's tone was firm, there was a glimmer of fear in his eyes. "You can't tell anyone. I swear, if you repeat any of what I just told you, I won't be friends with you anymore. I'll hate you forever, Adam. I will."

Adam had never known Ross to be so serious or make such dire threats. He knew he shouldn't commit himself to the promise he was being implored to. He knew it was wrong. It was so obvious that Ross needed help—adult interference to put an end to his older brothers' vicious behavior.

"Promise me!" Ross demanded. Extending his arm, he gripped Adam's wrist and held on a little too tightly. "I need to hear you say it!"

"You're hurting me," Adam said as he struggled to emancipate himself from Ross's malicious hold. "Let me go!"

"Then promise me!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

A stinging pain radiated up Adam's arm as Ross's fingertips began to break through his skin. His friend's actions were going to leave marks; they were going to be difficult to hide from Pa and impossible to explain once they were inevitably noticed.

"Ross, let go!"

Ross's grip only tightened. "Not until you promise," he said insistently, his voice carrying a bitter edge.

"Fine!" Adam abruptly conceded, desperate for the grip to be broken.

"Say the words! Promise!"

"I promise!"

"To what?"

"I promise I won't tell!"

Adam expelled a deep breath as Ross finally released him, then gasped as he held his now injured wrist in his opposite hand. Ross's nails had cut deep, leaving puckered crescent shaped marks oozing and dripping blood. He was more shocked by the person who had left the wounds than the pain of them. He couldn't believe what desperation had led Ross to do.

"Jesus," Adam swore, the word no more than a shocked whisper. "I'm bleeding. You really hurt me."

Wrapping his hands back around his legs, Ross rested his chin on his knees and didn't reply.

Pulling his shirtsleeve down, Adam hid his bleeding wounds, but he couldn't ignore the evidence of what had happened marking his friend's hand. Ross's bloodstained fingertips served as silent proof of the troublesome interaction.

Standing in front of the remains of the Silver Dollar's incinerated barn, Adam absently rubbed his naked wrist, the memory of what Ross had done so long ago lingering in the forefront of his mind. The cuts Ross's fingertips left behind had healed without issue; Adam had no visible scars of what had happened between them that day. Fear and pain had remained, however, rendering Adam unable to confide the truth to Pa. He was afraid of betraying Ross's trust and losing him as a friend. He was hurt by his actions; he couldn't believe his best friend had deliberately hurt him, used physical pain to intimate and force a desired response.

Adam never told Pa what happened between them that day, even when his wrist became incredibly swollen, the small cuts angry and inflamed and demanding medical intervention. The dirt from Ross's nails had embedded itself beneath Adam's skin and infection had festered. It wasn't until the pain became so unbearable that he could no longer button his shirt sleeve and hardly move his wrist that Adam finally shared the wounds with Pa.

Pa had been intensely worried, furious at the unknown assailant who was responsible for hurting his son. "You're lucky you didn't lose your hand, Adam," he had said. "You should have come to me a lot sooner; those cuts shouldn't have been allowed to fester so long. Who did it, son? I need to know so I can ensure they never do it again."

Though Pa asked him repeatedly for a name, Adam never provided one. It was a decision he hadn't thought much about as a child; his loyalty to his best friend was automatic. Though he couldn't protect Ross from his brothers, he could protect his friend from his father's wrath.

Now, as a grown man, Adam was haunted by the decision. If only he had known then what he knew now, then he would have made a different choice. If only he would have been older then maybe he would have had the wisdom to understand that the marks he could see on Ross's body were mild in comparison to the ones he couldn't. He had been so young, so naïve; he couldn't have suspected what kind of nightmares were occurring in secret in the Marquette house.

Still, there were hints along the way, strange incidents involving Ross and his occasional, odd reactions to seemingly normal things that served as small glimpses of a much larger, more sinister picture. Ross's quiet demeanor endured. He barely spoke, and when he did, he displayed either a jittery nervousness or overwhelming anger. Looking back, it was obvious something had been very wrong. As a boy, Adam didn't have the cognizance to interpret and fully understand what but eventually someone else did.

It was raining the afternoon Sheriff Coffee made the ride to the Ponderosa. There was a grim seriousness to his expression, a sadness in his eyes that took Adam aback when he first opened the door and found the man standing on the other side. Sheriff Coffee had come to talk to Pa. Little Joe was already napping and Pa sent Adam and Hoss upstairs to quietly keep each other company while the men completed their conversation. Nearly two hours had passed before Pa came to check on them. Joe was awake by then, playing on the floor of Adam's bedroom with a set of wooden blocks while Hoss and Adam worked on their homework. Pa told Hoss to stay put and with Joe; then, forcing a small smile, he offered his hand to Adam and tilted his head at the bedroom door.

"Sheriff Coffee and I need to talk to you," he said softly.

"Am I in trouble?" Adam asked.

"No," Pa said.

"Then what do we have to talk about?"

Pa glanced at Hoss and then looked back at Adam and shook his head. "Come on," he said as Adam finally stood.

Wrapping his extended arm around his son's shoulders, Pa ushered him from the room and down the stairs where Sheriff Coffee was waiting. He wasn't where Adam expected him to be; he had anticipated Coffee would be sitting next Pa's desk. Instead, he stood in front of the fireplace. Hands planted just above the gun belt hanging on his hips, he offered Adam a gentle smile.

"Heya, Adam," he greeted, his tone a little too soft.

"Hi," Adam said.

"I need to ask you a few questions if that's alright with you," Coffee said.

Nodding, Adam couldn't recall a time when an adult had ever asked a child for permission to question them. It was a decidedly odd thing to do. It ignited within him a nauseating level of anxiety. Something was wrong; he could feel it in the air. He could see it in the forced calm demeanors of both the sheriff and Pa.

Silently indicating Adam should sit down on the settee, Pa sat next to him and rested a reassuring arm across his shoulder. "Sheriff Coffee is going to ask you some questions, son," he said. "I want you to answer truthfully, no matter how afraid you might be to do so. I want you to remember that I love you very much; there is nothing you could ever tell me that would change that."

The assurance was deeply unsettling. "What's wrong?" Adam asked, looking between the two men. "What happened?"

"That's what I'm here to find out," Coffee said. "You're familiar with Ross Marquette's older brothers?"

"Sure," Adam said.

"How familiar?" Coffee asked.

The question itself was simple; it was the answer that was difficult. "I don't know," Adam said. "Ross is my best friend, so, I guess, I see his brothers from time to time."

"What are they like?" Coffee asked.

"I don't know," Adam deflected. "They're rough, I guess. Mean."

Sheriff Coffee's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "They mean to you?"

"Sometimes," Adam said. "I guess."

"How mean?" Coffee probed.

Adam shrugged.

"They ever do things to you?" Coffee asked. "Tie you up? Hurt you? Make you take off—?"

"Gently, Roy," Pa warned firmly. "If my son isn't aware of certain perversions of men then I would like to keep it that way."

"Perversions?" Adam asked.

"Well, I don't know how else to ask it other than being direct," Sheriff Coffee said. "Adam, did either of them older Marquette boys ever touch you?"

"Touch me?" Adam frowned. He didn't fully understand the implication hiding behind the question. The only thing he seemed able to recall was his conversation with Ross at the lake and the explanation his friend had given for his bruises. "You mean... roughhousing?"

The worry of the men in the room was immediate. Coffee and Pa spoke in unison, twin grim expressions on their faces.

"Is that what they call it?" Coffee asked.

"Roughhousing?" Pa asked.

"Yeah," Adam said. "Like pushing each other around and such."

Pa and Sheriff Coffee exchanged a serious look.

"What's the "and such?"" Coffee asked carefully.

"I don't know," Adam said. "Picking on each other. Shoving one another around."

"Do they ever shove you around?" Coffee asked.

"No," Adam said.

"Have they ever touched you in a way that you felt was wrong?" Pa asked.

"I don't know," Adam said quietly. "I guess. Shane tripped me once but that was a while ago. I do my best to stay away from them, because something about them just feels... wrong. They don't have to do anything to make me feel uncomfortable. Being around them is enough."

The explanation seemed to hang in the air around them for a few moments as Coffee and Pa stared at each other, seemingly exchanging a series of silent questions. It felt like an eternity passed before either man looked at him once more.

"You're sure there's nothing else they've done that you might want to tell us about?" Coffee asked.

"I'm sure," Adam said.

Coffee transferred his attention to Pa; they looked at each other for several long seconds, the sheriff seemingly silently asking whether Adam's explanation should be believed. Face frozen with grim seriousness, Pa didn't seem to give any indication one way or another—if he did, it was a silent response that Adam couldn't glean or missed completely.

"Alright," Coffee said. "That's enough for me, I suppose."

As a boy Adam hadn't understood the gravity of the conversation; he hadn't been able to decipher what the sheriff and his father had been asking. As a man he knew the importance of the discussion; the truth was all so painfully clear now.

Standing in front of the ruins of a property that had once kept so many secrets, Adam was assaulted with a glaring truth that could no longer be ignored or denied. Minister Joe was right; it wasn't wise to disregard the past. There were certain things that shouldn't be forgotten. Although, it wasn't as though they had been. The truth about what the maliciousness of Ross's brothers was not something Adam had truly overlooked. Even as an adult he recalled them as callous and cruel. There were details surrounding his memories of them that he had forgotten, however—things he had willed himself to forget. He didn't want to remember them now, but the shadow figure had come; taking ahold of his body, it had transported him to a place where the memories couldn't be ignored and the past could no longer be denied.

It was the evening after Adam's conversation with Sheriff Coffee and Pa that Ross Marquette came to stay with them. Pa had sat his three sons down in line on the settee, Adam, Hoss, and even Little Joe though he was too young to really comprehend what was being said. Pa told them Ross was going to live with them for a while. He said they were to give him space when he wanted it; they were to leave him alone if he didn't want to be around them or talk.

Ross remained with them for months. He was quiet at first, distant and sullen. Finding himself in a house full of people, he preferred to be alone. In the moments when this wasn't allowed, Ross seemed to sit on the sidelines of the family. Curiously watching, carefully studying how they all interacted. He would watch Adam and his younger brothers as they fought and played, pushed each other down and helped one another up. He seemed most interested in the way Hoss and Adam could yell at each other one moment and then laugh together the next. He seemed particularly impressed by how gentle and patient both Adam and Hoss were with Little Joe. This didn't make a lot of sense to Adam, because he had Ross and been friends for years. Ross had seen the Cartwright brothers interact before; there was nothing about what he was seeing that should have come as a shock or surprise.

Adam watched as Pa kept Ross close; he did his best to weather and negotiate the boy's internal storms. It wasn't uncommon for Pa and Ross to take evening walks together. It was even less uncommon for Ross to act out in a way which required a visit to the barn. When he wasn't impossibly quiet, he was a ball of fury, always testing how far Pa's boundaries could be pushed.

Over time, Ross began to settle back into himself, his demeanor calming as he began to resemble the friend Adam once knew. A strong rapport formed between Pa and Ross, a trust that would extend for years. Adam knew Ross viewed Ben as a substitute father, and Pa saw Ross as another son. It was a relationship that endured long after Ross returned home to the Silver Dollar and his mother.

As time passed, the memories of the older Marquette brothers, Ross's swift change in demeanor and the time he had spent living at the Ponderosa were pushed further and further from Adam's mind. His recollection of that time weakened with each passing year until he forgot the oddness of the series of events. He forgot about the promises he had made and he mistook the truth surrounding these events.

Though he recalled Ross living with them when they were boys, he began to believe it was because of something else. A deadly flu outbreak had been ravaging the territory at the time; it had claimed numerous lives of townsfolk and nearby ranch families. The two older Marquette brothers were among those lost. It was these events that convoluted the truth. Adam had once believed Ross had come to stay with them because his older brothers contracted the sickness. They had been dying from fever and he needed somewhere to go where he would be safe. Even now, it seemed like such a logically composed memory. Easily accepted and believed. It took years and losing both Ross and Delphine for Adam to suddenly realize the narrative he had created surrounding those events was false.

It was the endless questioning, prompted by the pain of not knowing the truth of what caused Ross to act how he had toward the end of his life—the sudden seemingly unexplainable, startling changes in demeanor and his violent actions—that led Adam to glean the truth surrounding the events of the past. It was this truth that guided Adam away from Pa, leading him to buy Ross's property; it was Ross's property that led him to something else. The truth he had spent years of his life running away from. Terrible things had happened here, the horrifying details of which had been conveniently ignored and eventually forgotten by the people who had endured them but would be eternally recalled by the ground beneath his feet.

Sighing heartily, Adam turned his attention to the area surrounding him, his eyes hopefully scanning for his discarded clothes. They couldn't be that far away from his body; they never were. As he looked, he was taken by another truth that couldn't be denied. Pa had probably awoken by now. Finding Adam missing, he was bound to be worried and out searching for him with Hoss and Joe. It wouldn't be seemly if they came upon him without clothes. How he had come to be where he was going hard enough to explain. The distance between where he began last night and ended up this morning was too vast to have been traveled by a man on foot in the timeframe he had done so.

It didn't take him long to locate his pants and belt, and he put them on quickly. It took him longer to find his shirt, its collar stained with dried blood, and even longer than that to realize he hadn't been wearing any boots to find. He didn't locate his socks. The clothes he did find were scattered around the remains of the ranch house; it was as they had been planted to lead him to it, so he could stand in front of its wreckage and be confronted with more truths.

The remains of this structure were like those of the barn. The only proof of its existence lay in the sporadic piles of ash on the ground. Pulling his shirt over his shoulders, Adam buttoned the front of it slowly, his gaze frozen on the scattering of footprints embedded in the ash. The footprints were his, he was certain of that, but for the slightest of seconds he almost thought they could have belonged to someone else.

This was where he had first seen Ross's ghost; this was where his troubles truly began. Weeks after he had purchased the property, he finally summoned the courage to set foot upon it. He had expected it to be painful, for its vast emptiness to sting and hurt. He hadn't expected to find anything tangible. He never could have predicted what happened next. What he would see, what his fear and shock would lead him to do.

Turning in place, Adam glanced at the head gate once more, then set his attention on the landscape beyond it. He hadn't wanted to come here. He had once sworn he would never set foot on this property again. There was no purpose to coming back to this place and recalling a past that could neither be accepted nor changed. Ross was dead; his ghost had been appeased and it was gone. Del was the one who still lingered. The memories this land had awoken within Adam had little do with her. Except they did, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. What happened to her—the things Ross had and hadn't done—had everything to do with the pain of the past.

Staring at the horizon, he noticed movement in the distance. There was a rider approaching; his time alone was nearing its end. He couldn't truly identify the horse or the person who sat upon it from afar, but he didn't need to. There was only one person it could be.

Taking a deep breath, Adam waited, bracing himself for the difficulty of the conversation to come.

Xx

Pa was bound to be furious—this Adam knew from the moment his father arrived.

He didn't look at Pa, noting his body language or expression to determine the specifics of his mood. Adam didn't need to. Gaze set on the area where the Silver Dollar's ranch house once stood, he could feel Pa's anger and worry, his frustration over the confusing situation coupled with a pinch of relief.

"Adam," Pa greeted, his voice eerily calm as he stood a few paces behind his wayward son.

Back facing his father, his attention remaining fixed on the footprints embedded in the piles of ash, Adam didn't reply. He didn't have anything of value to say. He couldn't conceive of a proper explanation.

"You don't have anything to say to me?" Pa asked. "You can't even turn around and look at me? Or at least allow me to get a good look at you. What happened last night? How did you get here on foot?"

Adam ignored the question. He hadn't wanted to come here; he hadn't wanted to remember. The shadow figure had taken a hold of him; bringing him back to this land, it demanded the past be recalled. Now he couldn't deny what he remembered. He couldn't change how it made him feel or how its truth served as such a glaring answer to an inexplicable question he had once so painfully sought: What had happened to make Ross change so drastically before his death?

Back then, Adam hadn't had the strength to remember the truth. He hadn't had the courage to see what was so obvious now. He didn't see the answer before, but eventually he saw something else.

After buying the Silver Dollar at auction, it had taken him weeks to work up the nerve to visit the property. He had barely been able to tolerate knowing that Ross and Del were dead. He was not eager to set foot upon their land, the emptiness of which would only serve to highlight the pain of the loss and intensify his guilt over everything that happened. Weeks passed, each day seeming more painful than the one before as Adam gave into his sorrow and grief.

Pulling further and further away from his father and family, he began to drink more and more. He avoided conversations with his father; he avoided looking honestly upon himself, his drinking, and his behavior. He dreaded the dawning of the day when he would have to do both; one would facilitate the other. It wouldn't matter which occurred first—Pa catching up to him or his conscience—because the result would be the same. More grief, more pain, more regret, and loss. A conversation wouldn't change what had happened to Del or Ross; owning up to his own sins wouldn't help Adam feel better about the way things were.

"Adam," Pa said. "What happened last night?"

Adam shook his head. Nothing had happened last night—at least not anything he could remember. But he remembered the day he finally summoned the courage to visit this property for the first time since Ross's death. At the time, he hadn't felt comfortable allowing anyone to join him, though he knew he shouldn't have gone alone. Hoss had offered to come; he had previously requested that if Adam were up to the visit that he be allowed to go. This was a request that Adam just couldn't abide by. He wanted to do it alone; he needed to be alone.

"It doesn't make sense," Pa said. "Even you must understand that. You have no horse, no boots, but somehow you walked barefoot, miraculously spanning a distance you should not have been able to travel in the time you were missing."

It was an improbable feat, impossible to properly explain.

"You don't have anything to say?" Pa asked. "Are we so suddenly back to where we began? With me asking questions and you not talking at all? It isn't enough that you allow yourself to be tortured by your secrets, but you have to torture the rest of us too?"

Pausing, Pa expelled an exasperated sigh. Adam knew his father was waiting for a response. One wouldn't come. Not now. Not yet. Not ever if he had his way.

"Son," Pa implored, "if you do not want to say anything, then at least turn around so I know I am being heard."

Though he was tempted to ignore the soft order, Adam adhered to it instead. It was the least he

could do after the worry and trouble he had caused.

"God almighty," Pa gasped, his face etched with horror. Closing the gap between him and Adam, he grasped his son's chin and inspected the gaping wound that had once been a mere scar. "What did you do to yourself?"

Adam had forgotten about the wound and the telltale streaks of blood marking his fingertips. He cringed painfully as Pa gently inspected the deepened lesion.

"This needs to be cleaned," Pa said. "And stitched up. It may have stopped bleeding but the wound is… deep and open. What on earth possessed you? What happened last night?"

Adam wondered those things himself.

"Adam, please say something. At least give me an inclination that you understand what I'm saying to you."

"I'm sorry," Adam said simply as he pulled out of his father's grip. "I didn't want to come here."

"Then why did you?"

"I didn't."

"You did."

"I couldn't help it."

"Because of Delphine?"

They were talking about different occasions now. Pa was focused on the night before while Adam was fixated on another time, when the name on the deed of the property they stood upon was changed to reflect his last name. He hadn't wanted to buy this property; he just hadn't been able to conceive of it belonging to anyone else.

"Your bedroom door was closed but your window was left open," Pa said. His voice was soft as though he was recounting a series of events to a child who was having trouble understanding them. "It was not difficult to figure out how you left the house or why. Delphine must have been fiercely bothering you if your only choice was to climb out the window."

"I shouldn't have come here," Adam repeated, his mind set on the past. "But I didn't see any other option at the time."

"You did have other options. You could have called out; you could have come to me and I would have helped you ignore her. You could have made it through the night without further issue."

"No." Adam shook his head. "That wasn't an option. Not back then."

"Back then?" Pa's confusion was obvious. "Son, what are you—?"

"I didn't want to come here." Adam looked at the remains of the house, his footprints scattered among the ash. He couldn't deny what he had done. The evidence still lay upon the ground for everyone to see. "I'm not even sure I remember why I did. No." He shook his head. "That's a lie. I know why I came. I was drunk. I wasn't thinking clearly. I wasn't thinking at all."

Pa seemed to take note of the importance of what was being said; he seemed to finally understand Adam was not speaking about recent events. "Tell me," he whispered.

"I was up early that morning. I never did seem to sleep much back then. If I wasn't dreaming of Kane then I was dreaming of Ross and the day he died, of me firing my gun, killing him over and over again. It was the memories of a moment that haunted my dreams. It was real but it had passed. It hurt because I couldn't take it back. I couldn't change it. It was just a memory that haunted me back then, but then I came here and I became haunted by something else."

Closing his eyes, Adam was surprised by the strength of the memory, how clearly each detail remained with him—despite the time had passed and despite a drunken haze in which he had first experienced the events. He couldn't sleep, so he had woken early that morning and left home before his Pa or brothers had risen. Heading into Virginia City, he had celebrated the rising of the sun sitting on a barstool. He had remained there until the early afternoon, when Frank Mitchel entered the saloon with similar intentions. Adam hadn't been in a mood for a disagreement or fight—not that he was well equipped for one. The morning had left him far from sober, his emotions a little too close to the surface. He had taken his leave of the saloon and the town—and nearly a full bottle of whiskey with him.

"I was drunk," Adam repeated as he opened his eyes. "And still drinking. It was difficult to climb upon Sport, and I struggled to remain in the saddle when I finally did. I don't remember directing him where to take me. I don't remember really thinking about it. I think I knew I couldn't go home, not looking the way that I was. I think maybe Sport knew that too."

When Sport had come to an abrupt stop near the hitching post in front of the Silver Dollar's ranch house, Adam had nearly fallen off the horse's back. He maintained his seat by dropping the whiskey bottle on the ground. His hands gripped the saddle tightly as the impact of the fall, blemished the exterior of the glass bottle, leaving it irrevocably marred with spiderwebbed cracks. Miraculously, though he swayed in the saddle, he didn't fall off the horse and the bottle didn't leak any of its contents despite its damage. It was strange the things he remembered about that day. The details forever imprinted into his memory of seemingly unimportant things. He had no business recalling the detail about the whiskey bottle being dropped and cracked. He didn't recall dismounting Sport or retrieving the bottle, though he knew he had done both.

"I shouldn't have come here," Adam whispered. Though he was staring at his father, his attention was rooted in the past. "I shouldn't have bought this property. I should have left things alone."

"What happened? What changed that day?"

"Everything." Adam shrugged. "And nothing at the same time."

"Then what would avoiding coming here done?" Pa asked. His tone had changed, prolonged gentleness transforming into the telltale deepness of inquisitive thought. He was no longer speaking to Adam as though his son was afraid or confused. He was speaking to him normally, as though the last few years hadn't even existed, as though recent events had no bearing on the conversation. He was asking purposeful questions and he was expecting Adam to explain calmly and rationally what had happened in the hope that maybe they could both understand.

But how exactly did one explain the inexplicable? How did they even try?

"It wouldn't have changed how I felt about what happened," Adam said. "But it would have changed what happened next."

He had picked up the discarded bottle of whiskey and gone inside the house. The sound of his footsteps seemed impossibly loud as he took one step after another, leaving a trail of dusty footprints behind. The windows of the house were boarded up; the interior of the home was incredibly dark. He remembered being slightly afraid of his surroundings. Something about the eerie darkness felt inherently bad. Something about the house felt terribly wrong.

"I went into the house," Adam said carefully. "The air inside of it was foul. Thick. I remember having trouble breathing, like I was going to be sick. I remember thinking I had drunk too much and that's why I was feeling so poorly. But it wasn't just that. It was something else."

Something was wrong, he had known that then. Wrong with day, with the house, with the dark air inside of it. Still, he kept going, taking one step after another, his legs seeming to move by their own volition. His stomach turned with sickness, a layer of cold sweat forming on his skin. It clung to his clothes, leaving them damp and weighted as they stuck to his body. The clothes felt so stifling and heavy, restricting his movements, and making him feel increasingly claustrophobic. He remembered wanting to remove them. He remembered wanting to turn around and run. Something was wrong, he had felt that then. There was something wrong with the house, with the thoughts in his head and the movement of his body. He wanted to turn around and run. But he didn't. He kept walking instead.

"You went inside of the house," Pa said.

Turning in place, Adam looked upon his footprints in the piles of ash, suddenly unsure of continuing. How much of the truth should he share? How much should he keep for only himself? He thought of the memories he had recalled about Ross, hints of things that had happened to his best friend in the house when he was a boy. He hadn't remembered those things when he entered the house that day, but, looking back now, Adam wondered if he had felt them instead. Terrible things had happened inside of that house, first between Ross and his brothers and then later between Ross and Delphine. Terrible, horrible, unspeakable things.

Walking through the darkened confines, Adam had known all the people who had enacted and endured these abhorrent and heinous events were dead, but somehow it felt like hints of their evils had prevailed, continuing without them. He didn't have intimate knowledge of the events; he wasn't aware of each individual crime. But he could feel the pain of what happened there. All the screams, pleas, and cries, all that pain and fear, anger and resentment hung in the dark air like a billowing cloud intent on suffocating him and swallowing him into its depths. Though the people who had been wronged were gone, the memories of what had happened to them lived inside of the house. At the time, Adam couldn't have explained the things he was feeling. He couldn't have defined what had caused all the lingering pain, but he felt it all. It was the house that had made him sick; it had infected him with a feverish disposition, leaving him with little control over his emotions and no desire to control his actions.

"The house was dark," Adam said flatly. "I remember being drunk; I remember feeling sick." Lifting his hand, he stared at his empty palm. "I had a bottle of whiskey in my hand when I went in. When I came back out, the bottle was gone."

"Empty?" Pa asked.

"No. Just... gone. It had disappeared."

"What happened in between?"

"What?"

"You said you went in and then you came out. What happened while you were inside?"

Adam didn't know how long he had stayed inside the house. He had no real memory of what had happened to him while he was there. No, that wasn't true; he knew what had happened, what he had felt and seen. It was a piece of the truth he remained unwilling to share. The sudden glimmer of light that had appeared in the darkness, illuminating the outline of a familiar face and the whisper that had followed, the uttering of a greeting so wanted that it brought tears to Adam's eyes.

"Hiya, Skinny. I've been waiting. It's nice of you to finally show up."

"I don't remember," Adam said. "I lost all concept of time. It was afternoon when I went inside of the house, and night had settled when I finally came out."

"So, a great deal of time did pass," Pa said.

"Not really."

"Hours," Pa insisted, holding strong to whatever opinion of the events he had formed. "And you're sure you don't remember anything?" His eyes narrowed with suspicion. "You remember going in, and you remember coming out. There is nothing else you recall that might shed some light on the situation?"

"No." Frowning, Adam held strong to his conviction—his stubborn determination to keep some details hidden away. The things Ross's ghost had said to him when he first showed himself wasn't for anyone else to know. It didn't really matter what was said that day; the only thing that mattered was what came after. At first, Ross's ghost hadn't instilled within Adam fear; his presence seemed more like a gift than a plague. He had been kind, forgiving and familiar. He didn't blame Adam for the way things had gone; he didn't blame him for anything at all. Not then. Not yet.

"I'm sorry," Adam had said, expelling two words that seemed to do little to express the deepness of his pain.

"You're my best friend in the world," Ross had said, his lips curling into a smile. "I know you like I know myself. If somebody had to kill me, then I'm glad it was you."

Ross didn't explicitly say why he was glad, and at the time, Adam couldn't conceive of requesting a further explanation. He didn't think he needed one, because he thought he understood. He hadn't really, though. Not then. Not yet.

"What happened after?" Pa asked.

"I went home," Adam said. "I don't remember the ride, but I remember sitting in the barn for a long time. Must have been too long, because you joined me after a while."

"Do you remember what we talked about?"

"We didn't talk."

Pa tilted his head, his brows furrowing with thought. Adam wasn't certain if his father was struggling to remember the interaction himself or if he was deciding on whether it was important if Adam did or not. What was the harm of ignoring the lie? Though blatant, it was small; it added no real value to anything.

Expelling a deep-chested sigh, Pa settled his hands on his hips. "We did talk," he said. "Would you like assistance in remembering what about?"

Eyes narrowing with disdain, Adam frowned. Now was the point of this? What was the purpose of drawing attention to a conversation that had taken place so long ago? "No," he said.

"Because you do remember the conversation," Pa said.

"No, because it doesn't matter."

"Yes, it does. Your unwillingness to speak of it declares its importance."

"I said I don't remember what we talked about."

"Yes, I know. And I'm saying you do."

Adam shook his head. It was so long ago now, what did it matter what had taken place back then? If they both recalled what had happened and been said then what was the point repeating it? Wasn't knowing enough?

"Prolonged hard liquoring has a way of affecting a man's memory," Pa said. "Making him look upon the memories of past events through a discolored lens, but I'm sure I don't need to tell you that. Given the intensity of your struggles during that time, I'm sure there are many things you think you remember and others you don't."

"I remember that day just fine."

"You were still drunk when you came home that night, Adam. That whiskey bottle you said was lost when you entered the house was empty in your hand when I came upon you in our barn."

"It wasn't the same one," Adam disagreed.

The bottle he had lost in the house was different than the one Pa had found him clutching. The former bottle was cracked, damaged by its fall, the latter was perfect. A pristine unopened bottle he had stowed in his saddlebag for safe keeping. Pa was right, the drinking had impacted his memory; he didn't remember riding home; the strength of the liquor he had consumed on the way had dissolved the memory. But he remembered sitting on a hay bale in the barn, clutching the empty bottle as the world seemed to spin around him and his vision blurred. He was too drunk to walk on his own and too damn afraid of entering the house for fear of enduring what Pa would inevitably say. It wasn't his proudest of moments; as far as memories went this was one of the worst to be forced to recall. There was just so much shame attached to it. So much regret.

Sitting on the hay bale too drunk to face his family, Adam had been a man. But when his father entered the barn, when he finally walked close enough for the sternness of his expression to come into view, Adam had felt like a boy. And worse than that, he had felt the fear of a boy who couldn't summon the courage to face his father after doing wrong.

"I wish you would just do it," Adam had said.

"Do what?" Pa had asked.

"Yell at me and get it over with."

Pa's anger, his displeasure over finding his son in such an impeded state was obvious. Adam could see it in his rigid posture and the lines on his face. But sitting next to Adam, Pa spoke with great calmness and care.

"I'm not going to yell at you," he said. "If you were still a child—a teenage boy," he qualified, "and you came home like this, then I would yell. I'd give you a talking to you'd never forget. But you aren't a boy; you're grown. You are old enough to make decisions for yourself; at your age you are aware that each one you make comes with responsibility and potential repercussions. You don't need me to tell you that."

"Then why did you come out here?"

"Because I think you need me to tell you something else. Ross was grown too, son. He was responsible for all his actions, even as difficult as they are to accept now. He chose how he wanted to live and how he wanted to die. With each and every one of his actions, he decided what kind of man he wanted to be. And whether you choose to see it or not, that's what you're doing now too. How long is it going to take, Adam? How much do you have to change? How long do you have to torture yourself for what happened before you decide it's been enough to atone for something you had no choice but to do?"

Adam shook his head. He didn't know. How much suffering made up for causing death? It didn't seem right that he should be allowed to live without pain; it didn't seem right that he was allowed to live at all.

"Ross is dead, Pa," Adam whispered. His words were slightly slurred, his throat suddenly a little too tight. Why did Pa have to speak to him so kindly? Why couldn't he just yell?

"Yes, I know, but you are still alive."

"I wish I wasn't. I wish it had been me. I wish he would have killed me instead."

"Don't say that. You're full of liquor and grief. Right now, your pain feels impossible to overcome. It won't always be like this. Time is a friend. Over time, your pain will become less and you'll be able to think clearly again. One day, you will look back on Ross's actions and they will make sense to you in a way that you can't see now."

Standing in front of the ruins of the Silver Dollar, Adam looked at Pa and then back at the piles of ash, the stinging statement echoing in his mind, declaring a truth he wanted so badly not to see.

Was this the purpose of bringing him to this place? So, he could recall the truth about what happened to Ross as a child and therefore discover the truth about someone else? Adam had never had trouble taking responsibility for his own omissions and lies, it was the omissions of those he loved most that he had difficulty addressing or drawing attention to. Still, he had to do it. In this moment, he did. If the shadow figure bringing him to this place didn't seem to demand such a thing, then his sudden anger toward his father did. Adam wasn't alone in creating his false narrative about the past—dismissing the actions of Ross's brothers and creating different explanations for specific spans of time—Pa had been a little too eager to help him with that.

Despite his conversation with Sheriff Coffee Pa about the older Marquette brothers and Ross's subsequent stay at the Ponderosa, Adam and Pa never talked further about either event. Pa hadn't volunteered any more information and Adam had never dared ask. He didn't want to ask. It was so much easier not to talk about it. To allow time to soothe the pain of the events, filing down the once sharp edges of the pain attached to them, revising, and transforming them into something else. Adam had once thought it was a devastating wave of fever that had brought Ross into their home when they were adolescents, but it was the dark cavernous insides of the abandoned Silver Dollar ranch house that declared the truth.

"Can you feel them?" Ross's ghost had asked. "The memories of the things that happened in this house. The secrets that have been so carefully kept by these walls. It's a good thing houses don't talk, Skinny. They can't tell people about the horrors they've witnessed."

"But they do," Adam had said, his voice a low gasp as he fought to take each breath. The air of the house was too thick to breathe, too toxic to sustain any life. He could feel the evil surrounding him, stealing his breath, and crushing his chest. He hadn't seen any of the horrors that had happened here, but he felt them. Their memories surrounded him, moving closer and closer until they were pressed upon his body. He felt like someone was touching him, grasping, and squeezing, sharp fingernails breaking through his skin. He wanted to scream but he couldn't. He couldn't breathe; he couldn't think; he couldn't see visible proof of what was surrounding him. He couldn't see anything, but he felt everything.

"You shouldn't have come here," Ross said, his voice carrying a sudden edge. "But I am damn glad you did. It's about time somebody remembered what happened here. It's about fucking time somebody told the truth about some of the secrets hiding behind these walls. How about we start with yours?"

"I know you remember our conversation," Pa said, blunt, startling words that rescued Adam from the memory and re-rooted him in the present. "I can tell by the expression on your face."

"That's not all I remember," Adam said, his gaze focused on the footsteps in the ash. Once there was a house that stood here, the secrets of the past so carefully hidden away in its walls. He should have remembered what happened inside of it long before he actually did. He should have had the courage to see it when Ross and Del were still alive. He should have been wise enough to stay away from this property after they had died. This land held nothing but struggle and pain for those who owned it. "All this time, you knew what happened here. You knew the things Ross's older brothers did to him and you never said anything."

Pa was visibly surprised, taken aback by the abrupt turn in conversation. "You remember that time?"

"I didn't before. I do now."

Pa nodded grimly. "I see."

"You don't have anything to say? No wisdom to impart regarding what happened here? Or why you never told me the truth about it."

"What happened to Ross when he was a boy was horrendous," Pa said quietly. "Those of us who eventually gleaned the truth, did what was required to protect him. We put an end to it. There was little point in discussing the unseemly nature of such things after they were done. And there is no purpose in recalling those memories now."

"What was the purpose of recalling it back then? You asked me if I remembered our conversation in the barn the night I came home. I do. I remember what you told me. You said one day Ross's actions would make sense in a way they didn't at the time. Well, now I remember what I didn't want to see back then."

"That's not what I meant when I said those words. I wasn't leading you to remember the past. I was trying to soothe your pain so that you could focus on the future."

"I forgot what happened here, but all this time you knew. You knew the memories of the terrible things Ross had endured as a boy were what changed him as a man. You never bothered to say anything!"

"It wouldn't have changed anything. Everything that Ross did, all the crimes he committed were already done. By the time we knew he was in real trouble, all of it had already gone too far. Sharing unseemly details of the past wouldn't have changed the result. Scandalizing his memory further wouldn't have changed what happened."

"It would have changed everything."

"Not for Ross. Not for Delphine. They were already gone. There was nothing to be done that could have changed that."

"It wouldn't have changed anything for them. It would have changed everything for me."

"Son—"

"You want to talk about the past? You want me to tell you what I remember, fine. I remember asking you for help. When I discovered Ross's actions toward Del I came to you, because I didn't know what was happening to him. I didn't understand. You always did!"

Taking a step forward, Pa extended a comforting hand. "Adam—"

Shaking his head, Adam stepped away. "I was so worried! Why weren't you?"

"I was. I didn't think it was prudent to show it. You were worried enough as it was. There was no purpose in adding to that at the time."

"And what about after?" Adam demanded. "When Ross was dead and gone. You knew I was struggling with what happened. You knew I didn't understand what had made him change. But you always understood. You always remembered. You knew the truth all this time and you never shared it!"

"And what would burdening you with that information have done? What good would it have done you? Ross was gone, Adam. Sharing that information was never going to bring him back. You were hurting enough; I wanted to protect you from anything that would hurt you more."

"You did a horrible job!" Adam exclaimed. "Don't you understand? Don't you see? You want me to remember the conversation we had that night because you think if I remember what you told me back then it will be enough to cast a new light on my predicament now, and then somehow, miraculously I'll be saved from the evils pulling at me. But there's a problem with that way of thinking, trouble with comparing that conversation and this one. You're too late to save me. You were too late then and you're too late now."

"It's never too late to tell the truth. No matter how dark and black the sky becomes there is always a dawn to look forward to. I can help you find the sun again, if only you would let me."

"How are you going to help me?" Adam scoffed. "By sitting with me? Reading to me, soothing me to sleep like a child? You're not helping me. Can't you see that? I'm a grown man and you treat me like a child! You control everything I do! You are the one holding me hostage in that house with Delphine's ghost!"

"You don't like how I treat you," Pa said flatly.

"I hate how you treat me. I hate how being in that house makes me act and the things I need from you when I'm there. I don't want bedtime stories and supervision. I don't need you to keep track of my every emotion, my every move."

"You want me to change how I act toward you; you want me to stop treating you like a child then the solution is very simple. Act like a man, Adam. Stop hiding behind your fear of Delphine, stop lying to cover up your shame, and stop running away."

Taking a step forward, Pa placed his hands on both of Adam's shoulders.

"You are an intelligent man," he said. "Don't tell me you don't understand how you can change your circumstances. Look at this property and the devastation surrounding you. If you don't start dealing with all that has happened, if you don't somehow reconcile the past in your heart and mind, then this is all your future is going to hold. You are never going to have life beyond this place if you don't set yourself free of it."

Pulling out of his father's hold, Adam took a step away. "What do you know?" he asked bitterly.

"I know a lot more about what's going on than you think I do."

"How?"

"It doesn't matter how."

"Yes, it does. Who told you? Who are you still dreaming of, Elizabeth or Kane?"

The thought of Pa dreaming of Elizabeth was unseemly, but the thought of his father being visited by Kane was unbearable. His stomach turned with a surge of jealousy, a vile sickness creeping up his throat. He could barely tolerate being ignored by Kane. How was he supposed to cope knowing his father was able to speak to someone he desperately wanted to?

"Why would he visit you and not me?" Adam demanded. The question alone was damning, his tone a little too crazed. He sounded panicked; he sounded insane. He sounded exactly how he felt, desperate to see and speak to the demon again. It was a transparent retort; it did nothing to protect the truth of how he felt about Kane.

The question hung between them. Several long, torturous moments passed as Adam watched the anger in his father's face and eyes transform into something much worse.

"Oh, Adam," Pa whispered mournfully. "Oh, son. How have you become so lost?"

It was too late to take back the words, or say something different instead. It was too late to hide the truth he had divulged in such a clumsy way. But it wasn't too late to give up the fight that had led to the dreadful moment.

"Which one of them do you still dream of?" Adam whispered. "Which one of them is telling you lies?"

"I don't dream of either of them, not anymore," Pa said sadly. "The only one lying to me is you. Hop Sing is very worried about you. He and I had a very interesting conversation when dawn came and you were nowhere to be found. He said I would find you here. He said a lot of things."

"I'm not going home," Adam said. His determination to avoid Del's ghost overriding all else. "I won't go back there. I won't be made to listen or look at her again. She can't touch me out here. You know she can't, so why would you even ask me to go back? Why would you want me to?" Frowning, he took a few backwards steps. "You help me in all the wrong ways," he repeated. "You have no idea what's going here; you have no concept of what any of this is like, so don't tell me what to do."

"And just what would you do if you had no one shepherding you? Isn't that why you want Kane to return so badly? So, he can tell you what to do? Don't think I don't understand why this happened, son. How you and I came to be where we currently are, with this vast distance between us. You reach out to him because your shame won't allow you to reach out to me. You seek his wisdom like you used to seek mine. You're allowing Kane's influence to linger and by doing so you are mistaking my need to protect you as something else. I never lied to you about Ross. I may have chosen not to remind you of the truth about certain things, but I never lied. Can you say the same about Kane?"

Adam couldn't, so he refused to respond.

"I don't want to control you," Pa continued. "I don't want to be forced to look after you for the remainder of my life. All I want is for you to be free of the weight that is holding you down."

"You're the weight that's holding me down," Adam said. "You're the one who won't let go."

"And what would happen to you if I did?"

Adam shook his head. He refused to consider the question. "I'm not going home," he said firmly. "I'm not a child. You can't tell me what to do. This is my property, my land, and I want you off it."

"I seem to recall standing in this very same place having this very same discussion."

Adam flinched. He was momentarily shocked by the attention his father was placing on an event they had both been so careful never to discuss. They had once stood where they currently were, though the circumstances were wildly different—Adam had been drunk, the walls of the Silver Dollar's barn still standing around them, framing in their vicious argument—the argument was the same. Pa had wanted Adam to come home back then too; it was a request that hadn't been granted back then and a demand that wouldn't be adhered to now.

"What are you going to do, Pa?" Adam asked, his voice carrying a dangerous edge as he unconsciously abandoned what had become his favored appellation for his father. It was a sudden change that shocked both of them, leaving the remainder of his impulsive statement feeling a little too pointed and sharp. "Hit me again?"

"I don't want to argue with you. I have no interest in recalling past events for the sole purpose of making either of us feel worse than we already do."

"Yeah, I know. That's the source of the problem, isn't it? You expect from me what you are unwilling to do yourself. You demand I confide my secrets while you refuse to consider your own. If you didn't want to speak of that night then why did you bring it up?"

"I will not argue with you. Not here. Not like this."

Adam stood tall, squaring his shoulders as he pressed the balls of his feet firmly on the ground.

"You don't get to tell me what I'm allowed to talk about or when," he said. "You don't get to tell me what to do. Not now. Not anymore. Maybe yesterday you could have but now you can't."

What else did you remember? The glint in Pa's eyes seemed to ask. What changed between yesterday and today?

The latter was a rhetorical question that didn't need to be voiced. They both knew the answer; they could feel it in the intensity of their prolonged silence. Nothing had changed; the events of the past had remained as stagnant as they ever were. It was the sliver of mutually admitted truth that had shifted things, dramatically impacting perceptions, leaving them fractured and strained. Though Pa hadn't lied—he never lied—he omitted and somehow that felt so much worse.

"This isn't going to help," Pa said. "Remaining on this land didn't help you before and it isn't going to help you now."

"I'm not going home," Adam said. Stubborn and forceful, the words somehow only served to highlight what they were both leaving unspoken. He was a coward—they both knew that—there was no purpose in forcing either of them to say it. His determination not to return home declared his fear of Delphine and his unwillingness to look beyond it. "There's nothing you can do or say that will make me go back."

Pressing his lips together in a firm line, Pa looked at him for a moment, his eyes glistening with sadness, the depths of which Adam wasn't sure he had seen his father openly display before.

"You're right," Pa said softly.

Brow furrowing, Adam frowned. He hadn't anticipated his father's concession. He had expected their fight to be extended. For Pa to remain intent on dragging him back home like a wayward teen. He hadn't expected his father would give in so easily. He had never known Pa to give up on anything he fervently believed in.

"I have been helping you incorrectly," Pa continued. "Like you said, you're not a child anymore. Though there was a time not so long ago when certain events rendered you incapable of looking after yourself, that time has passed. You are better now than you were. You can talk, work, and stand on your own two feet. If there are certain truths you remain intent on hiding now, then there is little I can do to change that. If you don't want to face your mistakes and faults, I can't make you. And if you want to remain here, I'm not going to stop or fight you. You're a man, Adam. You make your own decisions, and, with them, you decide who you want to be."

"I want you to—"

"To leave," Ben finished. "Yes, I know. You said it and I heard you, so, for now, I'll do as you ask. I'll go, but you should expect a visit from one of your brothers shortly. Like you, they're men. Their choices are their own. Unless you are prepared to disclose to them the truth about what happened here and why you want to be alone, then you better start thinking of how you are going to convince them to stay away from you. They won't be placated easily. They won't leave you without putting up a fight."

"I'm the oldest," Adam said stubbornly as he watched his father climb atop Buck. "They'll do as I say."

Brow furrowing, Pa appeared unconvinced. Still, he didn't reply, extending a kindness Adam was sure he didn't deserve. They both knew it had been ages since he had ordered Hoss or Joe to do anything. Given recent events, any authority he had once held over them had been lost. He couldn't help wondering if this was the reason Pa was agreeing to leave him. If he was only giving into the request because he knew he had two other sons who never would. He was willing to lose this fight because he had sons who would refuse to lose the impending war.

It wouldn't matter how kindly or severely his brothers chose to ask him to come home, Adam thought as he watched his father ride away. It didn't matter what was being asked of him, why or by whom. He wouldn't be forced to do anything. Not now. Not this time. Not anymore.

Xx

It was near dusk when Hoss finally showed up.

Sitting upon the ground in front of the farmhouse's remains, Adam stood as his brother approached, his stomach turning with a mixture of dread and relief. He hadn't moved since Pa left him, and in his father's absence he seemed to think of everything and nothing at the same time. He tried his best to ignore the things they had both said, and in trying not to think about the conversation that had just taken place, he began to recall a more distant one, the details of which wouldn't be silenced or ignored.

Before, when he had abruptly decided to live at the Silver Dollar, he couldn't tolerate remaining inside the house. The air inside of it was too thick and stifling, the overwhelming emotions stepping inside of it—for even the briefest of moments—invited were too horrid to endure. Something about the house was foul; something about it was wrong. Intent on avoiding it, he set up residence in the barn and waited. Even back then, he hadn't expected Pa to adhere to his demand to be left alone. He hadn't anticipated such a request would remain granted for long.

Sleeping on a bedroll, alone in the barn, that first night, Adam had expected—he had wanted—Pa to be the one to come upon him. He hadn't anticipated waking up and finding someone else.

"Skinny," Ross had whispered, the word cooling Adam's skin like a breeze. "Wake up. You and I need to talk."

Roused from fitful sleep, Adam opened his eyes and gasped.

Seeing Ross the second time was nothing like the first. The first time Adam's shock had been impeded, soothed away by the strength of the alcohol he had consumed. Vision blurred and slightly swimming, it had been impossible to truly comprehend what he was seeing. It had been unfeasible to distinguish and absorb the details of what Ross looked like in the darkness of the house. Although the dimness of the barn wasn't much better, this time, Adam was able to see more than he ever wanted to.

Towering above where he lay, Ross's ghost wore the same clothes he had been killed in; the front of his shirt remained stained with blood from the wound that had taken his life. He looked the same as he had the day he had died, but he looked different too.

Eyes gleaming brightly, Ross grinned, his lips curling up to expose jagged, sharp teeth. "Adam Cartwright," he said, his voice too deep and gravelly to be recognized as his own as he peered down at him. "My brother by choice, my twin by fate, once my shadow, always my shadow. When we were kids, you used to follow me everywhere. Are you ready to follow me again? Boy, you better be, because a whole lotta bad is gonna start comin' for you. You think things hurt you now, you just wait. The way you feel inside is gonna get a whole lot worse."

Breaths coming in panicked gasps, Adam stared helplessly at the vision of a man who was once his best friend. Something about Ross's teeth was unsettling; something about the look in his eyes wasn't quite right. There was a fury lurking in them now, a glint of something evil and wrong. Adam's stomach turned with a sudden sickness; he didn't like the way Ross was looking at him. He couldn't tolerate the trepidation born from being the extended focus of his lingering gaze. He shouldn't have been afraid of him, but he was. It was a fear that didn't bode well with him; it was so incompatible with his guilt and grief.

Something about this moment wasn't right. Something about it was incredibly wrong. Wrong with the barn, with the night, with the way Ross was looking at him, his eyes gleaming, black orbs with a hint of red in the center.

"What are you?" Adam gasped. "Who are you?"

"Who am I?" Ross laughed, the barn echoing the deep, grinding sound. "Who are you? Who are any of us once we're lost to this world? I was lost first, but your time is coming. You know it is, that's why you've come to my land. That's why you're here, sleeping in my barn. When I was alive, I descended into darkness. I led the way and carved out a path and now you have no choice but to follow because that's the way it's always been ever since we were kids. When everything is all over, when your life is as destroyed as mine was, you'll understand. You won't want to, but you will. A man is responsible for what he does; there comes a time when he needs to take responsibility for the bad things he's done. The next time you talk to your pa you tell him he was wrong."

"About what?"

"About me, about you, and about time. There are some things a man experiences and does that he ain't destined to ever make peace with. Some mistakes are too bad to be forgiven. Some cuts are just too deep to ever be allowed to heal. Ain't nothing really gets better with time." Ross laughed then, his grin becoming impossibly wide. "I don't need to tell you that. You have your own scars, even if you choose not to ever look at them, even if the people around you pretend they don't exist. And you have your own faults. I can see them all now, Skinny, your failures, your secrets, your fears. Everything you want to hide is reflected so clearly on your face for only me to see. You were a fool to come back here. You should have run far away when you had the chance."

It was foolish in hindsight—Ross's words so painfully apt—that despite the feelings awoken by the house and the faint memory of seeing Ross's ghost inside of it, that Adam would have dared return to the property at all.

But he had.

He hadn't expected to be visited by Ross again, however. It was an asinine assumption. So obvious now that if the soul of his dead best friend had reached out to him once, it could do so again. Then again, maybe that was the purpose of leaving the Ponderosa for the Silver Dollar back then. The unspoken desire Adam had harbored when deciding to leave the predictability of his own home for the variance of someone else's. Maybe he wanted to see Ross's ghost again, or maybe he wanted something else instead.

After the emotional conversation with Pa in the Ponderosa's barn, Adam had remained home. Pa had kept him close then, requesting he dedicate his time to tasks that required more of his brain than his body. Adam spent days beside his father, reconciling the current ranch budget with proposed increases of expansions. Their rapport was easy, though they were quieter than usual. It wasn't until Pa broached the subject of extending the property lines of the Ponderosa to include the Silver Dollar that their companionable communication dissolved into a fight.

Adam had refused his father's suggestion. He hadn't wanted the Silver Dollar to be added to the Ponderosa; he wanted them to remain independent. This was a declaration Pa had neither accepted nor agreed with. Their bitter difference of opinion lingered between them, impeding them from focusing on anything else. Pa couldn't understand why Adam was so adamant on keeping the land separate, and Adam couldn't explain his determination because he wasn't certain himself. It just didn't feel right; the thought of permanently binding their land to that which once belonged to the Marquette's was deeply troubling. They needed to stay separate. He couldn't begin to explain why, so he didn't explain at all.

With no explanation being offered, Pa was quick to create his own, and then endlessly annoyed by his father's willingness to put words in his mouth, Adam started offering a few of his own. They weren't any he had intended or wanted to say. He just couldn't stop them from slipping off his tongue once they showed up in his mouth. He found himself saying all sorts of things he didn't truly mean. He would long to retract them later. Once the fight was long over and his temper had cooled. Once he found himself sleeping in the Silver Dollar's barn, his family, and the life he had wanted feeling so far away. And maybe he would have felt like he could have retracted the words he had said that led to his predicament, if only they had been said to his father in confidence. If only he hadn't been overheard.

Hoss had overheard the tense discussion. Standing just out of sight, in the periphery of their argument, he had heard Adam's declaration to leave, and then Hoss had stood in place, his expression stunned, while he watched Adam leave.

Saddling Sport, Adam had expected his middle brother to follow him into the barn to ask him what had happened before asking him to stay. Once his horse was ready, he led it to the ranch yard, then waited a moment or two, giving Hoss ample time to emerge from the house. Hoss never did. And so, Adam left home, not really wanting to. Not really understanding where his determination had come from or how a day that had begun so good could end so bad. And later, lying awake on his bedroll on the hard ground of the Silver Dollar's barn, Adam wondered what else he could have said to prevent the fight that had led him to his surroundings and why Pa hadn't properly interpreted what he had said.

"I don't want you to leave," Pa had said.

"Do you think it's what I want?" Adam had exclaimed. Apparently, Pa had, because he hadn't sent Hoss outside to stop him.

Looking upon Hoss now, as he approached with Sport in tow, Adam wondered what Pa instructed his younger brother to say in order to convince him to come home.

Directing the horses to stop a few paces away, Hoss cast Adam a wary look, his gaze first setting upon the trail of dried blood marking the distance between his older brother's temple and neck, then settling on the blood staining Adam's fingertips.

"You need to clean that wound, proper," Hoss said flatly.

"I know," Adam said.

"It's gonna cause you trouble if you let it sit. Infection, sickness."

Hearing this warning, Adam wondered if Hoss was thinking of the last time they had come upon each other this way. If his brother's warning of infection and sickness wasn't due to the bad memories which seemed destined to be lingering in the forefront of his mind.

It had taken days for Hoss to venture to the Silver Dollar the last time. By the time he did show up, Adam had been sleeping in the still erect barn for nearly a week. The days had passed in a hazy stupor, a sickening combination of too much alcohol and legitimate illness; his body was already infected by sickness, the tangible symptoms of which would remain imperceptible for days. Nobody hadn't known he was sick back then; he wasn't even certain he had known himself. He had known something was wrong, however. Something about the house had been horribly wrong—that was what led him to set up a space in the barn. Of course, those surroundings hadn't been much better, because the overbearing feelings of wrongness had lingered, and something else had lingered too.

He had begun seeing Ross's ghost with increasing regularity. Sometimes they spoke and others they didn't. Sometimes Adam thought Ross was no more than a figment of his imagination, a vision born from too much liquor mixed with unresolved negative feelings, and others he knew he was all-too-real. It didn't take long for Ross's kindness to wear thin, for him to begin asking things of Adam that couldn't be done. It didn't take much longer than that for it to become clear just how dangerous that ghost really was.

"I need you to do something for me," Ross's ghost had eventually said. "Something for Del. I would do it myself except, well, I can't."

To Adam, this statement was painfully familiar, because the words Ross's ghost had chosen to declare this demand were the same ones he had used before. Of course, he was alive when he had said them prior, the request he made back then was glaringly opposite to the demand he was making while dead—as the priority of the living always seemed to be focused on creating and sustaining life and the priority of the dead to facilitate more death.

"You can do it," Ross had said—first in life then in death. Though the words he had said were the same on both occasions, the things he was asking of Adam couldn't have been more different. When he was alive, Ross's words instilled within Adam a deep, mournful sadness. When he was dead, these very same words had instilled within Adam a vast fear. "You know you can. I know you don't want to, but think of me. Think of Del and what you can do for her. You're my best friend in the world, my brother, my shadow, my twin. If it has to be anybody other than me, then it's only right that it's you."

"No," Adam had said. Quick and firm, his answer was always the same at first. In life and in death, each time Ross made his requests and demands they were always destined to first be met with resistance. Adam was too principled to expect anything less. "I won't do it. I don't care about your reasoning, there's nothing that could ever convince me to do what you're asking of me. I can't believe you would even think I would."

"And I can't believe you won't." When Ross had responded in life, his eyes had been shining with disappointment. In death, they had been glistening with fury, his words a little too pointed and sharp. They sounded like a threat and they were. "Think about what I'm asking from you and why. I wouldn't be asking you for help if you didn't have some hand in creating the problem, you know. You're just as responsible for what happened as anyone. This situation is as much your problem as it is mine. I want you to think about that, then I'm sure you'll change your opinion on the matter."

Adam shook his head, forcing the twin memories from his mind. There was no purpose in thinking of such things now. In awakening regret over a past that couldn't be changed. Things couldn't be any different than they were now. The purpose of Delphine's ghost prompting him to think about how he could have done things differently always did what it was intended to, awakening within him a deep, cavernous pit of shame and grief. Not purchasing the Silver Dollar would have done nothing to change what happened with Ross and Del; it wouldn't have changed the mistakes already made. But it would have prevented Adam from making anymore.

He cringed. He shouldn't have fought with Pa, not today, not back then. He shouldn't have left home. He should have stayed where he was, then maybe with the help of his father and brothers, he would have had enough strength to remain who he was. Strong and courageous. Moral and principled—until a point. There had been a point where all of that ended for him, and now the memories of that point were carefully crafted and sharp as a knife. They cut him deeper than he once imagined they could.

"What came over you?" Hoss asked.

"What do you mean?" Adam blinked dumbly.

He wanted to ask Hoss which he truly preferred, the Adam of before or the Adam of after? The Adam who showed no weakness or all? The Adam who didn't speak or the one who chose exactly the right thing to say to tell the most limited truth. Well, the truth was that the Adam of now was quickly becoming a little too much like the Adam of before. So used to the Adam of after, it was a transition that his family was bound to struggle with. After needing them so much for so long, it was a change Adam was bound to struggle with himself.

But if there was a point of change then there had to be a line too. An invisible one that once drawn firmly separated him from them. It was the only way. If he was ever going to stand alone again, as a person, as a man, then that line needed to be drawn. As quickly and firmly as possible.

"I mean, what happened last night?" Hoss asked.

Adam shrugged. Though he had anticipated the repetitive questions, he had no intention of answering them. Of course, he anticipated a different brother too; the quick-tempered younger one who demanded an argument that would rival the one that had already taken place.

"What happened with you?" Adam asked. "I expected Little Joe to be the one to show up. Did you draw the short matchstick again?"

It was meant as a joke, the uttering of the familiar age-old quip meant to dissolve the tension between them. It wasn't right that such stiffness should be allowed to grow and linger between him and Hoss— between him and Joe, sure, but not between him and Hoss. They understood each other too well not to be at ease in one another's presence. They had never needed much in the way of words to find peace in each other's company—even in the most dire of circumstances.

"Yes, sir," Hoss said. His voice was uncharacteristically curt, this, coupled with his refusal to properly acknowledge the joke, ignited Adam's anxiety. Hoss wasn't in the mood to play around, which begged the question of what he was in the mood for. Maybe that second argument was coming after all. "We drew for it," Hoss continued, his attention fixated on Adam's bloodstained fingers. "Who would head up the timber camp today and who would come bring you your boots and horse. As you can see, I drew the shorter stick."

Growing increasingly uncomfortable beneath his younger brother's stare, Adam shuffled nervously in place, crossing his arms, and pressing his hands to his sides to hide them from view. "I'm sorry to be such a burden to you," he said flatly.

"You ain't never needed to apologize to me before. Don't you dare start now. That being said, the way I see it, I ain't the one you need to be asking forgiveness from. You owe Pa an apology. You have no idea how worried he was this morning, how worried we all were when we realized you were gone."

"I said I was sorry."

"To me," Hoss said. "But not to Pa. I already told you I don't want your words."

"What do you want?"

"For you to come home."

"I..." Adam hesitated; he didn't want to argue. "I'm not going to do that," he finished carefully.

"Yeah. That's what Pa said you'd say."

"What else did Pa say?"

Hoss shook his head.

"That bad, huh?" Adam said.

"No, sir, what Pa had to say when he came home wasn't bad at all."

"In comparison to what?"

"In comparison to this." Hoss looked between the piles of ash marking where the house and barn once stood. "In comparison to you. What on earth are you doin' here, brother? What could this place hold for you?"

"I didn't want to come here."

"And now that you're here, you don't want to leave. Sounds too familiar."

Pressing his lips together firmly, Adam didn't respond. He had already made the mistake of speaking of the past with Pa; he wasn't going to do it again.

"Alright," Hoss said. A hearty sigh followed the word, a deep-chested exhale that escaped him as he finally dismounted his horse. It seemed to finally cure him of his stern indifference. "How bad was it?"

Adam thought back to his conversation with Pa and all the things he had said and things he hadn't, the terrible, unspoken memories he had weaponized to get what he wanted in the end. "It wasn't good," he said.

"You got mad and said the wrong thing," Hoss said knowingly. "And Pa, he probably got mad and said the wrong thing too. You've both been known to do that from time to time, especially when you're both wrapped up in getting the other to give into what you think is right."

"Wait," Adam said, his eyes narrowing as his lips curled into a slight frown. Hoss's explanation was too generalized to imply he had known anything about the argument. "Pa didn't tell you anything about our fight."

"I never said he did." Dropping the reins to their respective horses, Hoss took a step forward. "Let me get a good look at what you've done to yourself." Finger hooked under his brother's chin, he tilted Adam's head and carefully inspected the wound. "This needs to be cleaned."

Adam pushed his brother's hand away. "You said that already."

"Well, then let me tell you something new. It's awfully deep this time. It looks to have quit bleeding but it's still wide-open and wet. I don't think it's gonna heal right on its own. I think it needs to be stitched up."

Adam's frown deepened. "I'm not going home."

"That don't leave you a favorable choice. Either you come home, so Hop Sing can fix you up, or we head to town to see Doc Martin."

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You do it."

"No, sir."

"Come on, Hoss. It isn't like you haven't stitched up a wound before."

"Different circumstances. I've only ever done it when there wasn't any other choice. That don't mean I'm good at it, or that I'm willing to do it again."

"There is no other choice," Adam insisted.

"Sure is. I gave you two others to pick from." Hoss cast Adam a serious look. "What's it gonna be, brother? Town or home?"

"Pa doesn't want me in town."

"Pa ain't here."

Adam didn't know what to say, or choose. He wasn't certain which option was better or worse. If he went home, he would be faced with Del's ghost and Pa's relief and disappointment. There was no telling what kind of conversation they would have and, if after, he would ever summon the courage to leave again. There was no predicting what Del would say or do once she set eyes upon him again. No limit to the horrendous things she could show him or say.

Entering Virginia City was variable too. There were so many rumors about him; so many unkind opinions about his change in character and past actions. He could predict what people would say easily enough; he had seen the town turn on enough people over the course of his life to know showing his face promised complications and danger. Did he really want to invite any more trouble? Was he really ready to shoulder the burden of public opinion? There once was a time when he could have stood up to the harshest of criticisms and the most wounding of words, but was he strong enough to endure those things now? Or coupled with the burden of everything else, would the commentary of the townsfolk—direct or otherwise—crush him instead?

"Come on, Adam," Hoss said. "It can't be that hard of a decision. After all, isn't that what today is all about? You making your stand, demanding Pa let go of the authority he has over your life. Well, he did, brother, so this is up to you now. He ain't here, directing you to do as you're told. What are you going to do? How are you gonna take care of yourself?"

Mouth hanging agape, Adam was outraged. He had never known Hoss to speak in such a way, sharing veiled wisdoms about choices. Those were Pa's words, his uncertainties and doubts spilling from Hoss's mouth.

"You did talk to Pa!" Adam lifted an accusing finger. "He told you what was said. There were no matchsticks between you and Joe. Pa sent you here. He sent you here because I told him to go away!"

"Adam—"

"Don't try to deny it. Don't try to make it sound any different than it is. You knew about the deepness of my wound, because Pa told you it was bad. You came here with the intention of manipulating me into going home!"

Hoss's expression contorted with quick remorse as he lifted his hands in a surrendering motion. "Look, Adam, we didn't mean to manipulate you," he said. "Sure, Pa and me, we talked about that wound. What I would say, what kind help I would offer you, but it's still your choice. I'll take you to town if that's what you want to do."

"I want you to leave," Adam said, his eyes sparkling with fury. "That's my choice."

Hoss was hesitant to reply. "That," he said carefully, "wasn't an option."

"Yeah, well, I don't much care about the options you and Pa concocted when you were talking about dealing with me."

Clenching his fists at his sides, Adam squared his shoulders and stood tall, striking a menacing posture. If his brother thought he was going to be brought home then he had another thing coming. If Hoss thought he wasn't going to have a fight, either with fists or jagged words, to get his way, then he was wrong. There was a line between them now, separating him from them. Though it was invisible they could both feel it; they both knew how important it was. How was he ever going to stand on his own again if he wasn't given the chance? How was anything going to get better if he was forced to remain in a place where everything was worse?

"I told Pa I wasn't going to be made to go home," Adam said firmly. "And now I'm telling you the same."

"What are you gonna do? Fight me? You ain't gonna win. I've always been a mite bigger than you, even more so as of late."

"You think you're stronger than me?"

Adam was not thinking of Hoss's physical size. It didn't seem likely that Hoss, always so jovial and affable, gentle, and sensitive, could have endured all that Adam had in the past few years or even endured it any better than he. It didn't seem believable that he would have survived it at all. Adam wouldn't have wanted him to experience it. Despite his anger, he would never wish that kind of pain and horror on his brother—on either of his brothers. And despite his frustration, his quick fury over discovering the truth of how Hoss's presence in front of him came to be, Adam abandoned the cruel words lingering on the tip of his tongue. Hoss wasn't Pa; he hadn't lied, not really. He didn't deserve to be the focus of his overpowering frustration and discontent.

"Please…" Adam said, his voice softening. "…just go. I don't want to go to town and I'm not going home, so just... leave it and me alone. I want—I need—to be alone."

"For how long?"

"I don't know." How did one calculate an indiscriminate amount of time? How could one ever put a timeline on the transformation of feelings that a man needed to change? "I just need some time. I need some space. I need to do something different than what I've been doing lately."

"Space and time," Hoss repeated, his voice carrying a slightly bitter edge. "And what are you gonna do with it? Take a good look around you. The last time those things were granted to you, you burned this property to the ground. What are you gonna destroy this time?"

"Nothing. There's nothing left here to hurt. Be happy I'm not going home, Hoss. There's a whole bunch of things that I could set my attention on destroying there. Big barn, big house. If I was dead-set on staying, then I'd have to do something to rectify the future with the past."

"You say that like it's some kind of threat," Hoss said. "Like destroying the life we all know is supposed to frighten us, but the problem is it ain't scary. Not anymore. Because, although both the house and barn still may be standing, the life we all knew is gone. You already destroyed it. Pa, me, and Joe we're all just trying to hold on to what little pieces we can find. You ain't the only one who's struggling to move on from what's happened. You're just the only one who's intent on ruining what we got left. Do you think any of us are happy about how things are? You think we want life to be so difficult? For us or you? Ain't nobody happy with the way things are."

Adam flinched, stung by the words. He and Hoss had always had such a good relationship, an understanding and bond that allotted feelings and painful truths to remain mutually felt but unspoken. They had never needed to speak to each other with much firmness; they had never needed to be so direct. They had always understood each other—silently knowing what one needed the other to do. But it wasn't like that Adam realized. Not now. Not anymore. This was an unavoidable fact that hurt so much more than the rest; it only seemed to highlight how much everything had changed.

All of them had changed. Pa had become stagnant, a strange mixture of too gentle and too stern as he struggled to weather the variable variations of Adam's abilities and moods. As Adam became less recognizable, his behavior becoming more unreasonable and foreign, it was Hoss and Joe who had been forced to step up, to shoulder the responsibilities Adam had once had. Hoss had become Pa's right-hand man, and Joe had grown up, endlessly displaying an almost impenetrable seriousness of a much older, much more cynical man.

They had all changed, but it was Adam who had changed first. It was he who first made the choice that changed everything. And then later he had made another one, leaving the comfort of home for the stifling, menacing confines of the buildings that once stood tall and luring just beyond the Silver Dollar's head gate. He had chosen to come here back then, and he was choosing to remain among its wreckage now. It would have seemed poetic if it wasn't so damn sad. Pa had spoken about admitting truth and choices, a man owning up and taking responsibility for the harm he had caused. Remaining here, among the ashes of the pain of what once was and would never be again, was the only way Adam could conceive of doing that. It wasn't much in the way of atonement, but it was enough for the moment and the night. Maybe it wouldn't be enough for tomorrow or the day after, but it was enough for now.

"I want you to leave," Adam said. "Don't make me tell you again."

Hoss looked upon him for a few stubborn moments. "Yeah," he sighed finally, his expression contorting with fatigue. Lifting his hand, he ran his palm over his face and sighed again. "That's what I told Pa you'd choose."

Oddly, Adam felt a rush of sympathy for his brother; he felt unkind for being the cause of a difficult conversation between Hoss and Pa that morning and guilty that his determination now was bound to facilitate another between his father and brother. "It isn't easy, is it?" he asked.

"What?" Hoss snorted. "Dealin' with your stubborn ass?"

Adam's lips curled in a small smile. It wasn't often a curse word slipped from Hoss's lips and it always sounded disingenuous when it did. Blaspheming didn't suit him; he was much too easygoing, too kindhearted for the harshness of such words to ever come across as authentic.

"No," Adam said. "Dealing with Pa's. Being his right-hand man is not an easy thing. It's a precarious position. When you're serving as his confidante, his friend, it can be hard to draw the line between where his opinion ends and your own begins. When those two things differ, it can sometimes be difficult to stand up to him because, well, he's your father and he raised you up to do as you're told. You go against him and you run the risk of feeling like you failed him. Like you disobeyed. The thing to remember is that when he's asking you to speak your opinion on something, he's not coming to you as your Pa; he's coming to you as a man. That gets easier to see over time and then becomes easier to speak against him when you disagree."

"I don't want it to get easier," Hoss said. "I want things the way they were. I want you to come home."

"I'm not going to do that. You're gonna leave and I'm gonna stay. For what it's worth I am sorry for the difficult conversation that is waiting for you when you return home because of my decision. I'm sorry for putting you in a poor position with Pa. I'm not trying to make things harder on anyone than they've already been."

"You sure ain't makin' them easier either. Ah," Hoss sighed, kicking the toe of his boot against the dirt beneath his feet. "That's alright for now, I suppose, seein' as I already told Pa you weren't gonna change your mind about coming back."

"You did?"

"That ain't all I told him either. Talking you out of anything you got your mind set on is a fool's errand and a waste of breath. Sure, it's easy to want you back home and underfoot, because that way we all know where you are and what you're up to. Given what you did to Frank Mitchel, I don't think anyone can fault us for that, not even you. It's easier on us to have you home, but it's harder on you. It affects you… poorly, makes you act in ways unseemly for a grown man, and it makes us feel as though we gotta comfort you in ways that we don't want to, not really. You think Pa likes reading to you, Adam? Or telling you how much you gotta eat, what you can and can't do. Do you think I was happy the nights I found you next me in my bed? We hate those things too. We want you to be independent of us as much as you do."

"You and Pa talked about all that?"

"'Course we did," Hoss said. "I ain't the one who's ever had trouble bringing difficult truths to him for fear of losing his love or letting him down."

While Hoss hadn't spoken with any malice or ill-intent, the words cut Adam like a knife. Pursing his lips, he stood still, wondering how he could have been so transparent and if his brother was repeating yet another fact he had already discussed with Pa.

Seemingly taking note of his discomfort, Hoss tilted his head back at Sport. "I brought your horse," he said. "Your boots and hat are in the saddlebags, along with some supplies. You can't stay out here with nothin'. There's a lot of bad that can happen upon a man when he's without rations and alone. Of course, I don't need to tell you that."

Brows furrowing, he cast Adam a serious look. He seemed to be struggling with something, silently debating whether he wanted to share what he was thinking.

"Come here," he said, tilting his head in invitation as he turned and strode toward the horses.

Unsure of his brother's intentions, Adam refused to follow.

"Come on," Hoss urged as he came to stop beside Chubb. "I ain't gonna force you to do anything. I wanna give you something."

"What is it?" Adam asked skeptically.

"Why don't you come on over and find out?"

Adam stood in place a beat longer, unsure if it was stubbornness or uncertainty rooting him in place. It wasn't until Hoss began to untie his saddlebag, lifting the flap to procure something from inside, that Adam decided either reason wasn't enough to keep him from investigating what Hoss had brought. He closed the gap between them quickly, coming upon his brother just in time for the object to be liberated from the saddlebag. The familiarity of it was enough to take his breath away; the shock of being presented with it after all this time was enough to freeze him in place once more.

"Pa doesn't know I took this," Hoss said as he held Adam's rolled up holster. "In fact, I am pretty sure he's gonna have a conniption when he finds out. He's not ready for you to have this back. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I am either. But if you're gonna stay out here alone, then you need to have a way to defend yourself. A whole lot of bad things can happen to a man out here." He looked at Adam knowingly. "I don't need to tell you that."

Hoss extended the holster in offering. Eyes locked upon the item, Adam hesitated. He wasn't sure he wanted it; he didn't know if he could bear the responsibility of having it in his possession, the weight of it hanging off his hip, putting an odd kind of pressure on his heart. He had already killed one man; he didn't want to kill another—whether his hand was forced or otherwise. Pa was right to withhold the weapon. Having it at his disposal was going to be incredibly difficult. He didn't want it. But he knew what he needed and wanted were two different things.

Sighing, he lifted his hand and reached for the holster. The feeling of the dark, broken-in leather, smooth and cool against the palm of his hand was predictable. Hoss's refusal to let go of the item was not.

"Pa don't know I took this," Hoss repeated, holding it tight. "Don't make me regret giving it to you."

Adam's throat tightened. The gun felt leaden in his hand, the words Hoss was saying almost too foreign to accept. The last time he had possessed a weapon he had killed a man—of course he had taken Mitchel's life with a knife, not a gun. It had been ages since he had been allowed to carry such a thing; it seemed like a lifetime had passed since he had last set eyes on his holster, wrapped it around his waist and buckled it tight.

"I want you to promise you won't go looking for trouble," Hoss continued. "I want your word that you ain't gonna hurt nobody. I need to know you ain't gonna use this to hurt yourself. Pa, me, and Joe, we've already lived through two occasions when we thought for sure you were dead, we will not be forced to endure a third. Our family ain't gonna survive without you. As a matter of fact, I don't believe we're doing too good now. So, promise me you won't do nothin' stupid with this gun or otherwise."

"I promise," Adam said numbly.

Hoss held tight to the holster, seemingly deciding if his brother's vow should be accepted and believed. Then, inhaling and exhaling a deep breath, he finally let go of the holster, his hand falling to hang at his side.

Black, worn, and achingly familiar, Adam held the holster in shaking hands, his fingertips unconsciously searching for verification that it was what it seemed. His fingertips eventually found it, branded on the inside of the leather the faintest hint of his initials, AC. Age and use had nearly worn them flat; they were harder to find and decipher than they once had been, years ago, when Pa had first presented him with such an unpredicted and startling gift. He hadn't expected it—he hadn't really wanted it, either.

There had been nothing wrong with his old holster, the brown one which the black one had replaced. When his eldest son had begun favoring darker clothes, dressing himself head-to-toe in black, Pa had become of the opinion that the old holster looked out of place. It was he who declared the need for a replacement; he who had carefully selected the black holster, ensuring Adam's initials were deeply embedded on the inside of the leather, and it was Pa who took Adam's old holster after presenting his son with the new. It was Pa who had decided back then and Adam who was forced to go along.

The holster felt heavy, burdensome without Hoss's hand helping to hold it. Adam quickly realized he didn't want it now any more than he had the day it had been originally given to him.

Pa was right not to trust him with the weapon, Hoss with his hesitancy to return it. He was dangerous enough without being armed. If the shadow figure came again and forced Adam to wander there was no telling where it would take him or what he could be made to do.

"You know the holster, I'm sure," Hoss said. "Pa came upon it when we were searching for you in the desert outside of Eastgate. We never did find your gun. That one is new. Pa got it for you the week after we brought you home. I think he was expectin' you would need it a lot sooner than now. I think back then we all were hopin' home would calm whatever bad feelings that desert woke inside of you and you'd settle back into yourself." Sighing, he shook his head as though he was trying to dismiss the thought and then nodded at the gun. "That ain't been fired since the day Pa bought it, so you be careful with it. It's still a Colt, same as what you're accustomed to carrying, but bein' so shiny and new, it ain't gonna feel as recognizable in your hand until it sees some real use, and, Adam, I am trusting that gun is going to feel new in your hand for a while. I mean it, don't go lookin' for trouble. Don't you dare put Pa through more hell than you already have."

Adam nodded, his brother's words awakening countless mournful thoughts. It wasn't always like this. There was a time when such warnings weren't needed, when his family would have worried more about him being without a gun than with one. A time when not having a gun strapped to his side was as foreign as not wearing a hat. Both things were wrapped up in a man's identity, contributing to how other people saw him, how he saw himself. He had been different back then, pertinacious, capable, and strong. He had once been confided in, respected, and trusted.

And now what was he?

Absently, he lifted his hand to the left side of head. He had no hat. Nothing was on his head but a gaping wound and trail of dried blood, serving as evidence of what he had done to himself the night before. Still, the scar had served as evidence of something else. Something elusive and mysterious. Where had it come from? And what would it look like when it healed? Marking him forever, what kind of warning would it declare?

Stay away from this man? He's dangerous, unpredictable, and unbalanced?

There was a time the scar could have served as a proof of his strength. Now, Adam feared it would only serve as a reminder of his weakness.

"I really do wish you'd let someone tend to that wound," Hoss said. "If you ain't gonna do that, then at least clean it real good. There's some ligament and bandages in your saddlebag, you best make use of them. And I best be getting if I'm gonna go."

Adam looked up at the darkening sky. Night was coming a little too quick; it wouldn't be long until darkness was the only thing surrounding him.

"You sure that's what you want me to do?" Hoss asked.

Nodding, Adam couldn't speak for fear of what he would say. Once his brother left, he would be alone. But how long would he stay that way? The shadow had come the night before and it had brought him here. Would it come again tonight? Where would it take him if it did? Where would he wake up tomorrow? Would he wake up again at all?

Which was worse? Staying here alone, surrounded by nothing but disquieting darkness and unsettling memories. Or going home? Being surrounded by the comfort of his family members and Del's insatiable ghost. Neither place was impenetrable to the shadow figure; he couldn't be protected from that no matter where he was.

"Alright," Hoss said, the agreement not passing his lips easily. "You enjoy your space and time. I would anticipate a visit from Little Joe tomorrow if I were you, and probably another from Pa."

"What about you?" Adam asked impulsively.

"What about me?"

"When will I see you again?"

Eyes gleaming with sadness, Hoss forced a small smile. "Brother," he said, lifting his hand to grasp Adam's shoulder tight. "You don't know how long I've been wondering the very same thing about you."

Pulling him into a brief hug, Hoss held Adam close. It was an impulsive, telling act; one which only seemed to draw attention to the uncertainty of the moment and the decision that was being made. They didn't hang on to each other for very long before Hoss pulled out of the embrace and stepped back. They didn't speak as Hoss mounted Chub; a firm nod was the only thing traded between them.

Watching his brother slowly ride away, Adam wondered what the night would bring and if, even in the absence of family, a time would ever come when he was truly alone.